Jack paused outside the Adventurers Guild, a vast structure that dwarfed the surrounding buildings. Built of red brick with rune-encoded brass beams capable of withstanding the city’s formidable aether-powered cannons. It was constructed to last.

  A large brass and ancient-oak sign proclaimed ‘Lundun Adventurers Guild’. That was all the introduction it needed; everyone knew what the Guild stood for: protection and power.

  A steady stream of patrons—cloaked figures, wealthy merchants and battle-scarred veterans—ebbed and flowed through the threshold, their laughter and chatter spilling into the warm afternoon air.

  “Watch your back, buddy,” an old adventurer in dulled armour said as he squeezed by Jack while patting him on the shoulder.

  “Oh, sorry,” Jack apologised and stepped to the side. He’d been standing right in the middle of the main thoroughfare.

  Jack drew a steadying breath, the faint smell of spent aether-steam already on the breeze, and stepped through the grand, stone-carved entrance. He found himself in the bustle of the Guild’s interior; laughter, the clink of tankards, and the low hum of conversation filled the space. The scent of pipe-smoke, oiled leather, and roasted meat hung thick in the air. The interior resembled a tavern more than an administrative office; yet it served both purposes with surprising efficiency.

  I never liked it here, he thought as he stood appreciating the architecture. It was a seamless fusion of heritage and innovation, every brick and beam whispering tales of bygone eras and the promise of what lay ahead. Yet it wasn’t the building he despised; it was the people. In his former life, he’d been a scribe, scarred and out of place. Here, among hardy adventurers and seasoned veterans, he stood out like a sore thumb. The world of tomes and parchments no longer felt his own, and the camaraderie of the Guild seemed as unreachable as the Gods. Alone among strangers, he carried the weight of his past life on his shoulders.

  Jack touched his face where it used to be scarred. Maybe it will be different this time. No. I’ll make it different. He smiled at the new beginning and appreciated the rest of the Guild with fresh eyes.

  He admired every inch of the Guild’s grand design… the vaulted ceiling soaring overhead, its exposed brass beams etched with soft glowing runes that bolstered the ancient structure; the labyrinth of copper piping criss-crossing the walls, hissing as valves released puffs of spent aether-steam; and the ornate lanterns, powered off the main grid, suspended at perfect intervals, casting a bluish glow over the polished wooden floor and the time-worn stone hearth at the hall’s far end.

  Sturdy tables filled the centre of the room, cluttered with maps, half-eaten meals, and tankards of frothy ale. Adventurers lounged in mismatched chairs, some clad in gleaming enchanted armour, others in patched leathers. A trio of dwarves was having a good-natured argument over a card game, while a tall elven woman in a dark cloak pored over one of the bounty display boards embedded in the wall; its surface a brass-and-glass interface that ticked and whirred as it refreshed the latest job postings.

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  He grinned as he listened to the dwarves argue about who was cheating most. He frowned at the dark-cloaked elf. Probably a rogue looking for a bounty.

  Behind the bar—a thick counter of blackened oak reinforced with metal bands—stood a barrel-chested man with a mechanical arm, its tiny gears clicking as he poured drinks and shouted greetings. Above him, a massive mural depicted famous adventurers of ages past, locked in battle with dragons, necromancers, and arcane monstrosities. Hanging beneath the painting were weapons retired by honoured guild members: a flame-scarred halberd, a cracked mage’s wand, and a short sword with a lion-headed pommel.

  Jack licked his lips at the sight of ale being poured. He hadn’t touched alcohol since his rebirth. I should avoid ale. He remembered all the hours and coin, wasted in taverns. I don’t need it. I have my family. I have a good life.

  At the far corner of the hall, a clockwork trio provided the entertainment. Three automatons, their brass chassis polished to a sheen, occupied a raised platform. A child-sized clockwork figure with exposed gears in a tiny tailcoat played melodies from an aether-powered violin. Beside him, an elegant mechanism with four hands played a piano. A third automaton, faceplate etched with runes, tapped out a steady rhythm on a set of brass drums. The tune itself was jaunty and familiar, drawing guild members from their tables to tap their boots in time to the music.

  To Jack’s right, an open stairwell spiralled up to the second floor, where administrative offices and private meeting rooms offered more subdued spaces. To the left, a tall, arched doorway led to multiple training areas filled with practice dummies, sparring rings, and mechanical targeting ranges that clicked and buzzed as gears reset targets.

  Despite the chaos and noise, there was a rhythm to it all, like a forge in full swing, each clang and shout part of a grander pattern. It wasn’t just a place to collect coin or find work. The Guild was a crossroads. A home for some. A proving ground for others.

  Jack took it all in with a grin. This was where real adventures began. He walked over to one of the display boards embedded in the wall where training rooms could be booked. “Hmm… not many spaces available,” he scanned the details of the remaining options. “Nope… not interested in sparring.”

  He tapped another listing. The brass-and-glass interface ticked and whirred, switching to show further information about the room’s features. “That’s the one,” he said. Training Room 13 included a mechanical targeting range with auto-resetting targets. “25 coppers an hour for non-guild members. That’s not too bad for safety. I should join the Guild first for the discounts.”

  Though the Adventurers Guild’s main role was to manage adventurers, anyone over the age of fourteen could join for a small fee. To encourage membership, the Guild was subsidised by the crown. For adults, those with a class, the cost was 50 coppers a year.

  Just as he was about to register, he sensed someone watching him. Before he had a chance to turn around, a voice called out.

  “Jack… Jack! What you doing here?”