The next three days passed without spectacle.
They were filled with footsteps, questions, notes written and rewritten, doors knocked upon at odd hours, and long walks through streets most people only glanced at in passing.
Ivaline took every quest related to finding, listening, and confirming.
A lost cat that refused to come home until she traced the scent of dried fish behind a shrine.
A dog that followed a butcher’s cart every morning and slept beneath it at night.
A missing man who had not vanished at all, merely hiding in a loft above a warehouse, afraid of a debt he could no longer pay.
She found them all.
Not by luck.
By deduction.
By watching which streets were walked less often.
By asking who had seen something strange, not important.
By noticing when answers didn’t align.
On the second day, she uncovered the hideout of a smuggler and a fugitive — not through force, but by piecing together mismatched witness statements, a broken crate, and boot prints that did not belong to dock workers.
By the end of the third day, Mireya no longer hid her reactions.
Her mouth hung open more often than not as she processed quest after quest, each cleared cleanly, efficiently, and without complaint.
“…You really are under ten,” she muttered once, staring at the ledger.
Ivaline did not respond. She simply bowed and accepted the next parchment.
She told those close to her that she would be absent for several days.
Edwyn listened quietly, then nodded.
“I’ll keep your spot,” he said, dusting flour from his hands. “So come back properly. Not scraped. Not limping.”
“I will,” she answered.
Ivaline found Brannic during a shift change near the west watch post.
He was loosening his gauntlets, posture still straight even off duty.
“…Brother Brannic.”
She learns during these past months, if she wants something special, a word ‘Brother’ would do wonder.
He glanced down.
“Hm?”
She bowed, formally.
“I’m planning to take quests that may involve danger. I wanted to ask about equipment… or advice.”
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Brannic didn’t answer right away.
He studied her—
the way her weight rested on her feet,
how she didn’t fidget,
how she met his eyes without bravado.
“…You already know what I’ll say,” he muttered.
“Yes,” Ivaline replied. “That’s why I came anyway.”
That earned a sharp breath through his nose.
Brannic turned and unlocked a small chest beside the post.
From within, he drew a sword.
Copper-grade.
Service issue.
Edges worn but clean, oiled regularly.
“My old spare,” he said. “Not regulation anymore, but still sound. I keep it maintained in case I need it.”
He held it out.
“You’re not borrowing it because you’re strong,” he added.
“You’re borrowing it because you’re careful.”
Ivaline accepted it with both hands.
“I will return it.”
“…You will,” Brannic said. “Alive.”
Corvix didn’t answer immediately.
Her desire to investigate goblins.
Lacks of proper equipment.
And that Copper sword hanging on her waist.
“Tsk.”
He wasn’t first.
That’s irritate him.
He circled her once.
Measured her shoulders.
Her reach.
Her stance.
“…Tch.”
“Stand still,” he said.
Before she could ask why, he grabbed a measuring tape.
No explanation.
No negotiation.
Minutes later, he shoved her toward the door.
“Out.”
“…Sir?”
“Go. Come back tomorrow.”
The door shut behind her.
No further words.
Dawn
The next morning, something sat neatly in front of her door.
Leaves by mysterious person like a dress she receive before the brave departed.
Simple leather armor.
Not flashy.
Not heavy.
Properly fitted.
Reinforced where it mattered.
Flexible enough to move.
A beginner’s set.
Made by someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
Ivaline stared at it for a long moment.
“…Chronicle.”
“Yes?”
“Do adults usually show concern like this?”
Chronicle paused.
“…Not universally.”
She bowed—to no one in particular.
And carried the armor inside.
They inspect and try it together.
Entire set consist of:
- Soft leather breast pad
- Light shoulder guards
- Knee guards
- Flexible leather boots
- No helmet
- No full limb armor
Total weight: minimal
Silhouette: non-threatening
Mobility: high
An ideal armor considerate of her body.
Corvix didn’t dress her like a fighter.
He dressed her like someone who:
- must survive mistakes
- must run
- must come home
That’s not equipment.
That’s parental intent disguised as craftsmanship.
Chronicle take notes of his care in silent.
Later in the third day, Ivaline visit everyone and inform them that in a few days she might be absent because of goblin investigation quest.
Edwyn listened quietly, then nodded.
“I’ll keep your spot,” he said, dusting flour from his hands. “So come back properly. Not scraped. Not limping.”
“I will,” she answered.
Tomas gave her a leather backpack, worn but sturdy.
“Used it back when I traveled,” he said. “Food fits better if the weight’s balanced.”
Edric added cured meat and dried jerky without ceremony.
Corvix, later quietly sent gauze, basic medicine, and supplies that spoke of experience rather than generosity. On her way the guild.
By the third day after she had first stood at the guild desk, Ivaline possessed everything she needed:
Rations.
Equipment.
A bag that sat properly on her shoulders.
And a clean record of completed reconnaissance-related quests.
Mireya stared at her for a long moment.
Then sighed.
“…Fine.”
She turned, bring up two parchments with adventurer information and scanning the hall.
“Two copper-rank adventurers,” she called. “Hennel and Ayra?”
Two young adventurers straightened and run towards them immediately.
One boy, one girl.
She hesitated — then raised her voice again.
“Mr. Garrick.”
A veteran adventurer looked up from his drink and stood, stretching slowly as he approached.
“Goblin investigation,” Mireya said. “Three copper-rank newbies. Can you take responsibility?”
Garrick glanced at them.
Then at Ivaline.
“…I’ll make sure they stay alive,” he said.
“That’s all I ask,” Mireya replied.
She stamped the parchment and slid it across the desk.
And just like that—
Ivaline was approved.
The goblin investigation quest had accepted her presence.