The smile had the intended effect.

  Flinches rippled across the table. The man under Kael’s hand was sweating bullets,

  shoulders trembling beneath the subtle pressure Kael applied—barely enough to bruise, but more than enough to communicate intent.

  Maintain the initiative.

  Even here, in his own district, surrounded by his own people, the battlefield instincts never left. Hard-won lessons kept him sharp. Grounded. Dangerous.

  One of the armored men—taller, broader, braver than the rest—stood, tankard in hand. He towered over Kael, smirking, eyes glassy with ale and ego.

  He jabbed a thick finger into Kael’s chest, punctuating every word like a hammer on an anvil.

  “Now go and get us that beer, old man.”

  Kael looked up at him.

  Still smiling.

  “Sure,” he said. “Though I haven’t welcomed you to the neighborhood yet.”

  He took the man’s tankard and drained it quickly before slamming it into his face.

  Then he broke the man’s finger.

  Quick. Clinical. A twist and a crunch—loud enough to make the entire table wince. The big man shouted, going for his blade, but Kael stepped in, drove a knee into his unarmored thigh, and guided him back into the chair with a calm, practiced force.

  “We don’t want a scene,” Kael said lightly, reclaiming his seat. “Merry doesn’t like blood on her tables.”

  The Sister moved as if to cast a healing spell—but froze when she caught Kael’s gaze.

  He didn’t need to say anything.

  Her bare shoulders tensed. She looked down, her hands retreating to her lap, trembling slightly.

  Kael let the silence sit.

  “First big contract, huh?” he finally said. “Must be Journeyman rank—Bronze at least—if the Guild handed you something bold enough to puff your chests up this high.”

  Several at the table looked away.

  The Sister, flustered, produced her circular bronze token. Kael noted its placement—tucked somewhere in that barely-there outfit the Sisters of the Moonmarch considered battle attire. The disc glowed faintly—an amber shard of refined mage core pulsing with residual mana.

  Kael nodded.

  His gaze turned to the others.

  Eventually, they followed suit.

  Iron. Tin. Tin.

  A mixed bag. One Bronze. One Iron. Two Tin.

  Rattle coins, Kael thought. The Guild must’ve been scraping the bottom of the barrel if they were sending out groups like this.

  Just then, a waitress arrived with five fresh mugs of beer. She said nothing, but as she set the last one down, she gave Kael a soft touch on the shoulder.

  A quiet reminder. A gentle peace.

  Kael gave a small nod. The tension in the air dropped by half.

  “So,” Kael said, lifting one of the beers. “What was it? Skinhounds? Thralls? Blightbeasts? Hivelings?”

  That last one hit.

  Eyes darted. No one spoke.

  “Hivelings,” Kael said again, this time slower. “Nasty insect monsters. Living birthing engines—eggs, parasites, rapid gestation, swarm tactics.”

  He swirled his drink, watching the foam cling to the rim.

  “You killed the Broodmother?” Kael asked mildly. “The Guild token pinged—so, completed contract. Which means you got paid.”

  That earned him two hard looks from the armored men. Some scrap of pride flickered back into their eyes—fleeting, but there.

  He took a long drink.

  “And now you’re here. Blowing through that payout faster than you earned it… because it’s probably the most coin any of you have ever touched. Except maybe Bronze over there.”

  More flinching. The man with the broken finger cradled his hand, pale and sweating. The others had stopped pretending their drinks still tasted like victory.

  Kael set his mug down with quiet finality.

  “So, being seasoned adventurers and all,” he continued, tone cool, “you didn’t just kill the Broodmother, get your ping, and run off to drink yourselves stupid, right?”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “You destroyed the Hive Core too. Or the egg pits. Maybe even both. Right?”

  Silence.

  Kael’s voice stayed casual—almost friendly.

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  “Because you’d know a mana ping doesn’t mean the job’s finished. It just means the mana signature dropped below threshold. Could be the Broodmother died. Could be a containment glyph failed. Could be a broodmate relocating. Sometimes the egg pits are miles underground. Sometimes buried under half a ruin. If even one egg survives...”

  He trailed off, watching them.

  “…the hive starts again. A new Broodmother. More eggs. More corpses.”

  The Sister looked away. The priest tightened his grip on his prayer beads. One of the Iron-ranked shifted like he might be sick.

  That was enough.

  Kael leaned back, slow and easy, a quiet sigh escaping him.

  “Tricky pests. Frankly, Bronze shouldn’t be dealing with them. Let alone Iron. Or Tin.”

  No one said a word.

  The silence was answer enough.

  At that moment, Merry and Runt returned.

  Merry took in the scene with a glance—Kael seated at the adventurers’ table, tension thick in the air, mugs half-lifted but untouched. Her smile was genuine, the amused kind she wore when things were about to tip sideways.

  Runt, on the other hand, looked at it very differently.

  Her bright green eyes narrowed.

  “Are they bad?” she asked, stepping closer. “Are they trying to hurt you, Kael? I just washed the blood off.”

  She sounded genuinely annoyed.

  At the mention of his name, the table shifted.

  First came the glance at his coat—bloodstained, still damp at the seams. Then their eyes tracked his hands, where dried red clung to old scars. And finally, they looked at his face.

  Recognition dawned in pieces.

  Slow. Painful. Irrefutable.

  The Sister inhaled sharply, eyes widening with sudden, star-struck awe. The armored men went pale. The male priest muttered a rushed prayer, knuckles white around his beads.

  Kael didn’t move.

  Didn’t need to.

  “Sorry for ruining your fun,” he said, tone even. “Enjoy your drinks.”

  He stood smoothly, nodding toward the exit. “And good luck on the walk back to finish that contract. I’m sure the Guild will be very understanding about you spending your advance on a job that’s not actually done yet.”

  The Iron-ranked man winced. The Tin one muttered something under his breath.

  Kael turned away, Runt falling in step beside him, Merry lingering just long enough to wink at the table.

  And then they were gone—leaving behind silence, spilled beer, and four people suddenly realizing just how close they’d come to being a lesson.

  A quick wash-up later, and they were elbow-deep in bowls of red sauce stew.

  Merry sat at a slightly more respectable distance from Kael this time, occasionally glancing at Runt from the corner of her eye.

  Kael had a full bowl to himself this time.

  Runt, of course, kept trying to sneak sips of his beer every time he turned.

  It became a game.

  Each time he twisted slightly or leaned forward, she’d swipe the mug, take the quickest sip imaginable, and slam a heaping spoonful of stew into her mouth the moment he turned back—pretending nothing had happened.

  She didn’t think he noticed. He let her believe that.

  Each time, she peeked up at him, cheeks puffed with stew and a tiny, secret grin tugging at her lips. Like a kid who just got away with something.

  He let her.

  Their peaceful dinner—or was it breakfast, this late in the night?—was interrupted by a new presence. A familiar one.

  The Bronze-ranked Sister.

  She approached the table without hesitation, eyes fixed on Kael, hips swaying, confidence oozing from every step. She didn’t ask—she tried to sit.

  Runt slid a claw free, just one, the quiet scrape of it on ceramic more warning than threat.

  Merry didn’t flinch. Just gave the Sister a practiced look—the kind she’d used a thousand times on unruly patrons and misbehaving girls. A look that said: Don’t try me.

  Unbothered, the Sister shifted tactics. She leaned on the table instead, pressing her ample chest forward, lips parted in a sultry smile. There was no shame in the motion. No subtlety either.

  Kael felt it before she even spoke.

  A shimmer behind her words. A slow push. Like warm water soaking into his thoughts.

  Emotional magic. Subtle. But not that subtle.

  The pressure in his temples spiked. His scars—those lightning-threaded reminders of past battles—began to ache.

  The mana stank. Too sweet. Too smooth.

  “Kael,” she purred, voice velvet-slick. “I’m so glad to finally meet you. The Matriarch speaks of you often—so often. There’s a standing order from the Brassreach Lunar Temple, you know... to bring you to her. Any way we can.”

  She leaned in further, gaze locked on his, her cleavage practically on the table.

  “Is there anything I can do to convince you to come with me?”

  Kael didn’t blink.

  Didn’t move.

  Then—quiet, calm, unblinking:

  “Cut the magic,” he said. “Before I cut you.”

  The sister flinched. A thread cut—just like that. The phantom pain wracking Kael’s body vanished as the emotional magic snapped off.

  “How…” she whispered.

  Kael didn’t answer.

  “Sit,” he said instead. “Your name. And what’s the Matriarch been up to?”

  Know your enemy.

  She hesitated, clearly regretting ever walking back to his table. Her voice came soft, shaken.

  “Alina,” she said, eyes flicking to his face—still unreadable, still not smiling.

  “I can see why the Matriarch’s so insistent on meeting you,” Alina mumbled, trying to salvage her composure.

  She adjusted her posture—subtly at first, then more deliberately. A hand brushing her thigh. Shoulders back. Hips shifting. Her body moved with practiced seduction, but there was a flicker in her eyes—uncertainty creeping through the cracks.

  When Kael didn’t respond, she continued, slowly regaining confidence as she spoke.

  “Well… with Fadefall approaching, we’ve begun practicing non-magical healing. The Matriarch believes this year the Moonmarch will finally arrive. We’ve been preparing—stockpiling non-mana charms, fire lanterns, alchemical torches, Mage flares and tokens… loading the vault houses with supplies for the children and elderly across the districts.”

  Kael listened, but his mind had already jumped ahead.

  “The Matriarch believes The Canticle will show us the way,” Selena continued. “That the Starlit Child will guide us through the dark.”

  Words flashed through Kael’s mind like sparks on dry parchment:

  Twain light in step, where shadow drips,

  The Veil shall thin, the hunger slips.

  When Solus dims and Fadefall nears,

  The stars shall blink, the Wards shall sear.

  Blood not of moon, nor wholly flame,

  Shall quicken seed and birth her name.

  A daughter shall rise with starlit eyes,

  No son shall break the elder chain.

  Wreathed in dusk and marked by fate,

  Her cry shall halt the world too late.

  By hand and heart the breach shall close,

  Or all shall drown in silver throes.

  So speaks the Eye. So turns the sky.

  When Moonmarch comes, the end draws nigh.

  Kael had seen the true Veilstone of Selene—not the polished replicas housed in the branch temples, but the real thing: a towering monolith of lunar stone, cool to the touch even under direct sunlight, glowing faintly in rhythm with the twin moons. Awe-inspiring. And utter nonsense.

  But the rest? That mattered.

  Fire lanterns—essential for visibility once the city’s mage-lights were cut to conserve power for the containment field.

  Alchemical torches—quick ignition, reliable light.

  Mage flares—multi-colored mana bursts used to signal allies or bait mana-starved monsters.

  Then Kael’s thoughts caught on something.

  “Alina,” he said, voice low. “You said already stocking the vault houses.”

  His eyes met hers—steel blue, tinged with grey. Focused. Unblinking.

  “No one’s started prepping anything in the Iron District. As far as I know.”

  Alina’s gaze faltered. She glanced at Merry, then at Runt—who looked confused by her sudden discomfort. Then the Sister blushed, crimson, clearly shaken. For the first time, she looked her age.

  “The Matriarch said… if you kept delaying your audience, then support to the Iron District should be… withheld.”

  She swallowed. “She believes she is meant to complete the Lunar Pledge this year.”

  Her voice stumbled over the phrase Lunar Pledge.

  Runt blinked, still confused. Merry, however, translated—flatly:

  “She’s saying the Matriarch wants Kael to give her a daughter. This year. Before she’ll send supplies to the Iron District.”

  Runt’s expression turned to pure bewilderment.

  “…Oh.”