The Adventurer’s Guild smelled like spilled ale, wet cloaks, anxiety, and a faint undertone of “this building should’ve been condemned decades ago.”

  Cletus stood at a wobbly wooden desk that looked like it might collapse if someone breathed on it wrong.

  Hank Underberry, Senior Compliance Officer and self-appointed guardian of order, sat perched atop a tall stool like an anxious parrot with a paperwork fetish.

  Hank finished scribbling notes as Cletus wrapped up his explanation—escape from orcs, truck chase, forest chaos, metal spirit, villain monologue, and assorted nonsense Kotetsu kept throwing in.

  Hank nodded solemnly.

  “I see. Fascinating. Horrifying. Entirely against regulation. But mostly fascinating.”

  The two half-orc women behind him made soft noises of admiration as if Cletus had just recited poetry.

  The Elf Maiden stood nearby with the patient dignity of someone trying very hard not to remind Cletus that she was technically royalty and deserved introductions.

  Hank snapped his ledger shut.

  “Very well. Before you may legally operate within this settlement, you must understand the structure and expectations of the Adventurer’s Guild.”

  He cleared his throat with bureaucratic purpose.

  “Rule One: The Guild retains twelve percent of all job revenue, adjusted for danger, distance, magical contamination, limb loss, and general stupidity.”

  Cletus blinked. “Twelve percent for stupidity?”

  “Yes,” Hank said gravely. “You would be surprised how often that category applies.”

  Kotetsu hummed in mechanical agreement.

  “Rule Two,” Hank continued, “the Guild contracts for the following services: protection of property, escort missions, beast slaying, retrieval of lost relics, dungeon exploration, merchant caravan security, and occasional mediations between irate wizards. These are non-negotiable.”

  Cletus nodded. “Alright. Sounds like odd jobs with extra steps.”

  Hank ignored him.

  “Rule Three: The Guild cooperates with several affiliated organizations including the Warrior’s Lodge, the War Wizard Conclave, the Order of Radiant Clerics, the Assassin’s Consortium, the Teamsters’ Circle, and the Thieves Guild.”

  The Elf Beauty tilted her head. “Why would one collaborate with thieves?”

  “Because,” Hank answered dryly, “their guild owns the patent on seventeen terms including ‘rogue,’ ‘bandit,’ ‘infiltrator,’ ‘cat burglar,’ and ‘that guy who goes through your pockets.’ We must avoid legal trouble.”

  He pointed toward a shadowed corner.

  “There is one of our… Scouts now.”

  Cletus looked and saw a tall figure shrouded in black, every inch covered in dark cloth, mask, hood, cloak, gloves—like the final boss of an eyeliner commercial.

  The person stood motionless, arms folded, radiating silent, brooding intensity.

  Cletus whispered, “That’s a fella who sits in corners.”

  The Scout turned their masked face slightly, as if glaring without eyes.

  “Scouts,” Hank continued professionally, “disable traps, sneak through dangers, open locks, steal things, un-steal things, and hide in improbable locations.

  We call them ‘scouts’ because the Thieves Guild sent us fourteen cease-and-desist letters last year.”

  He flipped to a new page in his ledger.

  “Now then. Classes. You will select one.”

  Cletus scratched his beard. “What are my options?”

  Hank raised a finger.

  “Fighters. These are unskilled mooks who swing swords and axes, possess more muscle than foresight, and die in droves. They are hired for brute labor, front-line combat, and general expendability.”

  Cletus frowned. “That seems rude.”

  “It is statistically accurate,” Hank replied.

  He raised a second finger.

  “Priests. Blessed by divine entities known as ‘Gods.’ They provide healing, cleansing, and occasional smiting. They are valuable but often insufferably righteous.”

  Third finger.

  “War Wizards. Spellcasters who control the arcane arts. They incinerate everything within fifty feet, including themselves. Prone to academic arrogance, asthma, and wild collateral damage.”

  Fourth finger.

  “And lastly… Scouts. But you are clearly not one. You lack the gloom, the edginess, the excessive black clothing, and whatever that hat is.”

  Cletus looked at his hat.

  “Hey now. Don’t insult the hat.”

  Kotetsu hummed. “His attachment to the hat is statistically significant.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Hank pushed his ledger forward.

  “So. Based on appearance and temperament, I assume you wish to register as a standard Fighter Class. And your—” he squinted at Kotetsu “—magical carriage as your contracted Spirit Beast.”

  Cletus threw up his hands. “Whoa, hold on. I ain’t said anything about bein’ no ‘Fighter.’ And Kotetsu ain’t no beast. He’s my—uh…”

  “My designation is ‘Kotetsu,’” the truck supplied helpfully from outside.

  Hank tapped his pencil impatiently.

  “Mr. Hickenbottom, please. You do not look like a wizard. You do not seem blessed. And your hat is far too silly for one of the dark, brooding sorts.”

  The Elf Lady lifted a hand.

  “If I may advocate on his behalf—”

  “No,” Hank said without looking at her.

  Then added, “Not unless you are willing to file Form Twelve-K for third-party intervention.”

  She lowered her hand.

  “…Never mind.”

  Cletus sighed, resigned to the inevitable madness.

  “Alright. Fine. Let’s talk Fighter registration. What do I gotta do?”

  Hank smiled in the way only a man surrounded by rules can smile.

  “Step One: Do not die in the lobby.”

  Kotetsu revved outside in what might have been encouragement.

  Hank flipped to a fresh page in his ledger, squared his pencil like a man preparing for battle, and said:

  “Step Two: I need your names.”

  Cletus inhaled—

  And the Elf Maiden STRUCK.

  She surged forward so fast she blurred, planted her heels, threw back her shoulders, and unleashed the most weapons-grade royal introduction

  “IamtheFirstDaughteroftheSilverwoodBeareroftheMoonpetalCrestHeiroftheRadiantBoughKeeperoftheThreefoldLineageVoiceoftheEternalBloomBlessedbytheVerdantCourtandSoleHeiroftheGlitteringBoughofVaeloriaDaughteroftheLuminalThroneandGuardianof—”

  She did NOT

  breathe.

  She did NOT

  She did NOT

  She machine-gunned her lineage at subsonic speed, a waterfall of vowels and elven consonants battering the table like a bureaucratic hurricane.

  Hank froze.

  Cletus’s jaw dropped.

  Kotetsu’s headlights flickered outside—like he’d short-circuited.

  A drunk at the bar whispered, “Dear gods… she’s ascended.”

  She kept going.

  “—DefenderoftheSacredGrovesChosenOfTheMoonweaversHeritoroftheStarpetalLegacyBlessedbytheAncestorRootsBearerOfTheSacredNameWhichShallNotBeForsakenByTimeItself-I-am-Princess Liraelith Elanathriel Starbloom Vaeloria, First Daughter of the Silverwood, Bearer of the Moon Petal Crest, Heir to the Radiant Bough, Voice of the Verdant Court!”

  She finished with the poise of someone who has questioned whether she deserves the acoustics of a cathedral when introducing herself.

  Silence fell so complete that even the dust motes refused to move.

  Hank slowly lowered his pencil, eyes wide behind his tiny spectacles.

  “…I did not catch… any of that.”

  Cletus put his hands on his knees and wheezed, “Ma’am… that wasn’t English… and it wasn’t sane.”

  The Elf Maiden lifted her chin with righteous pride, chest rising like she had just conquered a kingdom.

  “I have waited ALL DAY to deliver that uninterrupted.”

  Hank stared at her with the weary, hollow gaze of a man who had seen bureaucracy in its final, most terrifying form.

  He flipped back a few pages. Then forward. Then back again.

  Then he sighed deeply.

  “We will abbreviate.”

  He scribbled with grim resignation:

  Lirae

  Her ears shot straight up.

  “CONDENSED?!” she gasped, affronted.

  “We only have so many lines per form,” Hank muttered. “Believe me, it is for the best.”

  Cletus pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “You rehearsed that, didn’t you.”

  She sniffed, triumphant.

  “Three times. Aloud. In the forest. Before the Orcs found me.”

  Kotetsu rumbled from outside.

  Hank turned to him.

  “And YOUR name?”

  “Cletus Hickenbottom,” he said, resigned to his fate.

  Hank repeated quietly, “…Hickenbottom,” like the name itself had personally wronged him, then wrote it down.

  He closed the ledger with the finality of a judge sentencing someone.

  “Very well. Names are recorded. The Elf Maiden’s in… a highly compressed form.”

  She gasped again.

  “I feel… reduced!”

  “That makes two of us,” Hank muttered.

  Hank ignored both of them. “Name of the magical conveyance?”

  Kotetsu rumbled, “Kotetsu.”

  Hank wrote: “Vehicle, K-Tetsu.”

  Outside, Kotetsu’s horn honked in offense.

  Hank flipped another page. “Good. Now all that’s left is your party classification. One Fighter, one Nobility-Class Mage—”

  The Elven Maiden perked up proudly.

  “—and one Non-Standard Spirit Manifestation.”

  Kotetsu hummed in smug superiority.

  Cletus rubbed his face. “Are we done yet?”

  Hank shut the ledger with a crisp snap.

  “For today? Yes. The three of you are now officially registered adventurers.”

  The half-orc bodyguards sighed dreamily.

  “Oh, look at him, being all authoritative…”

  “So brave, so tiny…”

  “He writes like a god…”

  The Elven Lady whispered, flustered, “I did it. I finally said my name…”

  Cletus muttered under his breath, “Yeah, at Mach three…”

  And Hank lifted the ledger respectfully, saying:

  “Welcome to the Adventurer’s Guild. Try not to die. It does terrible things to my paperwork.”

  Then Hank cleared his throat.

  “One final matter,” he said in the tone of a man who resents surprises. “Your party is currently under the recommended member count.”

  Cletus blinked. “Recommended by who?”

  “Insurance. And the mortality statistics.”

  Hank stared directly at Cletus while saying this.

  Kotetsu hummed: “Correct.”

  Hank continued:

  “As it happens, we have one more guild member in need of a placement. They are… difficult to assign.”

  Cletus groaned. “Why does that sound like trouble?”

  “Oh, it is,” Hank said flatly.

  Then he turned and raised his voice toward the back of the guild hall.

  “Raven! Front and center.”

  The shadows in the corner shifted.

  The same figure Cletus had noticed earlier—hooded, masked, wrapped in black from boots to hood—peeled away from the dim corner like the darkness itself was reluctantly letting them go.

  No new description.

  No repetition.

  Only presence.

  They approached without a footstep making sound.

  Arms crossed.

  Head slightly lowered.

  Aura screaming:

  Hank gestured between them.

  “This is our Scout.”

  Cletus squinted. “Yeah, I figured. He’s been sittin’ in that corner starin’ holes in the wall since we got here.”

  The masked head turned slightly toward Cletus.

  Slowly.

  Menacingly.

  Professionally offended.

  The voice that emerged was low and gravelled, the kind of voice a teenager practices in front of a mirror:

  “…I work alone.”

  Hank didn’t even dignify that.

  “No you don’t. You’ve been living in our broom closet for two months. You need a party, and they need a scout. Congratulations—problem solved.”

  The Scout stiffened like Hank had personally stabbed their tragic backstory.

  The Elf Maiden clasped her hands, delighted. “A fourth member will complete our fellowship!”

  Kotetsu hummed in approval.

  Cletus muttered, “Why do I feel like I just inherited a problem?”

  The Scout leaned closer, mask tilted, voice dripping melodrama:

  “…If you slow me down… I will leave you behind.”

  Cletus sighed. “Yep. Problem.”

  Hank slammed his ledger shut for the last time.

  “Good! All four members accounted for. Registration complete!”

  The Scout immediately retreated to the nearest shadow, cloak fluttering like an offended bat.

  The Elf Maiden watched them go with wonder.

  The half-orc bodyguards whispered about how “even his gloom is efficient.”

  Kotetsu revved.

  And Cletus muttered,

  “…I just wanted a place to sleep.”