The air in the cramped underground chamber clung to Alph’s skin, thick with the scent of damp earth and stale torch smoke. The flickering light cast jagged shadows across the rough stone walls, the uneven floor pressing cold through the soles of his boots.

  Alph, as planned, had slipped inside the city when dawn broke, appearing as a simple serf returning from an outing. He rejected the thought of returning to Grimforge; he had a spare day in his three-day vacation from Varrick, and as such he decided to take advantage of it. Therefore, he came straight to meet the Assassin's Guild recruiter, Rook, and submit his completed trial.

  Rook loomed before him, his tangled beard matting over his jawline like a nest of dried reeds. His tunic, patched with frayed twine and stained with years of grime, hung loose over a frame that seemed both wiry and deceptively strong. Those sharp, assessing eyes—pale as winter frost—locked onto Alph, unblinking, dissecting.

  A single breath escaped Alph’s lips, slow and measured, as he met the gaze without flinching. The quiet between them felt heavy, like the air before a fight, full of hidden blades and threats they hadn't said yet.

  “The target is dead,” Rook stated, his voice a low rasp. “You displayed the body with the token, in public view. A clean kill, Little Raven.” A flicker of something, perhaps approval, crossed Rook’s face.

  Rook’s voice turned sharp, edged with disapproval. “Two days. A task that should’ve been done in half.”

  Alph held Rook's gaze, steady despite the scrutiny. “I didn’t know the thief’s exact location or routine,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “Tracking him took time.” Rook’s expectations weighed on him, but he didn’t make excuses for the delay. He simply laid out the facts, like a craftsman pointing out a flaw in his work, a professional offering an honest assessment of a small inefficiency.

  Rook scoffed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. “We knew when you set foot in Gloomwater, Little Raven.” Rook’s gaze held a knowing glint. “You gathered intel at the tavern, drank with dockworkers, and visited the constabulary. All of it.”

  He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “Had you waited in The Sturgeon that first night, you would have found Yuri. He went there to secure the alcohol needed to burn the warehouse. You chased side intel, missed the opportunity.”

  Alarm tightened Alph’s chest. Rook, or someone, had reconstructed his every move. The guild’s reach extended further than he imagined. No privacy existed in Gloomwater. He tucked that detail away: This is how a serious guild avoids getting crushed by law or rivals; constant eyes, tight procedures. It made sense.

  Rook leaned back, a faint smile touching his lips. “Despite wasting time, three facts remain.” He picked up a small stone from the ground and started tossing it, catching it again.

  "The target is eliminated." This was true indeed, Alph did kill Yuri.

  "The token rests on public display with the body." Rook threw the stone; Alph’s eyes traced the trajectory as it flew straight and hit the small crack on the fallen, moss-covered stone pillar at the cavern's far end with extreme precision.

  “And finally, you finished well before the one-week limit,” Rook said, letting the statement sink in. “You passed the trial. You’re a peripheral member now, a New Blood.” His dark expression actually broke into a smile.

  He continued, “You may return to me for contracts. You are not inner-circle, merely someone the guild is willing to use. No money for this one," He shrugged his shoulders. "It was your initiation. Next contract will earn you a portion of the bounty.”

  Alph grasped the implication instantly. He recognized the pattern; the guild structure mirrored the rigid hierarchy of the law firm he once started from. He had seen the chasm separating legal aids, struggling associates, salaried managed partners, and the powerful, named partners who controlled policy and resources. Hierarchy was paramount in his old life, and it proved just as crucial now. Access is guarded by rank. Always.

  He felt a deep sense of weary familiarity mixed with focused resolve. He could not rush it. He had to take measured, incremental steps, rising through the ranks of the Assassin's Guild to gain access to superior knowledge, better contracts, and the protected information network he needed. The initiation was the only way in; patience was required to conquer the inner circle.

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  Alph pivoted on his heel, his leather soles scuffing the packed dirt of the cavern floor. Rook’s voice, sharp and clipped, halted his momentum.

  “Next time, Little Raven, follow guild procedures to the letter. When we specify a location and a pattern, treat those as your primary directives, not suggestions. Do not burn days chasing side intelligence when the contract could be finished swiftly.”

  Rook’s gaze remained fixed, cold and clinical, weighing Alph’s worth against the mission's delay. Efficiency is the only currency here. The scent of damp earth and mineral rot hung heavy in the stale air.

  “I will keep it in mind,” Alph replied, forcing neutrality into his tone. He increased his pace immediately, the dismissal still stinging slightly. The critique is valid. Don’t repeat the error.

  He needed to pivot his attention now. He moved forward, his mind already churning through the scarce resources of time he possessed. He could use the remaining hours to practice, or perhaps finally seek proper rest at the tavern. Alternatively, he could delve into the brittle, dusty tomes within the city library to research the elusive Tier 1 druidic spells.

  I need that balance. Fighter, Rogue, Druid. Fighter is already settled, Rogue and Druid are left. But which one should I prioritize?

  Alph decided on the library. Reading during the day made more sense than poring over texts by dim lamplight. He sought any obscure Tier 1 druidic spell, specifically one with a high willpower requirement. Such spells often remained overlooked, making them more accessible to someone with his unique advantages. He already possessed a basic understanding of one attack spell, Nature Surge, but he needed more to accelerate the node merger.

  He entered the hushed halls of the city library, the scent of aged parchment and dust filling his nostrils. Rows of meticulously organized tomes stretched before him.

  Alph navigated the confusing, winding aisles of the ancient library, the scent of dust and aged parchment heavy in the air. Finally, he arrived at the section dedicated to druid lore. The titles were etched deeply into the solid stone cupboard faces, carved in the familiar, style of the dwarven font.

  Alph grabbed a stack of heavy druidic books and plopped down at a deserted table. The first few were useless—half-finished spell fragments, scribbled notes that didn’t connect. Others rambled about wild theories some high-tier druid had already called nonsense. An hour went by in a blur. He flipped through pages, skimmed indexes, and picked up scraps of info here and there. His jaw clenched tighter with every turn. Whatever he needed wasn’t in these books—just more words hiding the answer.

  A soft cough broke his concentration. He looked up. A dwarven woman with white, braided hair and round spectacles stood before him. Her eyes, magnified by the lenses, held a keen, observant glint. She watched him, a slight smile on her lips.

  "Young man," she said, her voice a low rumble, "you have taken and returned more books in the last hour than some do in a week. What is it you seek with such fervor?"

  Alph felt a flush creep up his neck. "I am curious about historical druidic spells," he admitted, "the ones that were particularly difficult to practice."

  The woman nodded, her smile spreading into a web of fine wrinkles. "Ah, a connoisseur of forgotten arts. Follow me." She turned, walking forward. "Why would a young lad like yourself need to sift through such dusty relics?" Before Alph responded, she waved a hand in dismissal. "Apologies, I didn't mean to pry. Old age makes one curious about everything." She slapped her own temple in jest.

  Alph remained silent, offering only a polite, practiced smile.

  She led him deeper into the library, past sections on history and philosophy, until they reached a secluded alcove. Books with elegant, flowing script lined the shelves. "Elven history," she announced, gesturing to the section.

  Alph looked at her, puzzled. "Why here?"

  "The druidic profession," she explained, "is predominant among the Elven race. One in twenty elves awaken as druids, similar to how one in ten dwarves awaken as artisans. If you wish to find such a spell, especially one from a bygone era, you must first determine its period of origin. Then, you can cross-reference it with Elven folklore."

  He understood her logic. The Elves, with their long lifespans and deep connection to nature, would undoubtedly possess the most comprehensive records of druidic magic. He thanked her, a new spark of hope igniting within him.

  He began his new search, pulling out ancient Elven texts. The script proved challenging, requiring a slower, more meticulous pace. He traced lines of faded ink, deciphering the delicate calligraphy. Each book demanded his full attention, its language intricate and dense.

  He found references to various druidic practices, some hinting at powerful, forgotten abilities, but still they were vague rumors. The specific, high-willpower Tier 1 spell modules remained hidden. The sheer volume of information overwhelmed him. He could not possibly sift through it all in a single day.

  Evening approached. The library’s windows, once bright with afternoon sun, now cast long, deepening shadows across the reading tables. Alph still had no luck. He closed the book in his hand with a sigh. His search would continue another time.

  He needed to meet Nylessa. He gathered his belongings, the thought of the Stinky Mole Tavern. May be I will just crash there for the night.