The guild-house lay half in shadow when Oberon pushed open its heavy door; the morning had not yet learned to be kind. A thin, cold light stole through the high windows and fell upon benches and the board where errands were tacked like small, desperate flags. The air within was of iron and old paper, of oil and the faint, stubborn warmth of last night’s embers. Men and women moved with the slow, habitual motions of those who made their days from small labors; their voices were low, as if the very walls listened.
Oberon paused just inside the doorway, letting the atmosphere settle around him. The guild smelled of sweat, parchment, and the faint tang of metal filings. It was a place built on the backs of ordinary people doing ordinary work, and yet it hummed with a quiet, stubborn dignity. He admired that. Even when he felt out of place, even when he felt like a knight in pieces, he admired the way these people kept going.
He approached the quest board with practiced indifference, though his heart beat a little faster. There were no pompous seals, no heralds—only blunt statements of want: a roof to mend, a hedge to clear, a crate to guard. He read them as one reads a ledger of debts, folding each scrap back into the pile with a small, private shrug. None would buy him what he needed.
He needed coin. He needed purpose. He needed something that would let him keep moving forward.
Then he saw it.
A small sketch tucked between a notice for a lost hound and a plea for a broken wheel. The drawing was crude—clusters of pale, jagged stones—and beneath it a reward, modest but sufficient for a stout pickaxe and a few days’ provisions. Five silver. Enough to breathe for a while.
He slid the paper into his sleeve as if it were a talisman and crossed to the counter.
The woman behind the desk looked up with the dry, appraising gaze of one who has seen many hopes come and go. Her hair was tied back in a bun that had clearly lost the battle against the morning, and her quill hovered over a ledger like a hawk waiting to strike.
“Yes?” she asked, already sounding tired.
“I’d like to take this commission,” Oberon said, placing the paper on the counter.
She squinted at it, then at him, then back at it. “Crystals from the mountain caves. Hm.” She tapped the parchment with her quill. “Do you have your certificate?”
Oberon blinked. “My… certificate?”
“Yes, your certificate,” she repeated, as if explaining to a child. “Your adventurer’s certificate. The paper that says you’re allowed to take quests. The thing you were supposed to keep on you at all times. That certificate.”
“Oh.” Oberon reached into his metal boot and pulled out the paper Aaron had given him. “You mean this?”
The accountant unrolled it and gave him a confused smile. “And so it says here that you are a C-rank adventurer, just like all starters. You only joined a couple of days ago, so do not fret.” She handed it back to him, then pointed to a chart behind her. “C-rank means you can help civilians with everyday tasks. B-rank means you can protect civilians. A-rank means you can take down minimal threats. S-rank means you can take down groups of threats. SS-rank means you can save the kingdom. SSS-rank means you can save the entire land. But we don’t have anyone of that power level here. We have a few SS-ranks, but they’re all out of the land.”
Oberon stared at her, his head spinning. “That was… a lot.”
“Yes, well, I’m required to say it.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, if you want to get a higher rank, all you have to do is take a test or achieve a great feat above your rank. If you ever want to see someone’s rank, there’s a board over there along with the quest board that shows everyone’s current placement in their respective leagues. If you are higher in a league, you are more likely to be promoted. Have fun as an adventurer, and stay safe!”
Oberon blinked again. “I… will try.”
“That’s the spirit,” she said, though her tone suggested she doubted it.
He turned toward the quest board again, trying to process everything she had said. His head felt full of bees. He had fought monsters, survived battles, and stared down death more times than he could count, but nothing had prepared him for guild bureaucracy.
He scanned the board again. There were quests for gathering materials, guarding carts, and moving crates. All of them gave about the same amount of money—one silver each or so. But the crystal quest… five silver. Five days’ worth of work in one.
He needed that.
He took the quest sheet and brought it back to the counter. “By any chance, could I borrow tools for this job?”
The accountant bit her nails with disquiet. “Ah, well… unfortunately, we do not lend tools at the moment. Some person broke all of the tools last time, and ever since we have not gotten any replacements from His Majesty. But you can ask the king, and if he sees fit, he will grant you something to use. Take this authorization scroll to enter the castle. Good luck.”
Oberon nodded. She took the commission sheet from his hands while handing him the scroll. “I will let you know if I get permission, madam.”
As he turned to leave, a few adventurers looked at him with fear in their eyes. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because he was taking on such a challenging quest? Or maybe they didn’t like his presence? He couldn’t tell.
He stepped outside, the sun warming his armor. The castle loomed above the city like a great stone sentinel. He had never walked the streets like this before—never taken the time to admire the city’s architecture, the way the cobblestones glistened in the morning light, the way the banners fluttered in the breeze. It was… nice. Peaceful, even.
He walked up the long road to the castle gates. The royal knights guarding the entrance wore armor with gold inlaid in the plates. Oberon glanced down at his own armor—missing a chest plate, dented in places, worn from battle. He hoped it wouldn’t hinder him.
“Halt!” one of the knights said. “Do you have permission to enter the throne room?”
“Yes,” Oberon said, handing over the scroll.
The knight inspected it, then nodded. “You are granted access. Proceed.”
Oberon bowed and walked through the gates. The castle’s interior was breathtaking. Treasures lined the walls—gems, gold, rare metals. It was almost disgusting how much wealth was on display. He wondered how many people could be fed with just one of the golden vases.
He was led into the throne room. The ceiling was filled with jewels and lanterns, stained glass depicting the king’s supposed greatness. People knelt before him, dying on their knees in the artwork, while he stood atop a tower of beguilement.
Oberon looked at the king—and nearly recoiled.
His skin was falling off. He coughed every few seconds. He looked like a slime wearing a crown. His limbs were twisted, his body frail. Oberon looked away in disgust.
“So,” the king said. “What brings a… lowly peasant into my room’s splendorous glamour? I assume it is not for me to reduce taxes for the hundredth time today?”
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Presumptuous, Oberon thought. But he kept his tone respectful. “The guild has permitted me to ask you for equipment—specifically tools for mining. They no longer have any equipment, and so I have been sent here to request a pickaxe necessary to complete my commission.”
The king stared at his missing chest plate. “And you expect me to take you seriously when you are not properly armored? Are you even useful to your guild?”
Oberon straightened. “I am useful. In fact, after this, I will ascend higher in the hierarchy.”
“Oh? Is that so? Prove it.”
“Try me,” Oberon said before he could stop himself.
The room went silent.
The king vanished from his throne.
Oberon’s senses flared. He felt the air shift, the pressure change. He dove left just as a golden sword crashed into the ground where he had stood. The impact shattered the stone floor, sending rubble flying. Knights were thrown into the walls, their bodies imprinting into the stone. Glass shattered. Dust filled the air.
Oberon raised his fists, breathing hard.
The king stepped out of the dust, dragging the sword behind him. “Phew,” he said. “That one is a real back killer.”
He pointed the sword at Oberon. “There is no way you are a peasant. You are more than a pawn.”
He sheathed the sword. “Guards, give him what he needs. And send two A-rank adventurers with him. I do not trust him wholeheartedly.”
Oberon saluted and helped the guards to their feet. He followed them to a vault filled with tools—pickaxes, axes, polearms, bows, even muskets. He chose a simple iron pickaxe.
As he left, one of the guards tapped his shoulder. “Psst. Thank you for helping me back there. The king has been acting strangely. The former king disappeared. No one talks about it. Too suspicious.”
“Why tell me?” Oberon asked.
“Because you stood up to him. No one does that. I’m only fourteen, but even I know something is wrong.”
Oberon nodded. “I won’t let your words be in vain.”
He returned to the guild. The accountant nearly fainted. “You’re back?! Most people who go there don’t return.”
“What?”
“Nothing. So, what’s stopping you now?”
“The king wants me to go with two adventurers.”
She nodded. “I’ll set up a party invitation. Come back tomorrow.”
Oberon left, exhausted. He thought of Roselia—her strength, her presence, the way she had looked at him with something like expectation. He wondered if she would be proud of him.
He hoped so.
He truly hoped so.
Oberon slept poorly that night. His body was exhausted, but his mind refused to settle. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the king’s sword splitting the stone floor, the shockwave rippling outward, the guards flying like leaves in a storm. He saw Roselia too—her calm, powerful presence, the way she had looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and expectation. He wondered what she would think of him now. Would she laugh? Approve? Shake her head at his recklessness?
He didn’t know. But he hoped—quietly, foolishly—that she would be proud.
Morning came with a pale, washed-out light. Oberon strapped the pickaxe to his back, packed his satchel, and made his way to the guild. The accountant waved him over with a quill-stained hand.
“Good news,” she said. “Two adventurers accepted the party invitation. They’ll meet you at the mountain’s base. Try not to die.”
“That’s… encouraging,” Oberon said.
She shrugged. “I’m not paid to encourage. I’m paid to record deaths. And quests. Mostly deaths.”
Oberon wasn’t sure if she was joking.
He stepped outside, took a deep breath, and began the long walk toward the mountain. The city slowly gave way to rolling fields, then to rocky foothills. The air grew colder, sharper. The path narrowed. Birds circled overhead, their cries echoing against the stone.
He rehearsed heroics in his mind as he walked. He imagined returning to the guild with a sack full of crystals, the accountant gasping in awe, the adventurers whispering his name. He imagined Roselia hearing of his deeds and nodding in approval. He imagined the king—twisted, frail, monstrous—being forced to acknowledge him.
He imagined being someone worth remembering.
The mountain rose before him like a jagged tooth, its peak lost in a swirl of gray clouds. The wind howled through the narrow passes, carrying with it the scent of cold stone and distant snow.
He reached the base of the mountain—and found no one waiting.
The two adventurers the guild had promised were nowhere to be seen.
Oberon frowned. “Did they… forget?”
A voice answered from behind a boulder. “No. We just didn’t want to be seen with you.”
Three men stepped out, cloaks pulled tight against the wind. They were not adventurers. Their eyes were hard, their hands resting on crude weapons.
“Looking for stones?” the largest asked.
“Maybe,” Oberon said. “Why?”
“Because they’re worth a coin to the right buyer,” the man said. “And because the crown’s men have been asking questions. We take what we want before the crown can.”
Oberon’s rehearsed heroics condensed into a single, honest thought: do not run.
He braced, the pickaxe’s leather strap biting into his palm. The first man lunged. Oberon sidestepped and brought the pickaxe down in a wide arc. The head struck with a dull, bone-deep thud. The man staggered back, cursing.
The second rushed him. Oberon swung the pickaxe like a hammer, catching the man in the ribs. The third tried to flank him, but Oberon pivoted, using the pickaxe’s handle to block the blow.
The fight was quick and ugly. Oberon moved not with the grace of a trained killer but with the stubborn, improvised force of a man who refused to be taken. When the men fled, cursing into the wind, Oberon sat on a rock and felt the burn in his arms like a reminder that he was alive.
He took a long breath, then another. “Roselia would have handled that better,” he muttered. “But I’m still standing.”
He continued up the mountain.
The path grew steeper, the wind colder. Snow clung to the rocks in thin, stubborn patches. The air tasted metallic, like the memory of lightning. He found the cave entrance—a narrow slit in the rock, barely wide enough to squeeze through.
Inside, the air was still and cold. The walls glimmered faintly with veins of quartz. Oberon raised his lantern and stepped deeper into the cave. The crystals were ordinary—pale, jagged, catching the light in a way that made them seem more than they were. But they were just stone. Nothing magical. Nothing special.
He chipped free a few pieces, wrapped them in cloth, and placed them in his satchel.
As he turned to leave, he heard a faint sound—a soft, muffled cry.
He froze.
Another cry. Higher pitched. Frightened.
He followed the sound deeper into the cave. The passage narrowed, then opened into a small chamber. A child—no older than seven—was huddled against the wall, shivering.
Oberon knelt. “Hey. It’s alright. I’m not here to hurt you.”
The child looked up with wide, tear-filled eyes. “I—I got lost. My brother said there were treasures in the cave. But then the rocks fell and—and—”
Oberon gently lifted the child into his arms. “You’re safe now.”
He carried the child out of the cave, shielding them from the wind with his cloak. Halfway down the mountain, a woman came running toward them, her face streaked with tears.
“My son!” she cried. “Oh gods, my son!”
She took the child from Oberon, sobbing with relief. “Thank you. Thank you. I don’t have much, but—”
She pressed a small copper coin into his hand.
Oberon shook his head. “Keep it.”
“No,” she insisted. “A hero deserves something.”
Hero.
The word settled in his chest like a warm coal.
He continued down the mountain, the pickaxe slung over his shoulder, the satchel heavy with crystals. The path felt easier now. The wind felt less cold.
When he returned to the city, the guild’s accountant nearly dropped her quill.
“You’re alive?” she said.
“Yes,” Oberon replied. “And I have the crystals.”
She stared at him, then at the satchel, then back at him. “Most people who go there don’t come back.”
“So I’ve heard.”
She took the crystals, weighed them, and nodded. “Five silver. And… good work.”
The smith clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re tougher than you look.”
The young guard who had warned him offered a small salute. “Told you to be careful.”
Children in the market pointed and whispered. A few older men tipped their hats. It wasn’t the thunderous acclaim he had once imagined, but it was steadier, more durable.
...
That night, as the city’s lamps guttered and the market emptied, a Drakonic figure detached itself from the shadow of an archway and bowed low before the gilded doors of the castle. Scales flashed in the torchlight as the visitor entered the throne room, moving with the practiced deference of one who brings news.
Within, the king sat as he always did—small, precise, and surrounded by the glitter of his hoard. Skulls and trophies lined the walls like mute witnesses. The Draken removed his cloak and reported in a voice that carried the hush of the outer wilds.
“Reporting for duty, Your Majesty,” he said.
The king’s hands worked at a blade, chipping and polishing with a patience that made the act ritual. “Tell me,” the king said without looking up, “the man who dodged my strike—what is he doing at this moment?”
“He investigates,” the Draken answered. “He finds cause to your effect. That adventurer poses a threat to your identity.”
The king’s smile was a small, terrible thing. He set the blade down and regarded the Draken as one might regard a favored instrument. “Keep watch,” he said. “Bring me tokens. Remind me of what was lost.”
The Draken bowed and left, the doors closing behind him with a sound like a verdict.
Oberon walked the market with the pickaxe slung over his shoulder and felt the city’s pulse in his bones. He had come for a tool and a commission; he had left with a clearer sense of who he was. He had tried, in small ways and in larger ones, to paint himself a hero—and in the doing he had become one.
Not by proclamation.
Not by spectacle.
But by the accumulation of small, stubborn acts.
A child saved.
A fight endured.
A promise kept.
And somewhere in the city, Roselia would hear of it.
And she would know he was growing.
