Vagrants No More

The heavy oak door of the Explorer's Guild swung shut behind them, its final, resonant thud sealing them within the comparative tranquility of the late afternoon. The boisterous clamor of the hall was instantly extinguished, replaced by a faint ringing in their ears. Outside, the street hummed with the familiar commerce of Valerion Aeris, a world apart from the contained and volatile chaos they had just departed. For a drawn-out moment, they simply stood there, an unlikely fellowship of souls united by a rejected summons, allowing the day's surge of adrenaline to gradually recede. A collective, unspoken sigh seemed to pass between them.

Kyoto was the first to break the silence, his voice taut with the lingering thrill of the encounter. He nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a finger that trembled slightly, a broad, almost unhinged grin stretching across his features. "A classic trope! The hostile guild subjecting prospective members to a fraudulent trial by fire! It’s directly from The Legendary Dragon Knight's Reincarnation, Volume Three! Although," he added with a thoughtful air, "my research never mentioned a chokeslam being the standard method of resolution. That was certainly an unforeseen variable."

"The brute was clumsy," Voktah rumbled, rolling his immense shoulders. "All brawn, no sense." He gazed down at his own large, calloused hands, as if seeing them in a new light. "He announced his attack like a court herald proclaiming a royal decree. A child could have evaded him."

"A child couldn't have hoisted him from the floor with a single arm, old man," Rylan countered, a genuine smirk gracing his lips. He clapped a hand on Voktah’s broad shoulder. "You handled yourself well back there."

Voktah’s reply was just as gruff and untamed as before, but for the first time, the underlying animosity had vanished, supplanted by a raw, mutual sense of victory.

The journey back to The Golden Dawn was marked by a comfortable quiet. Their gaits, once belonging to five disconnected strangers, now fell into a natural, synchronized rhythm. They were a unit now, moving as one. The instant they passed through the inn's welcoming threshold, the aromas of simmering stew and roasting poultry enveloped them, feeling less like a simple evening meal and more like a homecoming. Their spirits rose even higher when Elara and Elira caught sight of them, their young faces erupting into brilliant smiles. Elara scurried forward.

"You've returned! Miss Mona said you passed the trial! Is that true?"

"Something to that effect," Amara whispered, crouching to meet the little girl's eyes. The same hand that, only a short while ago, had been wrapped around the hilt of a deadly dagger now tenderly brushed a stray lock of hair from Elara's cheek. "Everything is fine."

Rylan laid claim to their customary large, round table and observed the tender exchange. He ordered a celebratory banquet: the most succulent chicken on the menu, loaves of freshly baked bread, a flagon of dark, hearty ale for the adults, and sweet, effervescent juice for the children. As the platters arrived and the table burst into life, he leaned back in his chair, content to simply drink in the scene.

Voktah was in the middle of an embellished retelling of the brawl, portraying Brutus as a "mountain-sized ogre with fists like granite," much to the wide-eyed delight of Elara and Elira. Kyoto periodically interjected with "statistically more plausible scenarios," which created a comical friction between visceral memory and academic analysis. And Amara, the fierce warrior from the guild hall, now presided over the table, patiently dicing Elira’s food into smaller pieces, radiating a serene, maternal grace.

Rylan took a long, slow swallow of his ale, the cool, bitter draft a stark contrast to the warmth that was blooming in his chest. His mind drifted to his former life—to the cold, sterile briefing rooms and the silent, solitary assignments. He had operated in teams before, with spies, assassins, and other professionals. They were lethal, efficient, and profoundly detached. There were no shared meals, no bursts of laughter, no gentle smiles. There was only the objective. He looked at the beautiful chaos before him: a brute with the heart of a grandfather, a killer with a gentle soul, a scholar from another world…

Hmph. You're all being disgustingly sentimental for a collection of society's outcasts, Zephyra's voice echoed in the recesses of his mind. Yet, her tone was missing its customary venom. Beneath the cynicism, he could almost detect another note, something that sounded remarkably like longing.

His smile widened, but he offered no verbal reply. Maybe we are, he thought.

The following morning dawned crisp and luminous. They had invested a small fraction of their funds at a second-hand equipment shop the previous evening. Now, as they stood before the Explorer's Guild once more, they at least appeared the part, however inexperienced they truly were. Rylan had donned a simple but durable leather jerkin over his shirt. Amara had exchanged her stylish blouse for a dark, functional tunic and a leather bracer that promised far better protection. Even Kyoto sported a new leather satchel slung across his shoulder, which he had filled with the blank parchment and maps he insisted were essential.

At this hour, the guild hall was much quieter. They made their way to the familiar counter on the left. The old woman glanced up, her gaze lingering on them longer this time. A skeptical rumble sounded deep in her throat.

"I figured one night of ale and self-congratulation would be the last we saw of you," she rasped. "Takes more than that to scare you off, does it? Good. That's the first step."

She pushed registration parchments toward them. "Names. Place of origin. Any skills worth mentioning. If you lie about your skills, you'll only get yourself killed."

Rylan took charge of the narrative, weaving the threads of their fabricated history. They hailed from a small hunting village deep within the Uncharted Territories to the east, he explained, having journeyed to the capital in search of a better life. In the 'Skills' section, he inscribed 'Handyman' for himself. Amara wrote 'Tracker,' Voktah scrawled 'Brawler,' and Kyoto, after a moment of profound deliberation, simply entered 'Analyst.' In their own ways, none of these were falsehoods.

The woman accepted the papers with a grunt and then produced a smooth, black registration stone. "Place your hand on the stone. Project the name you have chosen onto the plate with your will."

One by one, they performed the ritual. When it was Rylan's turn, he pressed his palm against the cool, unyielding surface. A faint, probing energy, like static electricity, danced across his skin as the enchantment read the name he projected. Axel, he thought—a name from a life he was striving to leave behind, but a necessary shield for the one he was only just beginning.

After several moments of silent magical processing, the woman slid four thin iron plates across the counter. They were heavier than they appeared. Engraved crudely on his was the name 'Axel,' alongside the guild's emblem: a stylized compass rose pierced by a single, sharp sword. Beneath it, the word 'Iron' designated his starting rank.

Amara picked hers up, tracing the name she had selected—'Amara'—with the tip of her finger. A quiet look of resolve settled upon her features. This was her own. A name she had claimed for herself, not one bestowed upon her by a man she despised.

"These plates just grant you permission to die on a guild-sanctioned contract," the old woman reiterated her advice from the previous day, though this time it sounded less like a dismissal and more like a grave warning. "Don't count on them to save you. Your wits and the person standing beside you are the only things that matter. Now, get out of my sight. The real work begins now."

Later that night, Rylan stood alone on the small wooden balcony of their rented quarters, the sounds of the city a low, ceaseless hum below. He held the iron plate in his palm, feeling its tangible weight, its reality. His past identities had consisted of a forged agent's ID and a military dog tag. They were instruments of deception and death, symbols of a life lived in the shadows. This plate felt different. It was a beginning. A foundation upon which to build.

The door creaked open behind him. It was Amara. She spoke no words, simply moving to stand beside him at the railing, her gaze fixed on the same unknowable horizon. Her hair, now tied back for practicality, fluttered in the evening breeze.

"Thank you," she said, her voice scarcely a whisper. "For the name. For… all of this."

Rylan merely nodded, sensing that no further words were needed. For a long while, they stood together in comfortable silence, two fractured people from a dead world, finding their footing in a new one. She offered him a small, grateful smile before turning and retreating inside, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He glanced down at the iron plate in his hand, then back up at the vast, alien sky, where the celestial rivers of Aeridor Valeria flowed endlessly above a silent, colossal planet. The plate felt like a tool, but not like the ones he was accustomed to. A gun was for ending things. This, he realized, was for starting them.