Corin Draemont

The sun had barely crested the terraces when the Dozing Serpent stirred awake. The common room smelled of ash and porridge, Maressa moving like a storm with a ladle in one hand and a tray in the other. The five of them crowded around the same long table they’d claimed the last few days, spoons clinking, the soft lull of tired conversation around them.

“Today,” Balthan said around a mouthful of grain, “we all go out. Together.”

Tia raised her brows, chewing. “Big family outing? Do we get matching cloaks?”

He ignored her, though the twitch of his jaw betrayed how hard he worked at it. “Money’s low. Contacts are thin. We either sniff out honest work or sniff out information that can turn into honest work.”

Rika licked a smear of honey from her thumb, smirking. “Or dishonest work, if it pays better.”

“Rika.” Vesh’s tone was warning, though his tail flicked faint amusement.

Tia tilted her head. “What’s on the menu? Guard duty? Courier jobs? Maybe we start a very professional singing troupe?”

Corin, still fiddling with the red spellbook like a nervous habit, gave a little laugh. “You’d be the loud one. I could be the backup sparkle effects.”

“Oh, so you admit you’d follow my lead.” Tia grinned at him. “See, Balthan? He trusts me out in the world without supervision.”

Corin flushed, ducking his head. “That’s… not what I–”

“Eat,” Balthan grumbled, but it didn’t carry much weight.

For a moment, it almost felt like a normal morning. Almost.

The door opened, and the air shifted.

Three soldiers stepped in, sunlight flashing across polished bronze and red lacquer. The tavern went quiet in that quick, animal way – mugs stilled, chairs stopped scraping. The lead man wore the high black-and-crimson of the Dominion’s own. His face was sunburned and sharp, the kind that didn’t need to shout to command silence.

Tia’s spoon froze halfway to her mouth. Heat crawled up her arms.

“Stay calm,” Vesh murmured low, not moving his lips. “Eat. Do not run.”

The soldier’s voice cracked across the room. “All present will present guild marks. The Dominion thanks you for your cooperation.”

Maressa bobbed her head, already lining up empty mugs to look busy. But her eyes darted – quick, sharp – toward their table. Toward Vesh. He shot a look back.

Balthan’s hand closed hard on Tia’s wrist under the table. “Upstairs,” he hissed. “Now.”

She didn’t argue. Her legs carried her before she could think, clattering up the steps, heart battering her ribs.

In their room she snatched her cloak from the peg, hands shaking. The blank mark stitched inside seemed to burn through the fabric, obvious, screaming. She shoved it deep beneath her mattress, then glanced at the door – boots already thudding below.

No time.

She darted into the side pantry room, a cramped square that smelled of herbs and dust, and eased the door mostly shut. Through the narrow crack of the hinges, she could hear the soldiers’ voices carrying up the stairwell, flat and official.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. From here she could do nothing – only listen, breath shallow, as her friends were called up one by one.

And pray no one asked for her name.

Bootsteps creaked against the old tavern boards. Tia pressed her ear to the seam of the door, straining.

“Guild mark,” the lead soldier said. His tone was clipped, official – but not cruel. Just a man doing a job he’d done a hundred times.

Wood scraped. That would be Balthan, sliding back his chair. She could picture him: steady, measured, that carved-stone posture he always wore when things turned serious.

A pause, then the faint shuffle of parchment on wood. The soldier must have taken the card, examined it.

“Merchant,” the man said. His voice dropped into a register of recognition. “Caravansman, yes? You’ve been on the eastern routes?”

Balthan’s reply rumbled faint, but clear enough for her to catch. “That’s right. Sskarveth trade roads, most recently.”

The soldier made a sound halfway between approval and disinterest. “Long haul. Rough country. Surprised you still carry the cart with you.”

“Cart’s my livelihood,” Balthan answered. No hesitation, no nerves. Just the solid wall of his voice.

Silence stretched – longer this time. Tia’s breath caught. She imagined the soldier studying him, weighing truth against lies, letting the moment drag.

Then the soldier spoke again, lighter. “Well. Ssarradon always welcomes steady hands. Plenty of trade flowing in these days. No reason to wander further.”

Balthan only grunted in return.

Tia pressed her palm flat against her thigh, willing herself to breathe. One done. Safe.

Another chair scraped.

“Yours,” the soldier said.

Vesh.

She pictured him handing the guild card over with that quiet, deliberate dignity. His voice followed, calm as a still pond. “Vesh of Ssaerr. Scholar-priest. Trained in the collegiate halls here in the city.”

The soldier hummed low, like he was reading off the mark itself. “Faith track. Records match. Good to see another staying loyal to the halls rather than chasing foreign fancies.”

“I chase knowledge,” Vesh replied simply. “The halls taught me where to look.”

Tia bit back a smile. Typical Vesh: measured, respectful, but never bending more than he had to.

The soldier gave a faint chuckle. “Spoken like every scholar I’ve met. Well. No trouble here.”

But relief wouldn’t last long, the iron band tightened around her chest again.

Then another pause. A longer scrape – Rika, perhaps, pushing her chair back with deliberate slowness.

“Guild mark,” the soldier repeated.

Tia strained, fingers digging into her knees. She could hear the faint clink as Rika slid her card across the table.

“Mage registration,” the soldier read aloud. “Generalist track.”

“Yes,” Rika said, clipped, like she couldn’t be bothered to elaborate.

The soldier chuckled again, though softer this time. “A mage who wastes no words. Refreshing.”

Another silence. Boots shifted. The air seemed to tighten even from where Tia crouched above. She knew whose turn came next.

Corin.

Her heartbeat quickened, dread curling low in her stomach.

The soldier’s voice carried sharp as steel. “And yours?”

The silence below stretched taut, until the soldier spoke again.

“Name?”

Corin’s voice was small, barely carrying even with the hush of the tavern. “Corin.”

A rustle, the faintest scrape – the sound of card against wood.

Then the soldier’s tone changed. No longer the flat cadence of routine inspection, but warmer, laced with recognition. “Ah. Corin.” A beat. “Corin Draemont, wasn’t it?”

Tia’s stomach dropped. She pressed her eye to the thin crack of the pantry door, but the angle showed nothing but the top of the stairwell and shadows shifting across the floorboards.

The soldier went on, voice almost joyful. “Yes, yes, I remember now. Son of Lord Draemont. I was on palace rotation when you were still being drilled in your family yard. Fierce stance, though a touch stiff.” A chuckle. “Good to see you carrying the family’s mark so early. Aspiring royal knight, as I see.”

Silence.

Wait wait, what? ‘Son of a Lord?’

Tia gripped her knees tighter, willing Corin to say something, anything. But the hush below stretched long enough that she could hear her own pulse hammering.

The soldier didn’t wait. His voice carried, cheery and oblivious to the way it struck like knives. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you in the palace yards soon enough. The next few days, perhaps? The captain spoke of the new candidates. You’ll do your family proud, no doubt.”

He let out a little hum, like the matter was already settled, then moved briskly on. “Very well. Continue, men. Check the others.”

Bootsteps scattered, chairs groaned as more patrons were called forward. The soldier’s tone slipped back into the impersonal. But Tia hardly heard a word of it. The blood was rushing too loud in her ears.

Corin. Draemont. A noble?

It felt like the floor had tilted beneath her.

The routine dragged on for several minutes. Someone shuffled nervously, another stammered their trade, a soldier murmured reassurances. The inspection itself wasn’t harsh – no beatings, no accusations, just the careful bureaucracy of men following orders. And yet the tension only deepened.

Because Corin wasn’t speaking. Not a word. No one was.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the boots thudded toward the door. A voice barked a short command. Hinges groaned as the tavern’s main door swung wide. Then slammed shut.

Gone.

For several heartbeats, no one moved.

Then came the smallest sound. A choked, ragged inhale.

Tia froze.

Down below, Corin was still standing there, she knew it – still rooted in the space where the soldier had praised him, still holding his card like it burned. She didn’t need to see him. The silence was enough.

A sudden scrape of wood – A chair, flung back hard. Footsteps hit the stairs, quick, sharp, retreating into the upper rooms. No words. Just a storm gone upward.

Rika stormed into their room. With an expression between betrayal and disappointment.

Vesh followed a moment later, though his pace was slower, measured. He didn’t slam the boards, but the disappointment in his quiet tread was heavy all the same.

Only Balthan lingered.

She pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the pantry door. Guilt pooled low in her chest. She was hidden, safe, unseen. And Corin was standing in full view, cracked wide open for everyone.

Her fingers curled into fists. She wanted to go to him, to say something. But her body stayed frozen in the dark.

Finally, the murmur of soldiers outside faded entirely. The street noises resumed their usual chaos. The last thread of tension slipped from the room.

Tia eased the door open. Her legs wobbled as she stepped out, blinking against the dim stairwell light.

The common room had emptied again, patrons scattering back to their meals. At the far end, Corin stood motionless beside the table, guild mark still in hand. His shoulders hunched, his hair fell across his face, and he didn’t move even as she stepped down the last stair.

She saw the two of them.

He looked so small.

Tia opened her mouth – then stopped.

“It’s fine,” Balthan’s gravel came, low and certain. “She’ll accept it sooner or later. Vesh and I suspected something already.”

Another silence. Then the slow, solid thump of his boots up the stairs.
He gave her a look, then moved past her.

Leaving Corin.

Tia shut her eyes. She could hear him even without sight: the small, stuttering breath, the faint hitch of a throat fighting to stay steady. Then the almost inaudible scrape as his chair was nudged back, his guild mark still clutched tight.

The tavern’s hum resumed around him, cautious voices returning, spoons clinking like nothing had happened. But beneath it all, she swore she could hear the faintest sound – the sharp, wet inhale of someone standing alone, trying not to cry.

The sound had reached her. The faint catch in his throat, the tear he hadn’t wiped fast enough slipping down his cheek.

She froze at the bottom step, words dying on her tongue.

For a heartbeat, she thought of Ellis. The sly smile, the way she could cut through walls of suspicion with a single line of honesty. The way she’d said, Nor is caution a shield against loneliness.

But Tia couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

Corin’s hands clenched around the mark until his knuckles went white. He turned his face away, as if even the tavern’s half-empty hush was too much.

And the weight in Tia’s chest pressed heavier.