An Adventurer's Wage

The Gilded Gryphon at night was a different beast altogether. By day it was a resting den for adventurers, half-empty, reeking faintly of stale beer and the muddy boots of mercenaries passing through. But when darkness fell, the inn came alive like a storm breaking. Lanternlight flickered in smoky glass globes, throwing golden halos across beams blackened with age. The air grew heavy—meat fat spitting over fire, sour ale sloshed across sticky tables, voices crashing into each other in a din that never seemed to rest.

Kael sat with his new companions at the heart of it all, though “sat” was generous. He was slumped in a chair, head pounding with a dull ache that reminded him of every blow he had taken in the cellar. His shoulders and legs protested even the smallest movement, each muscle stiffened like old rope. And yet around him, his party celebrated.

The small mountain of bronze cirens they had earned—thirty-six apiece—glittered in the lamplight, a modest pile by any seasoned adventurer’s standards, but for them it might as well have been a dragon’s hoard. Ronan had claimed pride of place at the head of the table, his booming voice carrying half the hall with a retelling of the fight. His story had grown in scope since the actual event. The cellar had transformed into a cavern, the rats had swelled to the size of wolves, and naturally Ronan had single-handedly slain half of them while protecting Catherine with one arm.

Catherine, seated beside him, laughed despite herself. Her hands worked carefully over a shallow cut on Ronan’s forearm, cleaning and binding it while shaking her head at his embellishments. Every so often her gaze softened—an almost maternal concern that shone through the tired curve of her smile.

Nira, as ever, was less indulgent. The elf leaned back in her chair, expression taut and sharp as she nursed her ale. Her lips twitched once, barely, as though a reluctant smirk had slipped past her defenses before she swallowed it down.

Across from Kael, Cyras observed the scene with quiet intensity. He had said little since joining them, content to watch, analyze, and listen. His sharp, appraising eyes made Kael uneasy—like being examined by a chess master who already saw three moves ahead.

Kael felt apart from them, floating somewhere just outside the warmth of their laughter. The ache in his skull refused to fade, and the weight of exhaustion pulled at him harder than the coin pile glimmering on the table. He pulled his share of the bronze toward him, the thirty-six coins clinking against each other. In his hand, they felt simultaneously like a king’s ransom and a cruel joke.

The celebration blurred around him, voices dulling as if heard from underwater. He gathered the coins into his pouch, stood, and slipped away from the table without much ceremony. The clamor of the Gryphon faded as he pushed out into the night air.

The streets carried their own fragrance—a mingling of ash from nearby hearths, the damp stone of the cobbles, and, more tantalizing, the smell of fresh bread wafting from a night-stall tucked under a crooked awning. The baker, an old man with flour in his beard, barely looked up as Kael exchanged sixteen bronze cirens for two dense loaves and a wedge of hard cheese. The bread was heavy in his arms, humble sustenance that promised to keep hunger at bay for a few days at least.

That left twenty coins. Barely enough to matter.

He pushed his way back into the Gryphon and approached the counter where Greta stood wiping down mugs with her usual expression: part suspicion, part contempt.

“I need a room,” Kael said. His voice came out rougher than he intended, a rasp betraying his fatigue.

Greta’s eyes flicked to the coins in his hand, then to his face. A smirk tugged one corner of her mouth. “Finally decided you’ve had enough of the floor, have you?”

“Just settle for a door with a lock,” Kael replied, dry.

“Ten bronze a night. Pay up front,” she said, unamused.

He slid all twenty coins across the counter. “Two nights.”

Her brow arched faintly, as though she found something curious in the way he committed every last coin to survival. Still, she swept the cirens into her apron with a clink and pointed to the wall of hooks. “Key’s there. Third door on the left upstairs. Don’t bleed on the sheets. I charge extra for that.”

The room was everything he expected from ten bronze a night: four walls in desperate need of paint, a cot that looked hard enough to crack bone, and a small table with one leg shorter than the others. But it was his. The key turned in the lock with a satisfying click, and for the first time since he had woken in this alien world, Kael felt a flicker of safety. He collapsed onto the cot without undressing, without thinking, and was asleep before his eyes had fully closed.

Morning returned the same gnawing pit in his stomach. The bread and cheese dulled it, but only just. When he descended into the common room, the tavern was quieter—lanterns still smoldering, chairs pushed at odd angles, the aftermath of last night’s revelry scattered in mugs and crumbs.

He found Ronan and Nira already at a table, locked in what appeared to be their natural state: argument.

“…I’m merely stating,” Nira said, her tone clipped, “that your snoring could wake the dead. If it continues, I’ll be forced to take measures.”

“It’s a healthy, manly sound!” Ronan declared, puffing his chest.

“It’s a menace,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes.

Ronan was about to retort when his gaze lifted and his booming voice changed course. “There you are, Tricksy!”

Kael approached, still adjusting to the early quiet. “Tricksy?” he asked, unamused.

Ronan grinned. “You ducked out last night without a word. Thought we’d have to trick you back into the land of the living.”

Nira pushed a parchment across the table toward him. “A new job,” she said simply. Her fingers tapped the notice. “Goblin extermination in the farmlands. A nest has been raiding the crops, growing bold. The guild posted it this morning.”

Kael scanned the page. Fifty goblins, proof required by pairs of ears. Five silver cirens upon completion.

His mind stuttered at the number. Five silver. He had overheard the exchange rates yesterday in the market: one hundred bronze to one silver. That meant five hundred bronze. Divided equally… one hundred bronze apiece.

A fortune. Enough to keep him afloat for weeks. A chance to breathe.

But Nira’s gaze was steady, her voice cool. “There’s a catch. The guild flagged it D-plus. Too many goblins for a small band. The notice sets a minimum party size: five Copper-rank members.”

Kael frowned. “There are only three of us.”

“Faith, lad, faith!” Ronan said, clapping him hard on the back. “The others are coming.”

Kael followed his gaze to the entrance, where Cyras and Catherine stepped inside together. Cyras with his usual watchful calm, Catherine with a fresh smile that seemed to light the dim hall. They made their way to the table as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

As Nira explained the details of the quest again, Kael’s eyes moved from face to face: Ronan, the loud shield who laughed in the face of danger; Nira, sharp and unrelenting as a blade; Cyras, the calculating mage who missed nothing; Catherine, whose gentleness carried a quiet steel.

Four of them, waiting on him.

For the first time since waking in this world, Kael felt the weight of something new pressing onto his shoulders: leadership. Not assigned, not spoken, but present all the same. They looked to him.

The absurdity of it struck him—Kael Ardyn, the washed-out office drone, now Kael, Copper-rank adventurer, leader of a band of misfits preparing to hunt goblins for coin. The thought was terrifying. And yet, in some strange way, it was also real. More real than anything had felt in years.

A grim smile touched his lips. He gave a slow, decisive nod.

“Alright,” he said. His voice came steady despite the tightness in his chest. “Let’s go kill some goblins.”