Chapter 7: The Woman and the Girl

Vaste woke before full light.

The mornings in Norvic were always grey. Through the window, early traders were already unloading carts, the wooden wheels grinding against stone with a dull, muffled rhythm—like someone beating a cracked drum in the distance. She lay in bed for a while, staring at the familiar crack in the ceiling. Then, out of habit, she reached for the weapon she always kept at her bedside—a motion repeated thousands of times over the years, carved into muscle memory.

It wasn't there.

She sat up sharply. Then she saw it.

Glaze sat cross-legged on the other bed, her white hair loose over her shoulders, wearing only her thin undershirt. She held Vaste's long blade in both hands, edge facing outward, examining it closely in the weak morning light from the window. Her posture wasn't quite right, but it was steady—she didn't let the edge touch anything it shouldn't. The sunlight caught the steel and threw a thin line of reflection across her face, illuminating the two birthmarks at the corners of her eyes.

"What are you doing." Vaste's voice came out rough with sleep.

"Looking at your weapon."

"Don't touch it." Vaste threw off the blanket, stood, and took the cleaver from her hands. Not rough, but without hesitation. She slid it back into its sheath at the bedside—the wooden scabbard thudded against the frame.

Glaze looked up at her. No hurt at being deprived of the blade, no guilt at being caught. Just a tilt of her head. "Why?"

"Because it's mine. You don't touch it." Vaste turned to grab her coat from the hook by the door, pulling it on as she answered. Her tone was clipped, but not truly angry. If anyone else had touched her weapon, she wouldn't have stopped at "why." But Glaze had held it with such careful, deliberate precision that she'd swallowed the words who told you to touch that before they reached her mouth.

Besides—Glaze was probably more powerful than her. She wasn't stupid enough to pick a fight over this.

"Are you angry this time—"

"No—"

"Sorry."

Vaste paused mid-motion, one arm halfway through her sleeve. The girl's words always came at her from the side, reaching around and poking her gently before she could brace.

"Get dressed. We're going back to the Guild."

---

The Adventurers' Guild hall was quiet in the early morning. A few adventurers leaned against pillars, yawning. Only one person stood at the notice board. Behind the counter, staff sorted through paperwork from the night before. Margaret was at her usual post, flipping through a registry, her hair tied back in a low ponytail, sleeves rolled to her elbows. A burn scar on her forearm caught the morning light.

"Morning, Vaste. That Death City extermination job from two days ago—payment came through." Margaret didn't look up. She ran her finger down an entry and slid a pouch of coins across the counter.

"I need someone registered." Vaste stepped up to the window, then moved aside.

Margaret's pen stopped. She looked up. Looked at Vaste. Looked at the white-haired girl beside her, who was gazing up at the vaulted ceiling in quiet wonder. Looked back at Vaste. She tapped the registry with the end of her pen, her expression shifting to something close to incredulity.

"Wait—you—registering someone? Isn't this the—"

"Yes."

Margaret set her pen down, crossed her arms, and leaned back in her chair, studying Vaste.

Five years ago, on a rainy afternoon, a painfully thin girl had walked into this hall soaked to the bone and told her, I want to register as an adventurer. Margaret had laughed—asked if she was joking. The girl's expression didn't waver. In the end, Margaret handed her the form. That girl, the one with the fresh scar on her left cheek, filled out every line with her left hand—her right arm hidden in her sleeve. Only later did Margaret learn it had been injured in a street fight.

Since that day, Vaste had always come alone. Alone to pick up jobs. Alone to turn them in. Alone to sit at the corner table and wait for clients to confirm. Three years. Never an exception.

So this—this was like watching a lone wolf carry a small white kitten into the den, not quite sure why it had brought it there.

"I've never seen you bring anyone."

"Now you have."

Margaret was quiet for a moment. Then she pulled a blank registration form from the drawer and dipped her pen.

"Name?" She glanced at the girl who'd been in the middle of yesterday's commotion.

"Glaze." Vaste answered for her.

"Last name?"

Vaste glanced at Glaze. The girl's lips moved—the word hovered on her tongue for a moment, then she swallowed it.

"None," Glaze said. Her eyes flickered when she said it. Vaste noticed. Margaret didn't press—she'd seen too many people without last names in this line of work.

"Age."

Vaste tilted her head, glanced at Glaze, and answered for her. "Fifteen."

Margaret gave her a look. Vaste herself was nineteen—but when she answered for this fifteen-year-old girl, she sounded like she was answering for her own child. Margaret made a mental note, but said nothing.

"Class?"

"Mage."

Margaret wrote it down. "Guild-certified mage?"

"No."

Margaret nodded, unsurprised. Nine out of ten mages who went into adventuring skipped the Magician's Guild. She rattled off a few more basic questions, then turned the form over and pointed to a clause at the bottom.

"Sign here. Acknowledging that you understand the risks."

Glaze took the pen—and signed her name in an elegant, antique script that looked nothing like the scratchy handwriting Margaret was used to.

Margaret blinked at the signature, then recovered quickly. "New adventurers start at E-rank. Registration fee is five silver. First-time ID badge is another silver. Total: six."

Vaste counted out six silver coins from the pouch she'd just received and lined them up on the counter. Glaze watched the coin patterns with rapt attention.

Margaret swept the coins into the drawer and was about to file the form—then paused, flipping back to the front. Her pen hovered. She set it down, spreading the form flat so both could see it.

"Last section—party name. If you're registering as a fixed party, you can put one down."

Vaste opened her mouth to say none, but Glaze got there first.

"Vaste said she doesn't want a partner." She mimicked Margaret's casual nickname for Vaste with obvious delight.

"Then you two are—" Margaret's gaze bounced between them, pen tapping the air.

She paused. Outside, the wagon noises stopped for a moment. From the training yard next door came a thud and muffled laughter—someone had taken a hit from a summoned construct.

Margaret looked at Vaste. She set the pen down gently.

"You finally formed a party." Not a question.

"No." Vaste said.

"She follows you."

"...Yes."

"You protected her."

Vaste didn't answer.

"You brought her to register."

"...You're still not denying it." Margaret pulled the form back, wrote "None" in the party field, and slipped it into the filing box. She pulled out a temporary registration slip, smiling like an old woman who'd finally seen the stray cat walk through her gate. The smile didn't last long—she schooled her features back to professional neutrality.

"Pick up her badge in three days. If she's on her own, she'll only be able to take basic jobs. To rank up, she'll need either enough completed requests or a test—each of which costs a separate fee. Any questions?"

"No."

"Then that's that." Margaret paused, then gave Glaze a small nod. "Welcome to the adventurer's family, Miss Glaze. The world meets here."

She closed the registry, stood, and nodded to Glaze. Then she turned to Vaste, her expression shifting from professional to something more natural—the kind of teasing that came only with familiarity.

"Your new girl—had breakfast yet?"

"Not yet."

"Our new cook's better than the old one. The sausages are good. Go—she's still growing." Margaret began tidying the papers on her counter, shifting a worn Guild handbook aside.

Vaste turned toward the stairwell. Glaze followed, humming a light, wandering tune.

---

Vaste pushed open the canteen door, let Glaze go first, and stepped in behind her.

In the corner, Margaret—who was supposed to be at the front counter—had somehow followed them up. She leaned against the wall, nursing a cup of hot spiced tea. She watched Vaste grab a tray for Glaze, quick and efficient, like she wanted to get it done before anyone noticed.

Margaret noticed.

She thought this might be the best thing she'd write in her journal today. She decided not to write it.

Sunlight came through the east window, falling on two figures—one tall, one shorter—carrying trays side by side across the canteen. They picked a table by the window and sat across from each other. Glaze poked at her egg yolk with a fork, didn't break it, and looked up at Vaste.

"There's so much more food here than at the inn."

"It costs money."

Glaze carefully lifted the whole yolk into her mouth and chewed for a long time before swallowing.

---

The Norvic crematorium sat on the western outskirts of town, separated from the nearest houses by a stretch of weedy field and two low stone walls. In recent years, the Danchester Empire had pushed hard for cremation—the Imperial Magic Academy had proven that undead outbreaks correlated with the number of unburned corpses.

Alden had worked at the crematorium since it opened. The job paid well—enough to make up for the discomfort. Over the years, he'd processed beggars dead from starvation, miners broken in cave-ins, young adventurers who hadn't made it back from the edges of Death City in time. He was numb to the smell—rot, char, ruin—it was all just material on his worktable.

Today's load was three bodies: an old woman dead of illness, almost bones and skin; a worker who'd fallen to his death, the back of his skull caved in; and a mage sent by the Guild, only the upper half of him left.

The cremation furnace needed half an hour to preheat. Alden used the time to move the three bodies from the holding room to the workroom, lifting them one by one onto the tables.

The old woman's body had already started to decay—green patches blooming on her skin, the smell thick and sharp. She'd been dead for days before the neighbors noticed.

The worker's family had requested his belongings, so Alden first had to untie the roughly braided leather cord from his wrist. He bent over the knot, studying its twists—

The old woman's finger twitched.

Not the passive contraction of gas building in a dead body. This was rhythmic. Directional. Index, middle, ring—curling and straightening in sequence.

She sat up.

Slowly, without rush, the dead woman sat up and turned her head to survey the room. Her neck made a dry, grating sound—like someone who'd been locked in the dark for a long time, seeing light for the first time. She saw Alden. Her mouth opened, releasing a hoarse, shapeless syllable.

Alden looked up.

"AAAAAAHHHHHH!"

A zombie. The lowest kind of undead—acting on instinct alone.

Slow. Clumsy. But a corpse sitting up was still more than a lifelong city dweller like Alden could process without screaming.

The dead woman reached out with a withered arm, lost her balance, and crashed to the floor with a heavy thud.

Alden stumbled backward, his lower back slamming into a tool cart. An iron tongs fell to the ground, clattering loudly in the empty room.

By the time she—it—crawled upright, he'd already retreated behind the workroom's iron door and slammed the bolt home. His fingers trembled; it took two tries to seat the bolt in the slot. The metal clang echoed down the corridor. He leaned against the door, hearing objects being swept off tables on the other side, then a dull impact—then silence.

He gasped for breath, cold sweat sliding down his nose and dripping onto his chest. He knew that body was still moving. Not alive—but moving. And no longer breathing.

At the end of the hall, another night-shift worker approached with a kettle, saw Alden's face, and opened his mouth to ask—

Alden grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the exit. "Go find the city watch, or we're done for!"

"What—"

"It opened its eyes! It's—!"

Boom.

The zombie's body—and the iron door—came flying out into the hallway. A wave of heat rolled past, the door glowing red-hot. A half-bodied figure in tattered robes crawled, staggering, into the corridor.

That night, the crematorium's grey smoke rose as usual.

But something was different.