Chapter 20: New Contract

The Seville Guild branch was quietest in the morning. Most adventurers had either already departed on commissions or were still asleep in their inns. Only two young apprentices were tacking new job sheets to the notice board, and a single clerk was sorting through yesterday's records.

Vaste spread the ruin survey map across the counter. She'd drawn it herself—chamber layouts, passage directions, the position of the sealed archway, all marked clearly in charcoal. A brief note accompanied it: three stoneback lizards nesting inside, cleared.

"Close it out."

The clerk took the map and unfolded it, his eyebrow lifting slightly. He checked each mark against the commission requirements, then wrote a few lines in the notes field.

"Eleven gold. The sealed door will be handled separately by Guild members specializing in survey work."

Vaste pocketed the coins and walked to the notice board.

Few commissions today. Her gaze passed over the low-paying gathering jobs and stopped at a sheet on the far right. Thick parchment, neat ink, cut to the merchant guild's standard size—different in texture from the Guild's standard forms.

"Large caravan escort to Hamelwall. Client: Seville Spice Merchants' Guild. Goods: rare spices, medicinal herbs, dwarven orichalcum ingots. Route: Seville to Hamelwall via the Empire's southwestern trade road. Estimated duration: three to four weeks. Requirement: B-rank or above, four to six adventurers. Compensation: twenty gold each, half paid upfront."

Vaste pulled the sheet from the board and read it through again.

Hamelwall. The independent city-state of the northern continent—a free city in the desert, a necessary stop for overland trade between the Empire and the western kingdoms.

She needed a new base. The Empire's restrictions on adventurers were likely to tighten further. She'd never traveled this route before—she'd need to learn the cities and Guild branches along the way.

She laid the sheet on the counter. "This one."

The clerk took the sheet, opened his logbook, and ran his pen across a line. "You're the second to sign on. This commission requires B-rank or higher. A three-person team registered earlier—B-rank, the Ember. Leader Simon Gerald, members Renda Ashby and Dierdre."

"The client?"

"Christopher Montgomery, from the Spice Guild. He's called a meeting for this evening in the second-floor conference room—all applicants to confirm final selection. You can discuss details then."

Vaste nodded and tucked her badge back into her belt.

---

The conference room was small—a long table took up half the space, with an oil lamp and spread maps on top. Three people already sat around it.

By the window: a man in his forties, clad in worn but well-maintained plate armor, a re-polished dent visible on his breastplate. He didn't lean back against his chair. His helmet rested at his feet; his grey-white hair was clipped short. He was polishing the edge of his shield with a cloth—slow, deliberate strokes.

Beside him: a young man, early twenties, sharp features, light brown hair tied in a loose short ponytail at the nape, stray strands falling across his forehead. He sat differently from the others—left leg extended, right leg bent, right hand resting on his knee, looking like he might spring up at any moment. A massive greatsword was strapped across his back, its pommel weight polished steel gleaming in the lamplight.

Across from him: a slender woman, dark hood still up, hiding most of her face—only a sharp chin and grey-green eyes visible. Before her lay a yew longbow nearly as tall as she was, its string wrapped with crimson thread near the tips. She wasn't cleaning it or studying maps—just sitting quietly, fingers resting lightly on the bow.

When Vaste pushed the door open, the young swordsman looked up first. His gaze stopped on her face, then moved to the cleaver and hand axe at her belt, finally landing on the folded commission in her hand.

"You're the other applicant?"

"Yes."

"Heard you're A-rank?"

He smiled—not a challenge. The kind of interest that naturally arises when someone confident in their own ability meets someone who looks equally capable. "Not many people solo their way to A-rank. I'm Renda Ashby. That's our leader Simon Gerald, and that's Dierdre." He gestured with his chin.

"Vaste." She nodded to the other two. Simon stopped polishing, looked up, gave her a measured look, then stood and extended his hand. Several old scars crossed the back of his hand. His grip was steady—firm but not squeezing.

"Pleasure. Heard there was trouble in Norvic. We're here because the northern roads got closed off too—had to look southwest for work."

"There's one more," Vaste said. "A companion. Mage. She's downstairs—should be up soon."

"Oh? What rank?"

"Lowest."

Renda tilted his head, a puzzled expression crossing his face. "E-rank? This job requires B-rank minimum. Is that going to work?"

"She has the ability. She's just newly registered."

Renda raised an eyebrow but didn't press. Simon nodded and said nothing more. He'd served as a knight for over a decade—he knew rank wasn't everything. Dierdre remained silent, though her fingers shifted on the bow at the word "mage."

Footsteps on the stairs. Glaze pushed the door open, holding a small paper bag—a bite taken from a golden pastry peeking out. She'd smelled fried dough downstairs, asked Vaste for a few coins, bought a bag, and was eating as she walked. One cheek bulged slightly. Her white hair was tousled by the draft from the corridor; the green scarf's end hung over her coat edge, swaying with each step.

"This is the child?" Simon looked at Vaste.

"Yes."

Glaze tilted her head, studying the three strangers. Her gaze paused briefly on Dierdre's bow, moved to Renda's greatsword, then settled on Simon's shield. She stopped in front of him, looked up—still chewing.

"You're good at blocking."

Simon blinked, looking down at this girl who barely reached his chest. He hadn't understood what she meant at first. He'd served fifteen years in the imperial knights, then seven as an adventurer—no one had ever spoken to him that way on first meeting. He smiled, the lines at his eyes deepening, and tapped his breastplate with his gauntlet—a dull clang of metal on metal.

"Glaze—this little one's got something."

"Glaze Pearl Froalson Varnish." Glaze lifted her skirt slightly and gave a small bow.

---

The client appeared in the doorway on time.

Christopher Montgomery was a thin man in his fifties, wearing a heavy dark brown wool traveling coat—thick fabric, but the collar and cuffs showed clear signs of wear. He carried a locked iron document case in his left hand and a blackwood cane in his right—not decorative; his left leg dragged slightly, his weight resting on his right side. His eyes were pale grey, deep-set, his lips dry—like a man who'd traveled a long way to get here.

"Everyone. I'm Christopher Montgomery, from the Seville Spice Guild." He set the case on the table, pulled out a long brass key, unlocked it, and withdrew a stack of documents. "Our destination is Hamelwall. Cargo: rare spices, medicinal herbs, and a shipment of orichalcum. The caravan is ready—besides yourselves, three drivers and six mules. Route: Seville to the southwestern trade road, past Greyvor and Melros, then switching to camels across the steppe and desert to Hamelwall. Estimated three to four weeks, depending on weather and road conditions."

He spread another map on the table—hand-drawn, the southwestern trade route, each town, waystation, and water source marked in different colored ink. Vaste glanced down, memorizing the key points.

"Compensation: twenty gold each, half upfront. Provisions and water provided by the caravan." He closed the case, braced both hands on the table, and swept his gaze across the assembled adventurers—

It stopped on Glaze.

Glaze was still eating the pastry. She finished the last piece, looked up, and found the man with the blackwood cane staring at her.

Christopher turned to Vaste. "This is... Miss Glaze? She's also an adventurer?"

"I'm A-rank, and she's with me." Vaste's tone carried no defensiveness. She was simply stating a fact.

Christopher looked at her, then at Glaze, then drew a registration form from the stack and wrote a small note. His handwriting was crisp, no wasted strokes.

"Alright then... no issue. I was planning to gather four B-rank adventurers anyway."

Renda let out a low whistle across the table. Not at the pay—twenty gold was decent but not astonishing. At the way Vaste had said it. The scar-faced woman had spoken with the same tone as "nice weather today." He'd met plenty of people who claimed they could fight alongside others—but few who said "she's with me" with that kind of certainty.

"Final roster confirmed." Christopher closed the register. "Vaste, Glaze Pearl Froalson Varnish, Simon Gerald, Renda Ashby, Dierdre. Depart at dawn tomorrow."

---

Vaste sat on the edge of the inn bed, pulling items from her pack and reorganizing them. Her cleaver stayed at her side; she'd bought an additional axe ring to hang her hand axe from her belt. Two small knives—one in her pouch, one strapped to the outside of her right thigh. Potions bundled in cloth, tucked into the pack's inner pocket. Two whetstones, three rolls of bandages, a fire striker, two waterskins. Two pairs of socks—one wool, one cotton.

She looked at the cotton pair. She'd picked them up that morning while shopping with Glaze—just grabbed them without thinking. She ran through her mental list. Socks, two pairs. She needed two pairs. Then Glaze needed a pair too.

"What's Hamelwall like?" Glaze sat cross-legged on the bed, the green-striped scarf spread across her lap. She was trying to fold it neatly, but each fold produced a new set of crooked creases.

"A city in the desert."

"Is it cold there?"

"Maybe." Vaste paused. "Maybe not for you."

"Why?"

"There's no snow there."

Glaze stopped folding, tilting her head at Vaste's back. Vaste didn't turn. She stood at the window, watching the last paper lantern being lowered by a shopkeeper on the street below. The light swayed on the cobblestones for a moment, then faded into the night.