Chapter 23

They chose to leave the deeper conversation for their return to the city.
Terty confessed he’d been away from Nizertere for quite some time, and had barely set foot back on its stonework before the Guild sent him marching on the hunt. Whatever schemes brewed in the city’s shadows, he knew only fragments—whispers behind closed doors, glances exchanged across crowded squares. Now, the fragments were beginning to fit together.

The next morning, after a quiet meal beneath a sky freckled with gold, they departed. Their duties to the Guild were fulfilled, the dead accounted for, and the rest of the mercenary band would find their own way back.

As for Curtis and Terty, their journey was swift. Riding in a covered wagon, the landscape blurred into stone and smoke as they passed through Nizertere’s great gates before the sun reached its zenith. The city had not changed. But something about it felt different.

Their first destination: the Mercenary Guild.

After leaving the administrative clerk to handle formalities upstairs, the two men lingered near the mission board, watching with vague amusement as fledgling mercs jostled for lower-tier jobs—caravan guarding, beast culling, the usual. It was easy to forget how things had once been.

Soon, the clerk returned with purpose in his step.

“The Guildmaster requests your presence.”

The man who met them upstairs was aged well past his prime, with silver tracing every line of his beard. His frame, though hunched slightly with the weight of years, bore echoes of a life shaped by war—broad shoulders, a scar trailing just beneath one eye, hands like weathered stone.

According to Terty, the Guildmaster had once been a Silver-Rank mercenary, a name spoken in awe along the eastern roads. He had stepped back from bloodshed a decade ago, choosing to lead rather than fight. But power lingered in him, quiet and undeniable.

“Welcome, Terty. And you must be Curtis. It is an honor.”

“Please, no need for such formality.” Curtis waved it off, half-embarrassed. Among mercenaries, elegance was as rare as mercy. Warriors were sometimes called Sir, mages Gong—but these titles always rang hollow to his ears.

“Terty just calls me Curtis, and I’d prefer you do the same.”

“As you wish,” the Guildmaster nodded, before pouring tea steeped in the scent of crushed mountain herbs. The warmth of the brew curled through the room, easing their shoulders.

“Terty gave our staff a full report—the beasts you dispatched, the troll you felled. There’s no doubt in my mind: your skill more than merits a Silver rank.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Curtis replied, “but don’t you think you’re taking my word a bit too easily?”

“I take Terty’s word,” the Guildmaster said, firm as bedrock. “He is the standard by which this Guild measures its own. If I cannot trust him, then I may as well shut our doors.”

Terty winced slightly, unused to such praise, but said nothing.

“Don’t be burdened by this recognition,” the Guildmaster continued. “Ranking isn’t about glory. It’s a contract—more dangerous work for the mercenary, and stronger allies for the Guild.”

“Are there duties I should be aware of now that I’ve reached Silver?”

“None that bind. But know this—Silver-Ranks walk in brighter light. With few at that level, eyes will be on you. Your victories, your failures… all of them will echo louder.”

“I’ll accept it with gratitude, then.”

“Excellent. It may take some time for your badge to be officially minted, but from this moment on, you are recognized as a Silver-Rank Mercenary of the Nizertere Guild.”

Terty clapped him on the back with a grin, offering a hearty “Congratulations!” Curtis returned the Guildmaster’s handshake, firm and steady.

But his expression shifted as he spoke again.

“Now then… shall we speak plainly? I imagine this meeting wasn’t just about a promotion.”

The Guildmaster’s smile faded. “You’ve been briefed, I take it?”

“Only in fragments. Something about a power struggle.”

The Guildmaster exhaled, the sound long and weathered. “Then let me fill in the rest.”

There were no emperors here. No kings upon gilded thrones. In this world, no one ruled by blood alone.

Instead, power was drawn by the blade, the spell, and the pact.

City-states rose where empires had fallen, each ruled by strength rather than law. Nizertere was no different—its streets walked by noble-born warlords and spell-bound bloodlines. And at the heart of it all: House Gaude and House Narok.

“Two factions, locked in feud for decades,” the Guildmaster said. “But balance held—until now.”

“What changed?”

“Gaude brought in a Spiritcaller. Not Gold-Rank, thankfully. But dangerous enough to tilt the scales.”

Curtis stilled.

A Spiritcaller.

Where mages bent mana into spells, Spiritcallers bound themselves to the elements—to wind and sea, to storm and ash. Rare. Terrifying. Nearly impossible to counter without equal force.

“You summoned me… to answer magic with magic.”

“Exactly. Word of your display at Bron’s Rest reached the highborn long before you ever claimed Silver. House Narok wants a countermeasure. House Gaude wants to deny them one.”

The Guildmaster opened a drawer and pulled out two letters—sealed envelopes, each marked with a different noble crest. One bore Gaude’s flame, the other Narok’s mountain wolf.

He placed them on the desk, as though setting down blades.

“They’ve both extended invitations.”

Curtis stared at them for a long moment. “So it begins.”

“You may choose one. Or neither. But choose carefully.”

Leaving the Guild behind, Curtis and Terty returned to the familiar haven of Bron’s Rest. The tavern greeted them with its usual warmth—wooden beams, soft lanterns, and the scent of meat and mead.

“Back so soon?” cried Freeman, one of the two owners.

“Bring us your best,” Terty grinned. “We’ve got news.”

They sat, drank, and shared tales of trolls and triumph. But when the mugs were half-empty, the conversation turned.

“The fighting started while you were away,” Freeman said grimly. “Gaude struck hard. Narok’s bleeding.”

“And the Spiritcaller?” Curtis asked.

“Every battle they’ve shown up at, Gaude’s won. No contest.”

Terty frowned. “So… Narok’s desperate. That makes them generous.”

“Or reckless,” Saker added.

Curtis nodded slowly. “I need to know more before I pick a side. If I could witness this Spiritcaller in battle…”

“You might get lucky,” Freeman offered. “We hear a lot behind this bar.”

But peace didn’t last.

Ding-a-ling.

The tavern door creaked open. Two robed figures stepped inside. Cloaked. Hooded. Silent.

Eyes like frost. Posture like stone.

Not customers. Not travelers.

Hunters.

Terty’s fingers twitched toward the hilt at his belt. Freeman and Saker exchanged glances.

Only Curtis remained still.

He studied them with a narrowed gaze.

“I think I know who they are.”

Terty leaned in. “Friends of yours?”

“No,” Curtis whispered. “The Spiritcaller.”