"What the actual hell, kid!?"

  The Quartermaster’s voice booms through the storeroom as he glares at me, his frustration clear. "I told you to slow the fuck down!"

  His anger is directed at the crates stacked before him—each one filled with swords I forged.

  I stand in silence, waiting as he registers the latest batch. The entire process is accompanied by a steady stream of swearing and grumbling, but he gets it done. His assistant moves quickly, tagging everything, and soon enough, the job is finished.

  "I need more steel." My voice comes out hoarse, cracked.

  Normally, this is the part where he’d roll his eyes, curse some more, maybe wave his hands around in exasperation.

  But this time, there’s only silence.

  He just stares at me. Long. Hard.

  "No."

  I blink. "I’m not stealing."

  "I know that." He gestures at the crates. "No thief hauls off several dozens of kilos of steel and comes back a week later with a shitload of swords. You’ve done this three times already."

  "I need more steel."

  "No." His voice is firm. Final. "Go rest. You didn’t look healthy before, but now? You look like one of those freakin’ zombies."

  Before I can protest, his assistant grabs my arm and all but shoves me out the door.

  "Come back next week," he mutters, just before the door shuts behind me.

  I stand silently before the closed door for several long seconds.

  Shit.

  ...

  "Here you go."

  The clerk slides the package across the red wooden counter, the merchant insignia carved into its surface.

  The material and color bring back bad memories.

  I push the thought away and focus.

  Silently, I check every single item, scanning each one against my order. It takes a long minute. Then another. Paranoia creeps in, so I recheck everything. You can never trust these people.

  Movement catches my eye—the older clerk from last week, the one who took the order. He watches me carefully, evaluating.

  "Thank you for your purchase, sir." His voice is polite, measured. "Would you happen to be an enchanter?"

  I met his gaze. "No."

  He doesn’t look convinced.

  "Apologies for the sudden question." He gestures slightly toward the items. "Your order is... unique. These materials are primarily used by enchanters, and I couldn’t help but wonder."

  His smile widens, a calculated shift.

  "We’re currently in need of skilled enchanters. If you happen to know one—"

  "I don’t." My voice cuts him off, sharper than I intended.

  He studies me a moment longer, but I ignore it.

  Once I verify the order for a third time, I count out the gold coins—an astronomical amount—and slide them across the counter.

  Transaction complete.

  I leave the massive shop behind.

  I checked every store. None offered better prices.

  More than half my savings, gone in a single transaction.

  But it’ll be worth it.

  ...

  My hands grind the mixture into a fine powder, steady streams of mana coursing through my fingertips.

  Every step must be perfect. Failure is not an option.

  I pause, scanning the smithy once more. Empty. Silent. The only sounds are the rhythmic grinding and the soft hum of the light crystals on the table. Shadows stretch across the room, held at bay by the faint glow.

  Satisfied, I move to the next step.

  From an inner pocket, I retrieve a thin vial of deep purple liquid. Uncorking it, I scan the room again. Still empty. Still silent.

  Slowly, I pour. The liquid trickles down in a thin, steady stream—vanishing the moment it touches the powder, as if sinking into some unseen void. I watch closely. Seconds stretch. When the vial is empty, the powder remains dry. Good. Everything I bought was the real deal.

  I resumed grinding.

  Minutes slip by. My mana drains, exhaustion creeping into my limbs, but I don’t stop until the last trace of energy leaves my core.

  All the steps for today are done.

  Now the only thing left is to saturate the mix with enough mana, which even with my large mana pool will take a few days.

  And then...

  I can finally use it.

  ...

  "Lad, it’s been three weeks. Aren’t you tired of showing up every damn day just to hear the same answer? Because I sure as hell am."

  The bald receptionist with dark circles under his eyes leans back with a tired smirk.

  "I’ll be here again tomorrow."

  He chuckles, repeating the same phrase he’s told me every single day.

  "You’re free to do as you wish."

  I step out of the Guild and head toward the Army Smithy—just like yesterday, just like the day before. My legs move on autopilot, but my eyes wander, tracing paths I have yet to take. The streets are alive with the same routines: carts rumbling by, merchants shouting about the same goods, the same guards standing in the same damn spots.

  At the far corner, I spot the carpet seller. Any second now, he’ll claim his rugs are from the far north. A few meters away, the pot seller with the absurdly long beard should be arranging his wares.

  And sure enough, moments later, I see it. I hear it.

  Nothing changes.

  How do they not get tired of this? How do they live like this—repeating the same thing day after day, as if it’s enough?

  Is it real? Or just a fa?ade?

  If my mana had been weaker, maybe I would’ve been like them. A simple life. Simple problems. No war. No frontlines. Just a quiet village somewhere, worrying about things like finding iron to make a kitchen pan.

  It would be so—

  No.

  My childhood village is behind the Light border, overrun by the damn demons together with a thousand other villages throughout the region. If the recruiters didn't pass by or if my mana level was lower, the whole family would have stayed there, and died a few years later.

  I could still leave. There’s that new continent in the far east, untouched land waiting to be settled. Or the Beastman continent—war-torn, brutal, but always in need of smiths.

  By the time I reach the smithy, the thought lingers. I could run. Change my name. Disappear. Live free.

  But my family would suffer. The whispers behind their backs would turn to outright scorn. The Colorless son of the Livar family, a coward who ran. My sisters already carry the burden of my failure—I can’t add more to it.

  Even if I faked my death, a smith too skilled with no past would raise suspicion.

  That’s the problem, isn’t it? If I ran, I couldn’t be a smith. I’d have to be a nobody.

  But then—why did I become a smith in the first place? A childhood whim? A five-year excuse to avoid the frontlines? Who says it has to be my path forever?

  I enjoy the craft, but it could just be a hobby. I could—

  No.

  I know how to use a sword, but without a Warrior Class, I’ll never match those who do. My training in the Clan gives me an edge here, but outside the Empire?

  That’s a different story.

  So in the end...

  There’s only one way forward.

  After arriving at my corner, I stand still, waiting for the useless thoughts to fade.

  Enough. Stop wasting time, Harv. Focus on what matters.

  I take out a pencil and paper, setting them on the table as I scan the design again. Maybe I missed something. My eyes trace every detail—every note, every mark—of my project.

  Soul-bound smith tools.

  Theoretically, anything can be bound. The problem is that it takes time and a ridiculous amount of mana. That’s why people only bind weapons, armor, or valuable gear—who cares if a boot or pencil goes missing? Just buy a new one.

  But sometimes, circumstances make the rules.

  My tools will be stolen again. It’s only a matter of time. Right now, I have both time and mana thanks to the quartermaster kicking me out. I might as well take the opportunity to bind Light while I’m at it—walking around with an unbound mithril sword is just asking for trouble.

  Some would say soul-bound tools are a waste. They’re wrong. Buying a new set every time they get stolen will drain more money in the long run. This is a permanent solution—maybe a bit excessive, but necessary.

  But none of that fixes the real problem.

  Money.

  My savings are nearly gone. The cost of the materials alone nearly bled me dry. Even if this investment saves me money later, right now it’s wrecking me. And to make things worse, finding high-quality steel for the tools was a nightmare. It’s just steel—iron, carbon, a few trace elements—it’s not that complicated. So why the hell are these shops charging so much for complete garbage?

  The steel Mentor used to get was leagues ahead of this trash. Where the hell did he even source it?

  But even if I had the best materials in the world, it wouldn’t change the fact that without a smith’s Rank, I’m not considered a real smith.

  Which means no working in commercial smithies. No selling my own swords. No taking commissions.

  But working in the army smithy and handing over my work for free?

  That’s completely fine.

  Pure bullshit.

  I’ve been making weapons for the army for years—for free—but the second I try to earn a few damn coins, suddenly it’s against the rules. And that Rank evaluation? It’s not happening anytime soon.

  So why the hell was I even summoned here? Why drag me across the province if nothing was ready? I could’ve stayed at Mentor’s forge, kept working, kept saving money, and only come when the damn evaluation was actually scheduled.

  Why—

  "Harv! Linel!"

  The voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I look up to see the deputy standing there, wrapped in his usual absurd amount of clothing.

  I put the pencil on the table and walk up to him, only to find the accursed thief next to him-scowling, but silent-who has been giving me angry glares from time to time the past few weeks, but hasn’t approached me since the event.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  So the goblin’s name is Linel.

  We stand there in awkward silence. The deputy stares at us with clear disapproval.

  "Is there a problem, Master Terbal?" The goblin’s voice is smooth, almost too controlled.

  Terbal. Right. That was his name.

  The deputy’s tone is solemn. "You were given time to make up. You did not."

  What? Make up? With him? Why the hell would I—

  "We work together. No enemies here." His voice is as clipped and blunt as always. "Shake hands."

  ...What?

  I stare at him, waiting for some kind of explanation, but his expression darkens instead. His voice drops into a low growl.

  "Shake hands or no longer be a smith."

  My breath catches.

  What? Wait. No. That’s not— They can’t—

  But they can.

  They could just say I failed the evaluation. And if I lose my status as a smith or apprentice...

  Then I stop being a smith entirely.

  Which means I become just another soldier. A nameless, expendable body with a high mana pool—perfect for frontline fodder.

  How convenient.

  The ape already hates me. Was this his order? Are they trying to push me out? Get rid of me?

  Movement catches my eye.

  Linel has already raised his hand, arm trembling like a leaf. His face is pale, his breath shaky. He looks terrified.

  "Shake." Terbal growls again, his glare locked onto me.

  Without a word, I reach out and clasp Linel’s hand.

  "Good. No enemies here." Terbal nods and turns away.

  ...That’s it? Just like that, it’s over? I’m free to—

  With a weak gasp, Linel collapses onto the floor, knees hitting the ground as he breathes heavily.

  Really?

  I stare down at him in disgust. Fuck you. This is your fault. You stole from me. You started this. And now, I’m the one at risk of being sent to the frontlines?

  This isn’t how my life as a smith was supposed to be.

  I was supposed to craft. To create.

  Not constantly fighting to keep myself from being shoved into a battlefield like cannon fodder.

  There are no ‘friends’ here. No helpful mentors. No guiding hands.

  Just this constant dance with danger, this endless solitude, surrounded by these people.

  ...Was my lie really worth it?

  ...

  My hand moves, writing the same words on the white paper as I have many times before. But never have they felt this hollow.

  The pen slows. The word okay hangs unfinished, stopping at o-k-. My grip tightens, and with force, I finish the last two letters. But that’s as far as I go.

  Usually, the words come easily. Even if I have to stretch the truth, there’s always something to say. But this time...

  Only two and a half sentences stare back at me.

  This isn’t a letter. This is a mess. I can’t send this.

  Mom will notice right away. So will everyone else.

  I need to add something—anything. But I don’t even have copies of my old letters to fall back on. No way to reword or rearrange what I’ve already said before.

  So I sit there, staring.

  Time stretches. The ink dries. The empty page mocks me.

  My gaze drifts left, landing on the two open envelopes beside me. One is from Mom—her usual weekly letter. The other bears a golden fist insignia.

  The Midas Consortium.

  I nearly forgot about Mentor’s recommendation in this whole mess. But they didn’t forget about me.

  The envelope itself despite being made out of plain white paper is beautifully crafted. That's right crafted. Because there's no other way to describe it, as no glue holds the envelope construction together. It’s more appropriate to call it a paper balloon in the form of an envelope with no entrance or exit. And someone somehow had inserted a letter inside of it.

  Paper magic?

  It doesn’t matter.

  What does matter is the content.

  It’s short. Too short.

  [To: Harv Livar]

  [We regret to inform you that we have decided not to continue further with your application.]

  [From: Midas Consortium]

  That’s it.

  No explanation. No reason.

  Just rejection, neatly folded into a single sentence.

  A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have cared. I wasn’t interested in them in the first place. But now...

  Now, when every door is closing?

  It stings. More than it should.

  And they couldn’t even bother with a fucking reason? Not even a lie to soften the blow?

  I grip the paper tighter. Then exhale slowly.

  It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it does.

  I’m on my own. I knew that already. I can’t ask my family for help—not when they already have enough to deal with.

  I look back down at the unfinished letter.

  What do I even tell them?

  ...

  I’ve been thinking a lot these past few days—about life, my situation, and what can be done. And a few things have become painfully clear.

  First of all, I’m a temporary person here.

  As soon as I pass the Smith’s Rank evaluation, nothing is holding me back.

  Yes, this is the biggest city in the province.

  Yes, it has many skilled craftsmen I could learn from.

  Yes, my original plan was to stay here—to earn my Rank, find a good smithy, and continue honing my craft.

  But my dumbass forgot one crucial part of that equation.

  Why would anyone here waste their time on me?

  Why would a master smith share their knowledge with someone like me?

  My expectations were distorted by Mentor Sivero.

  Smiths like him—who teach instead of hoarding their secrets—are rare. But finding someone with his heart?

  Even less likely.

  And that realization has only deepened my respect for him.

  The people here, though? They hold leverage over me. The Smiths’ Rank evaluation.

  That’s their control. Their weapon.

  As long as I’m waiting on that evaluation, they can keep threatening me, pushing me, treating me like an obedient little cog in their machine. They did it with me. They did it with the goblin. They rule through fear and bureaucracy.

  But once I pass?

  Their control vanishes.

  That’s why I need to play the waiting game. For now.

  Suppressing this boiling hatred inside me takes effort. And it’s not just directed at them, but at myself too.

  When that hairy ape threatened to send me to the frontlines, I became obsessed with proving myself. If I just work hard enough, if I show them I’m worth their time, maybe things will get better.

  Like a fool.

  A fearful. Obedient. Slave.

  But after the deputy pulled that stunt with the goblin, clarity finally returned.

  There is no future for me here.

  No mentors. No allies.

  Just a long, slow march toward a dead-end.

  Still, something about the whole system doesn’t make sense.

  They don’t just treat me like this—they treat all the newcomers like garbage. But why?

  Are there so many aspiring smiths that losing a few doesn’t matter? Wouldn’t it make more sense to bring new talent closer to them, especially when there are constant whispers about a lack of resources and equipment on the frontlines?

  They could use this as an opportunity to recruit. To build loyalty.

  But they don’t.

  Their actions speak louder than words. And I’ve seen enough.

  Decisions have already been made—by them, and by me.

  The second thing I’ve realized is a rule so basic it should’ve been obvious:

  Never put all your eggs in one basket.

  Right now, smithing is all I know. But that doesn’t mean it has to be all I know forever.

  I need options. Backup plans.

  I need to stop dismissing every alternative just because I’m too damn stubborn.

  Because right now?

  I’m broke.

  Desperately, pathetically broke.

  And that’s why I’m standing in front of one of the biggest buildings in the city.

  The Adventurer’s Guild.

  The enormous insignia above the entrance is impossible to miss. A steady stream of people flows in and out, and without hesitation, I step into the current.

  Moments later, I find myself in the main hall.

  I stop.

  And stare.

  The sheer size of this place...

  Massive pillars stretch toward a ceiling at least twenty meters above my head. Rows upon rows of them, each carved with intricate designs, supporting the vast structure. And the ceiling itself—

  A masterpiece of art, a sprawling tapestry of color depicting epic battles. Warriors and monsters, steel and magic clashing in grand, chaotic scenes.

  It’s breathtaking.

  But there’s no time to stand around gawking.

  I snap out of it and scan the hall.

  At the far end, I spot long notice boards pinned with papers—requests, job listings, people looking for teams. And near them, about a dozen reception counters, each with a long queue stretching before it.

  I pick the closest one and step in line.

  And that’s when I really take in the crowd around me.

  The people here...

  They are interesting, to say the least.

  Bare-chested ruffians with multicolored mohawks. Tiny, wide-eyed kids who look like they belong in primary school. Fat merchants clutching stacks of papers. Warriors in full plate armor, their swords taller than some of the children.

  A complete, chaotic mix of everyone and everything.

  And somehow, they all fit together in this madness.

  To gather this many people, from this many different walks of life, into one place...

  Wow.

  Despite the long queue, it only takes about ten minutes for my turn to come up.

  Behind the counter stands a sweet-looking girl in her late teens, her friendly smile practically glowing.

  "Greetings! What can I help you with today?"

  "I’d like to join the Guild."

  The moment ‘join’ leaves my mouth, her smile freezes. Just for a fraction of a second.

  But I caught it.

  She recovers quickly, keeping that same friendly expression—though now, it feels off. Forced.

  Wordlessly, she turns to the side, grabs a stack of papers, and sets them down in front of me. When she speaks again, her voice is suddenly too quick, too rehearsed.

  "Please read these documents carefully. After filling them out, return the signed papers along with the specified registration fee at your earliest convenience."

  Then, with the same stiff smile, she glances to the side. A subtle motion with her eyes.

  Huh?

  Oh.

  Essentially: fuck off.

  "Thank you," I reply, stretching my own smile just as thin.

  I take the papers and leave the counter.

  A short walk later, I find an area with couches, bar tables, and some pencils scattered around. Figuring the paperwork won’t take too long, I sit down and get started.

  Big mistake.

  The moment I flip the top page over, I’m met with a wall of text written in painfully small font. Both sides of the page are completely filled.

  Groaning, I start reading.

  Once.

  Twice.

  A third time, just to make sure I’m not missing something.

  And by the end of it?

  The idea of becoming an adventurer suddenly seems a lot less appealing.

  On the surface, it’s just a detailed contract outlining cooperation between the Guild and its members.

  In reality?

  It’s a cleverly worded trap.

  The Guild takes zero responsibility for anything that happens to its adventurers while binding them to a ton of restrictive rules. Worst of all? There’s an entire page demanding a detailed list of all skills and spells the adventurer possesses.

  And the cherry on top?

  The registration fee.

  A whopping ten gold coins, paid upfront at the desk.

  Ten.

  Fucking.

  Gold coins.

  The entire reason I came here was to make money, not spend it!

  "Waste of time," I mutter under my breath.

  I’m about to toss the papers and leave when something makes me hesitate.

  The request board.

  Might as well check it.

  Approaching the board, I scan the various postings. Plenty of variety—herb gathering, beast hunting, dungeon runs. But then my eyes land on one in particular.

  Wild Goblins – Season Bounty

  Goblin – 5 silver

  Hobgoblin – 1 gold

  Goblin Shaman – 5 gold

  ...Wait.

  A quick calculation tells me that the group of goblins I fought on the way here alone would have covered the entire Guild registration fee.

  Shit.

  Why didn’t I consider this before?

  Is the problem not that everything here is too expensive, but that I’m just poor?

  Could it be that it's not because the cost of things here is high but rather my income expectations are too low?

  This could have worked...

  If only I’d checked the Adventurer’s Guild before buying the materials for the bound tools, I would’ve had more than enough to register.

  It wasn’t even urgent. I just wanted to get it over with and make sure nothing got stolen.

  And now?

  I’m stuck.

  Fuck.

  FUCK!

  My mind races.

  What other options do I have?

  I still have that chunk of mithril. The one I paid a fortune for. I might be able to sell it for a good price.

  But... that’s my reserve. My lifeline.

  If things go south, that’s my emergency fallback.

  Should I really use it now?

  And what if something worse happens?

  Shit.

  This whole fucking situation—

  ARGH!!!

  WHY DID I RUSH THE BOUND TOOLS?!

  GOD.

  FUCKING.

  DAMN IT!

  ...

  "Yep. All good," says the butcher, giving the slab of deer meat one last, slow inspection, as if he hasn't already checked it a dozen times before.

  He rubs his dirty hands against his equally filthy apron, and my stomach twists. The thing is the same red-brown apron he’s been wearing for at least the last couple of days. I even recognize some of the bloodstains from yesterday.

  Does he ever wash it?

  For a moment, I wonder if the apron was ever white, but the thought vanishes almost as quickly as it came. His hands dart into one of the pockets in his apron, a strange little dance as he roots around for something, then finally pulls out a brownish purse.

  The butcher then proceeds to take out one coin after another and place them on a wooden table slowly, as if a child counting his plush toys. Slow and methodical.

  When the correct sum of coins is stacked on the table, he repeats the count, sliding them from one dirty corner to another. The process stretches for an unbelievably long time as nearly a whole minute passes until the butcher finally stretches his still bloody hand with my money to me.

  "Here. Fifteen silver."

  I grab the coins quickly, barely touching his bloody hand, and rush out of the butcher’s shop before I catch anything.

  A whole day’s worth of work in the forest, and this is what it amounts to. Fifteen silver. Just three goblins.

  That’s one and a half gold, or a hundred and fifty copper. To put it into perspective, a decent loaf of bread at the bakery only costs five copper coins, which means I’ve earned the equivalent of thirty loaves.

  This brings my total accumulated progress for the Adventurer Guild application fee to sixty percent.

  So, I need another three or four days of this hunting crap. Maybe more. And still, I need backup money. At least a few extra gold coins for security. Just in case.

  A deep sigh escapes me.

  I’m stuck in the same damned cycle. The well-paying jobs are right there, on the Adventurer Guild’s board. But to access those, I need to join Adventurer Guild. And to do that I need money. And to get that money, I have to keep doing these miserable, low-paying jobs. Random hunting tasks in some shitty forest, just to be able to do more work.

  Work to do more work.

  I stop in front of the bakery, the small familiar building where I’ve been picking up bread for the last few days.

  A few copper coins won’t hurt.

  "Hello, hard worker," says the plump woman in late forties behind the counter, flashing a warm smile. "Same as usual?"

  I nod.

  She disappears into the back, and when she returns, she sets down a loaf of bread on the counter.

  It looks like any other loaf, but it’s not.

  "Extra crunchy on the outside, fluffy on the inside," she says, her smile widening as she places it in front of me.

  I count out six copper coins, handing them to her as she slips them into her apron pocket. After we say our goodbyes, I turn and leave.

  My hand automatically tears off pieces of the warm, fresh bread, and I toss them into my mouth, chewing happily.

  I'm not weird, I swear, the bread is just that tasty, even without any cheese or ham.

  There’s still a few hours of daylight left.

  With a small smile, I keep walking.

  ...

  I sit on a large boulder in the middle of the rocky seashore, gazing out at the Wallrock Sea as the sun slowly sinks toward the horizon. The wind, once warm and comforting, gradually turns colder, a sharp reminder that even if summer started, some of the spring is still left. Night is closing in fast, and with it, the chill. I don’t need to risk catching a cold—better to leave now.

  A sudden rumble from my stomach cuts through the quiet.

  I should’ve bought two loaves of bread. The only thing I’ve had to eat today is the army breakfast, and that loaf, which I devoured before I even got here. It had that perfect crunchy golden crust, giving way to a soft, fluffy inside. Yet, I was cheap enough to avoid buying another one, just to save six copper coins. Six copper. A whole six percent of a gold coin. Hell, that’s only 0.6% of the target sum I’m working toward. Look at me, the master of savings—managing to get half a percent closer to my goal in one brilliant move.

  I sigh deeply.

  What the hell am I even doing with my life?

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I’m a somewhat skilled smith. I should be forging tools, creating weapons, working my craft. Instead, I’m out here hunting wild game, scraping together pennies, just to survive while I wait for the Rank Evaluation. Why? Why the hell am I doing this? I could be—

  Enough.

  I’m just rambling. This isn’t productive. I’ve been doing too much of that lately. I need to focus.

  Speaking of focus... when the hell will this damn binding material be saturated enough?

  This thing has been soaking up my mana for a week now, and there’s no sign of it changing. Did I mess something up? When I did this last time under Mentor’s supervision, it seemed so easy. We’d infuse the mix with mana, and once the flow stopped and our mana dissipated into the ambient magic, we knew it was done. It only took a few days then, and yet here I am, still pouring mana into this vial, waiting for some kind of response.

  Should I try small batches instead? It’d make sense to test on something smaller before using it on the larger tool. Not like I’m in a rush, right? The evaluation doesn’t seem like it’s happening anytime soon. There’s plenty of time to kill... but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t keep busy. Maybe becoming an adventurer would help. A few extra "baskets for eggs" in case something else goes wrong.

  The sound of the waves crashing against the shore pulls me out of my thoughts. I close my eyes, letting the rhythm of the sea wash over me. Wave after wave, crashing and receding, pulling at the tiny rocks, only to return moments later with greater force. It’s as if the sea itself is breathing. It’s peaceful for a moment.

  I'd like to take a swim, but the water is still cold. And catching a cold right now would be very dangerous.

  A sigh escapes me.

  My eyes open, and I see the sun now halfway past the horizon.

  It’s time to go back.

  I jump off the boulder and start brushing the sand off myself. My eyes linger on the horizon one last time, but something catches my attention. I squint, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. At first, I think I’m imagining things—hunger, exhaustion, messing with my head. But no, there are three multi-colored objects in the sky, growing larger as they approach.

  I snort in amusement, thinking that my brain’s playing tricks on me. My eyes have never seen sea bats so disproportionate before.

  Then my smile vanishes.

  Those aren’t bats.

  As they get closer, my heart skips a beat, and my eyes widen in shock. My brain scrambles to recognize them.

  Wyverns.

  Huge and sleek with very long wings.

  Too long.

  Goosebumps break upon my back.

  Royal messenger wyverns.

  The three massive creatures soar closer, their distinct shape unmistakable now. They glide over me, slow and deliberate, before curving around the city and heading toward the castle.

  I watch them disappear from view, but my gut clenches in a way that feels... wrong.

  That doesn’t look good.

  THAT FOR FUCKING SURE DOES NOT LOOK GOOD!