B3 Interlude 17: Baited Breath

Ark shifted uncomfortably in his seat, tugging at the heavy cowl that cloaked his features.

His arrival in Deadacre had been swift — and for all that his movements had been impossible to hide in Grandbrook, his sense of honour did not mean he was a fool.

Given the delicacy of a member of the reviled Onyx pursuing a group of children, he knew best to disguise his visit. It would be too notable otherwise — he was too well known, and word would spread too widely.

Potentially, even into the ears of the boy he had once known: Old Yon.

As a Hirgost, he had few options. The bony carapace surrounding his form was impossible to disguise to any real degree, and his stature made him stand out among the crowd. At least wrapped in his cloak, with his hood pulled low, he could pass as a large Bastion or Vanguard. Albeit, wrapping himself so tightly in such tepid weather was eye-catching in and of itself.

How long would the Guild attendant take, he wondered?

There were too many eyes on him. Even from beneath his hood, he could feel it. Early enough in the morning that most delvers were still sleeping, the half-dozen groups already present in the Guildhall eyed him with suspicion.

For a moment, he wondered if he’d misstepped by not revealing his identity to the attendant.

Arc clenched his jaw, suppressing his discomfort as he pulled his second tier Aura in as tight as he could. Even without his name, and hiding his strength, he thought the chance was good that the Guildmaster would investigate for himself. If only to see what a Hirgost was doing in his city.

While he waited, his mind drifted to his journey through the streets of the city.

Deadacre was different from what he was used to. There was tension in the air. It felt overcrowded, bursting at the seams as refugees spilled into tent camps that gathered in squares and littered alleyways.

Grandbrook was similar, but not anywhere near as bad. At least his own city had the size; the capacity; the infrastructure. With Deadacre, the sudden influx of outlying villages seeking the safety of its walls had strained it beyond reason.

That, and Deadacre lacked his presence. As the only, at least publicly facing, resident Peak Gold of the frontier, he had steadied Grandbrook. There was worry — but it wasn’t one that the city might fall.

And yet, despite all that, the lives of Deadacre’s citizens went on. That very tension seemed to have fuelled an almost manic approach to living.

Perhaps it was only a matter of perspective. Most of his prior visits had been official: every movement attended by a dozen hangers-on as he was paraded through the cleanest and most polite districts.

But he did not think so. This felt different. Something was in the air: a fire that incited change. Never in his life had he seen so many devote themselves so fully to training. The guard station’s yards had been filled to the bursting. The workers’ quarter rang with the sound of blades hammered on anvils, needles punching through beast hide, and boiling cauldrons — so much so he thought he could still hear them from here.

At the gates, too, he had seen more than a few groups of townsfolk heading east to hunt the beasts that still lingered there. Old and young alike, some in groups that looked more desperate than skilled.

Even the Guild’s mission board had been overflowing with requests — for guides; for escorts; for teams to keep people safe while they forced themselves to adjust to the new reality of danger. He could see them now — standing out starkly, so tightly packed that more than a few had fallen to the floor.

That hadn’t happened in Grandbrook. At least, not to this extent.

The people of the frontier had always been hardy, but the pressure of integration combined with Deadacre’s isolation seemed to be all they needed to rise to the occasion.

Arc was shaken from his musings by approaching footsteps — a familiar pair of black boots with silver buckles.

They stopped a long stride before him — the attendant returned once more. The woman still wore that confused, nervous look. If anything, it had worsened since meeting with the Guildmaster.

Arc had assumed the tension he’d felt within the common room was just due to the increase in work and danger. Perhaps it wasn’t — but regardless, he would know soon.

“He’ll see you now, if you’ll follow me,” the attendant said.

Arc nodded and rose, following him out the back.

….

The attendant led him swiftly — up several flights of stairs until they entered into a meeting room where Rieker and his right-hand woman, Ro, waited behind a large desk. Beside them sat another man Arc recognized only vaguely — Bronwyn, he assumed, judging by the silver aura of strength radiating from him.

Arc lowered his hood.

The guildmaster gave the attendant beside him a nod, and she left as silently as she had arrived.

“Arc’theros. The Defender of Grandbrook. I haven’t seen you in years — what brings you to my city?” the Guildmaster said, his gravelly voice as curious as it was suspicious.

Arc sighed in relief. Good — he had figured it out. Their last meeting had been in Grandbrook itself — the fellow Gold had just been passing through. While he didn’t exactly know the Wardog well, the man had his own sense of honour — he could be trusted to see the severity of his news.

“This one greets you, Guildmaster,” Arc said, bowing slightly as was respectful. He turned to the other two, inclining his head. “The Quiet. Bronwyn.”

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He paused, wondering how to begin. It was not easy to bring grave tidings, especially not ones such as these. It was impossible to know if the Guild was already aware — every hold had suffered losses — but the chances were better than most.

The Onyx Temple would not target a young team unless they were promising — unless they had information worth taking. Exactly the kind of team whose importance a Guildhall would recognize.

Regardless, he could see the slight frowns forming on his audience’s faces. Confusion, yes, but also frustration — as though they had been torn from something urgent.

Especially the Quiet. He’d seen drakes with less bite.

“This one brings grave tidings,” Arc began, frowning as his words came slowly. “This one recently received a letter attempting to call in an age-old life debt.”

He paused for a moment, gathering his words. Nothing deft came, so he spoke simply.

“The nature of the request was vile.”

The Wardog and the Quiet both stiffened, eyes hardening. They had made assumptions — likely correct ones — judging by the tense look they shared.