"Give it a rest already, will you?"
The barkeep, a burly man with a thick beard, wiped a silver mug with an old rag. His deep voice, though gruff, held no real malice.
Before him, a boy barely tall enough to see over the counter stood firm, his small hands clenched into fists. His short brown hair was wild and unkempt, his pale face streaked with dirt. Yet, his eyes burned with unwavering resolve.
"No, sir," the boy declared, his voice trembling but steady. "I must see the Guildmaster. I will not move until I do."
The barkeep sighed, setting the mug aside. He leaned forward, his broad frame nearly pressing against the wooden bar. "Are you a noble?"
"No, sir."
"An emissary of the Seven Kingdoms?"
The boy shook his head. "I am far too young for such a title."
The barkeep scratched his beard. "And tell me, boy, do we look like the sort to take requests from common folk?"
At that, the boy's expression faltered. Tears welled in his eyes, glistening as they carved fresh tracks through the dirt on his cheeks. His voice cracked as he pleaded, "Please, sir. My parents set sail a month ago. They serve a noble and were meant to return three days past… but they haven't. I don't know what to do. Please, I beg you—help me find them."
The barkeep straightened with a heavy sigh. Reaching beneath the bar, he pulled out a large wooden tankard and placed it before the boy. "Sit down, lad," he muttered.
The boy obeyed, clutching his sleeves as he fought back sobs. A moment later, the barkeep filled the tankard—not with ale, but with milk.
"This is all I can offer," the barkeep said, gesturing toward the great hall. "Look around you. Every soul here is an adventurer, a Warden, a noble's errand-runner. Voyages across treacherous seas are costly, and no one sets foot upon the Null Continent without the approval of all Seven Kingdoms. Even among Wardens, only the most proven are granted passage to farther lands. Even if I emptied my coffers, I couldn't fund such a search."
The boy's shoulders slumped. "Then… is there nothing I can do?" he murmured.
The barkeep's gaze softened. "Your best hope lies with the noble house your parents serve. If they demand a search, the Guild will have no choice but to act. Until then… you must wait."
Krenz Vant spun his stool toward the hall, gripping the tankard with trembling hands, gulping the milk down as silent tears fell.
The Wardens' Accord, the greatest and only official guild of the Seven Kingdoms, was a place of both glory and ruin. The scent of mead, sweat, and roasted meat clung to the air, filling the grand hall with a warmth that was both welcoming and suffocating. The lower floor bustled with life—rough-hewn stools lined the bar, their surfaces worn from countless revels, while a great notice board near the entrance was pinned with parchment requests. Above, two additional floors overlooked the main hall, where Wardens of every rank plotted their next quests or drowned past failures in drink.
Near the entrance, a sharp-eyed receptionist stood beside the notice board, measuring each hopeful applicant with a calculating gaze before allowing them to approach.
"Huh?! Oi, baldy, that was my sandwich! Spit it out!"
The hall erupted into laughter. Amidst the chaos, Krenz sat in silence, his mind racing for another way to bring his parents home.
Just as he lifted his tankard once more, a sudden gust swept past his head, followed by a deafening CRASH!
He barely had time to register the sight—a middle-aged bald man hurtling across the bar, shattering against a cabinet, bottles of whiskey tumbling down in a shower of glass and golden liquid. The bartender stood frozen in shock, staring at the carnage.
Krenz turned, only to see something—someone—flying straight at him.
Thud!
Everything went black.
A voice, light yet rough, cut through the darkness.
"Oi, stop overreacting. Wake up already."
Another voice, deep and irritated, grumbled, "Overreacting? You threw a bloody chair at him."
Krenz groaned, his senses slowly returning. His head ached, and as his vision swam into focus, he found himself staring up at two figures.
First, the barkeep, arms crossed, glaring down at someone beside him.
The second figure—a girl, no older than fourteen—rubbed her head sheepishly, though her eyes held no real remorse. Instead, they shimmered with mild inconvenience, as if she had merely spilled a cup of tea.
She was an odd sight—a white cloth wrapped on her forehead, covered by her moss-green hair tied into two uneven ponytails on either side of her head, with a tiny braid draping over her right cheek. She wore a loose green tunic, her sleeves rolled up carelessly, tucked into baggy brown trousers fastened above sturdy, well-worn boots.
She sighed, dusting off her tunic. "Good thing you're not dead. I'm too young to have a tragic backstory."
Thwack!
The barkeep's palm met the back of her head.
She winced. "I mean—uh—good thing you're okay."
Krenz blinked, utterly bewildered.
The barkeep turned his glare toward the girl. "Maya, where do you think you're going? You wrecked half the bar, and someone's gotta pay for it." He gestured to the shattered bottles and the still-unconscious bald man slumped against the shelves.
Maya scoffed, crossing her arms. "Mister Benco, are you really asking a young woman such as myself to carry the burden of debt at such a tender age?" She exhaled dramatically, shaking her head in disappointment. "How low has the mighty Benco Ben fallen."
The guild erupted into laughter. Someone in the back cheered, "Yeah, you tell him, girl!"
A vein pulsed in Benco's temple before his scowl cracked into a begrudging grin. "Fine. But you're bringing that good-for-nothing Atlas to the Guildmaster later."
Maya's smug expression soured in an instant. "Eugh."
She pulled a face as though she had just bitten into rotten fruit. Then, as if reconsidering, she swiftly spun on her heel and bolted for the door.
Before she disappeared, she doubled back, pointed at Benco with an exaggerated frown, and dashed off again.
Krenz sat in stunned silence, completely lost.
Benco sighed and turned back to him. "Kid, what was your name again?"
"…Krenz Vant."
"Well, Krenz, rest up until you feel steady on your feet. There's nothing more I can do for you."
The boy's heart sank. He had expected that answer, but hearing it aloud still stung.
Benco took a few steps away, then suddenly halted. As if struck by a thought, he glanced back.
"Or," he mused, "you could stay a while. I won't promise you anything, but a rather… amusing person might be coming by later."
A name surfaced in Krenz's mind.
Atlas.
He frowned, glancing toward the door where Maya had disappeared.
"What good could someone related to that barbaric girl possibly be?"
Hours passed as Krenz sat in the far corner of the great hall, unnoticed by the revelers. His gaze remained fixed on the doorway, watching as figures drifted in and out. Some stopped to pin fresh requests upon the guild board, while others tore down parchments bearing the marks of completed deeds. The receptionist stood vigil beside it, filtering through contracts, exchanging coin for services rendered, and weighing the worth of each hopeful soul that approached her.
The tavern never knew rest. Men and women drank themselves into a stupor, only to rise again with newfound vigor and continue their merriment. Brawls erupted as often as toasts were raised, the air filled with the clash of fists and the roars of onlookers who cheered or jeered in equal measure. By now, the sun had begun its slow descent, bathing the sky in hues of burning amber and dusky rose. Lanterns flickered to life, casting golden glows upon the aged wooden beams, and the hall grew even more alive with the shifting of day into night.
And then, suddenly, silence.
The laughter died. The shouts faltered. Conversations ceased. The very air seemed to still as the heavy doors swung open, revealing a towering figure silhouetted against the dying light. He strode forward, flanked by three or four others, each bearing an aura of quiet authority.
His face, though fair, bore the rugged weariness of a man who had seen the worst of the world and endured it. Dusky golden hair, tied in a loose bun, spilled over his broad shoulders, errant strands falling across his sharp, assessing gaze. His robes, though rich in fabric and embroidery, hung over a frame built for battle rather than courtly affairs. He lifted a massive hand to adjust the monocle resting over one eye, and a slow, wry smile tugged at his lips.
"At it again, are we?" he mused, his voice calm yet carrying an undeniable weight.
The entire hall remained silent, hanging onto his every word as though they held more worth than any coin or crown.
"Well then, carry on," he said with a dismissive wave. "I have little to say tonight. The road was long, and I seek my rest."
A beat passed, and then, as if a spell had been lifted, the hall erupted once more into jubilant cries.
"Welcome back, Sir!" "Welcome home!"
He answered their greetings with a nod, his smile lingering as he turned toward the stairway leading deeper into the guild.
Krenz's breath hitched. His chance had come.
"Who is he?" he whispered, leaning toward a drunkard slouched nearby.
The man, who had moments ago been swimming in ale, seemed to sober instantly at the question. He turned bleary eyes toward Krenz, his disbelief plain. "Boy, are you jesting? That is his hall you sit in. That is the Guildmaster himself—Sobek Varga, King of Logue Valley."
Krenz felt his heart hammer against his ribs. He had to reach him. If there was any hope left, it lay with that man. He pushed through the crowd, slipping between the revelers, his small frame weaving past raised tankards and swinging arms. The stairway was close now—Sobek was close. With one final desperate surge, he lunged forward, reaching out—
Only to be yanked back by the collar.
His feet left the ground as he was hoisted into the air with alarming ease. A firm grip held him aloft, turning him effortlessly like a man inspecting a stray cat.
"You can't go past here, lad," came the steady voice of his captor.
Krenz twisted to face the man who held him. A pale-eyed warrior with slicked-back silver hair met his gaze, his features unreadable yet not unkind. Though his eyes were clouded, Krenz knew at once that they saw everything. The man carried himself with a quiet grace, his strength evident yet restrained.
"Oi, boy!" came a familiar shout. "Get back here!"
Benco pushed through the crowd, his face painted with frustration and worry. "I'm sorry, Sir Donovan. I'll handle him."
The silver-haired man—Donovan—chuckled. "No need for 'Sir,' Benco. If anything, I ought to be calling you that."
Benco grumbled something under his breath before reaching up and plucking Krenz from Donovan's grasp. But before he could be dragged away, Krenz inhaled sharply and cried out, his voice shaking with urgency:
"Sir Guildmaster!"
The hall stilled again.
All eyes turned to the boy suspended in Benco's grip, his dirt-streaked face flushed with desperation.
"My parents sailed to the Null Continent a month past and have not returned. Please, I beg you—help me find them!" He took a breath, his voice breaking. "Or is it that because we are not nobles, our lives are worth less than theirs? Is that the kind of king you are?"
The silence was suffocating.
Benco's face paled. Donovan, for the first time, seemed unsure. A woman among Sobek's entourage shifted, her hand ghosting over the hilt of her sword, ready to silence any threat to her liege.
Krenz turned his gaze upward to meet the Guildmaster's. Sobek studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to Krenz's astonishment, a soft smile curved his lips.
"I am sorry, boy," Sobek said quietly. "Even if I wished it, there is nothing I can do. But let us hope that fate smiles upon you."
Nothing he could do? What did that mean? Sobek smiled as if he was hinting at something.
Before Krenz could demand an answer, the heavy doors burst open with a thunderous thud.
A familiar booted foot rested against the doorframe.
"Benco!" came a bright, carefree voice. "I'm here, and I brought him!"
Maya strode in with a grin.
And behind her…
A man followed—a man who looked as though he had no business being awake. He stepped forward with the sluggish grace of someone dragged from the depths of sleep, one hand covering his mouth as he loosed a long, exaggerated yawn. His dark, untamed hair fell in wild disarray, half-shadowing sharp features that seemed entirely too handsome for the air of exhaustion he carried. A heavy shawl draped over his shoulders, more haphazardly thrown than worn, and at his hip clattered two swords—one long, one barely more than a dagger. The scabbards were worn, well-used, yet sat untouched in the moment.
He blinked at the gathered stares, then sighed. "Why're you all looking at me like I owe you money? Wait… I don't, do I?"
His eyes found Benco, and he tilted his head. "Old man, you called for me?"
Krenz didn't need to ask. He knew.
This was Atlas.