“Of course I picked the Harem-Master subclass. …Yeah. I know how that sounds.”

Breakfast at the Emberwell is nothing less than savory, warming joy wrapped in syrup.

We pass the Hostess on the way down to the main floor, all five of us dressed in our new Winterglass clothing, armor, and weapons. She gives us an appreciative nod that feels different from the one she offered when we first stumbled through her door.

Respect for a properly geared adventuring party.

The kind reserved for people who no longer look like half-frozen vagabonds staying at her inn by accident.

“Dressed and ready to take to the wilds, I see,” she says, eyes moving over us with open approval. “The Frost Warrens?”

Before answering, I decide there is no point pretending otherwise. My thoughts drift, unexpectedly, to Marrowpine. To the Feisty Dwarf. To the Busty Barmaid’s soft curls.

All right, perhaps not only her soft curls.

But the point is, the Busty Barmaid’s knowledge and warmth had become invaluable before we left. She had known things. People. Patterns. Warnings. The kind of practical truths that do not show up in a HUD until after they have already cost you blood.

So I do not dodge the Hostess’s question.

If we are going to survive Thronstadt, we may need her kind of knowledge too.

“Yes,” I say. “Our first hunt in Thronstadt.”

The Hostess beams as if I have just offered her the perfect hook into our coin purse.

“Then that must be celebrated with a proper hero’s breakfast.”

When she says it like that, I am not sure how any reasonable man is supposed to argue.

“That sounds delicious.”

Around me, my party nods in immediate agreement.

Her expertise in ordering for us proves uncanny.

The plates arrive in waves: hot griddlecakes glazed with spiced berry syrup, crisp-edged sausages, buttered eggs folded with winter herbs, thick-cut toast, roasted root hash, honeyed cream, and steaming mugs strong enough to convince my bones that the outside world is someone else’s problem.

It is filling without sitting heavy.

Warm without dragging us into a food coma.

Sugary enough to make Perri’s ears lift before she remembers she is trying to be composed as a seasoned adventurer.

Kit notices immediately.

Perri pretends she does not, right up until she and Kit make the same small sound of delight and abandon dignity together.

Raka starts eating like the breakfast sausages are fuel for her next Savage.

Enora takes one careful bite, pauses, then quietly takes another. Her glee is not as obvious as Kit’s or Perri’s, but I see it in her eyes as she eats, in the way the brim of her hat loses some of its protective edge.

I look around the table at my party, wrapped in warmth, new gear, and the growing confidence of people about to walk into danger on purpose.

Time to seize the day.

By the time most of breakfast has been reduced to crumbs, syrup streaks, and the occasional heroic survivor of roasted root hash, the Hostess returns to check on us.

We sit pleased, delighted, and energized.

A job well done on her part.

Her eyes pass over the table before settling on me with that same warm professional smile that never quite stops calculating.

“So, Master Locke,” she says, “have you and your… company decided which guild you intend to join?”

I cannot tell whether she asks out of curiosity, concern, or practical interest in which future tab will be paying for rooms, meals, and whatever else Thronstadt decides to charge us for breathing.

A general annoyance drifts through the bond. Kit’s ears tilt. Raka’s jaw works around one last bite longer than necessary. Perri’s eyes flick to me, worried but quiet.

Enora, of course, only watches.

Since I have already decided to let the Hostess be expensively helpful, I answer plainly.

“We’ve had an offer from one guild,” I say. “And a few very offensive approaches from others. But no. We have not joined anyone yet. We’re going to hunt a bit today and see how it goes.”

The Hostess’s smile does not entirely vanish.

“I see,” she says. “Still in denial, then.”

Kit’s ears go up.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

The Hostess folds her hands in front of her, all graceful warmth wrapped around one steel-edged fact.

“They will likely stop you at the gate,” she says. “Or at least strongly suggest against letting an unguilded party wander into a city-sanctioned hunting ground. Thronstadt is very fond of letting people believe they have choices right up until the hunting grounds prove otherwise.”

Raka makes a low sound that could almost be a challenge.

The Hostess continues before any of us can properly decide how offended to be.

“But should you find a way,” she says, “stay to the Timberline.”

Her eyes sharpen enough to turn advice into warning.

“Do not head straight for the Warrens.”

My mind shifts into tactics at once.

“Why?” I ask. “Because of our levels? Because we’re still new to the hunting ground? We’ll be cautious. Thanks for the warning.”

The Hostess takes a small step back, neatly avoiding the entire shape of my thinking.

“Thronstadt is not a starter town, Master Locke,” she says softly.

That is a blade drawn to wake me up.

Her expression remains kind, but there is a careful weight behind it now.

“I am not an adventurer,” she continues, “but I have been privy to more than a few adventuring-party catastrophes that began with someone saying they would be cautious.”

Her eyes move across the table, over Kit, Raka, Perri, Enora, and finally back to me.

“I would rather not add yours to that list.”

I catch the edge in her warning clearly enough, but the Hostess has already begun turning back toward her station near the entrance.

“There are reasons the hunting grounds around the city are recommended as guild ventures, Master Locke,” she says.

The warning drifts through the table, carried by the bond as an uneasy pulse.

Not fear.

But close enough to make the room feel colder despite the fire, the food in our bellies, and the enchantments of our new clothes.

I try to settle it before it grows teeth.

“We’re in no rush,” I say, turning back to them. “We can just take a look.”

Kit studies me.

Raka does not argue, but something in her posture shifts, shoulders settling as she begins to brace herself for trouble that has not arrived yet.

Perri’s hands fold around her mug.

Enora, outside the bond but close enough to read the room, asks the question the others are feeling.

“And if it is too much for us?”

I look down at the table, thoughts drifting.

I cannot quite shake the warnings anymore. Firebeard and Snorts. The Hostess. Davion. Even the city itself, with its guild banners hanging like claims over every street.

“Then,” I say, “if it is… we will see about a guild.”

The words taste more bitter than I expect.

I draw The Whispering Hearth card from my pocket and turn it between my fingers. The black stock catches the inn’s warm light, the hearth and rose-smoke stamped across it like an invitation pretending not to be a hook.

“We’ve had at least one offer,” I say. “Or something that felt like one.”

Kit’s ears angle toward the card.

Toward the memory of Davion and Glitzy.

I tuck it away again.

“If we need to look,” I say, “I’m sure we could fit in somewhere.”

Stepping outside, we discover the weather is not nearly as hostile today.

Of course, now that we have proper clothing.

The air is still brisk enough to bite, but there is no wind, and the sky above Thronstadt is a bright, cloudless blue. Sunlight gleams off snowbanks, rooftops, windows, and polished stone, forcing all five of us to squint the moment we step out of the inn.

Kit lifts one hand to shade her eyes.

“Of course today is nice,” she mutters.

I look down at my heavy cloak, white fur trim, and all the expensive layers that felt like salvation yesterday.

Then I look up at the beautiful, windless morning, at the quiet banners hanging from roofs and spires.

“Thronstadt is mocking us,” I say.

Enora adjusts the brim of her hat against the glare.

“Probably.”

Like sentinels who never quite move, Firebeard and Snorts stand at the main gate in the morning light.

The gate is less crowded with newcomers now and more occupied by the steady flow of adventurers leaving the city for the hunting grounds. Guild tabards, banners, insignias, and polished pins pass in a constant stream of color and claim.

We’ve come to recognize a few of them now: Silverwing Sovereigns, Black Mug Brawlers, Cinder Salamanders, Golden Griffons. The sheer number of guild marks makes our lack of one feel louder than it should.

Firebeard notices us first as we approach.

“Ah,” he says, his face brightening beneath his black braided beard. “The Marrowpine crew. I must say…”

His eyes drift over us, taking in our upgraded appearance. They drift a little longer over Kit.

“You are looking much warmer and in better spirits than when you arrived.”

Kit, never one to miss an opportunity to be admired, lets her tail curl slowly behind her. Her ears tilt, her posture shifts, hips out, and somehow the black Adventurer’s Cut looks even more intentional on her than it did a moment ago.

She purrs with coy amusement.

“Careful,” she says sweetly. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to think Thronstadt has excellent taste.”

Firebeard’s face goes noticeably red.

Snorts watches the entire thing happen.

Then he snorts. Approvingly.

Firebeard shifts topics by looking anywhere except directly at Kit.

“The Frost Warrens?” he says, clearing his throat. “It is a good day for it. Clear visibility. No wind to shift the pines.”

Then his eyes move over us again, more professionally this time.

There is a slight shift in his focus.

The same kind of look people get when they are reading a HUD prompt I cannot see.

“You are still unguilded,” he says politely. “Do you have a sponsor waiting for you at Timberline?”

I frown, still trying to decide whether honesty, evasion, or accidental crime is our best option.

The shape of a plan starts to form in my mind.

Kit moves before it becomes one.

She drifts toward Firebeard’s stoked barrel, turns, and warms her backside near the coals with just enough arch in her posture to prove the barrel is not the only thing being stoked.

Firebeard’s official expression does not survive it.

The bond hums between us, quick and bright, full of shared understanding.

I step aside, smirking.

“We have had offers,” Kit says sweetly, batting her eyes as she meets Firebeard’s gaze. “We are starting at Timberline to see where we might best fit.”

Firebeard’s official response falters under the weight of her smile.

Snorts, ever mirthful but efficient, gives a low approving grunt.

“Do not go in without backup,” he says. “Unguilded is fine, so long as you are sponsored.”

Kit steps back into line beside me, utterly innocent in the way only Kit can be when she is guilty of something.

“We will be well looked after,” she says.

Firebeard looks as though he wants to question that.

He also looks as though he has lost the ability to properly arrange words.

Snorts snorts once and gestures us through.

Apparently leaving the city is not the same thing as being allowed into the hunting ground.

As we step past the guards, Kit’s playfulness curls through the bond like a warm tail around my thoughts.

“Master, sometimes it really is too easy.”

She moves ahead of me, tail swaying like she owns the road.

I smile unapologetically, enjoying the view.

“I can see why.”

No bond is necessary to hear Enora’s quiet giggle behind me.

The road to Timberline is quick and easy to follow, looping around the city toward the north in the way roads apparently do when half a city’s adventurers are expected to use them.

Other paths break away now and then, branching toward hunting grounds I haven’t heard mentioned, but we follow the steady herd of adventurers moving along the outer road. The farther we get from the gate, the more Thronstadt feels less like a city and more like a fortress sitting at the edge of something vast enough to swallow it.

On the not-so-distant horizon, the massive peaks of the Shivermaw Mountains rise over an endless expanse of pine.

Snow-laden fields stretch between us and the trees, broken by drifts, low stone markers, and the dark green teeth of forest thick enough to make the mountain foothills look alive. The pines run almost all the way to the base of the peaks, a wide black-green sea under a sky so bright that the reflected sunlight off the snow makes all of us narrow our eyes.

Even with the wind gone, Thronstadt finds new ways to be unpleasant.

As we near the edge of Timberline, the road widens into a broad field of packed snow and trampled ice. Adventuring parties begin breaking away from the main flow, moving toward massive banner poles planted like claims along the forest’s edge.

Nearly a dozen guilds are represented.

Some banners stand in prime positions near the clearest, most direct approaches into the trees. The Silverwing Sovereigns have one of the best spots, of course, their silver Pegasus snapping above a cluster of polished adventurers who look annoyingly prepared to be admired.

Other guilds hold their own territories nearby. The rich crimson cloaks of the Embercloak Emissaries gather beneath an ember-clasped banner, while a short distance beyond them, black Iron Jest cloth hangs beneath the morning glare.

Two silver shackles face each other across the banner, each holding a tiny crimson spark. A curved silver chain of seven links joins them below, forming the shape of a mocking jaw.

Farther out, near the edges of the field, the entry points look less certain. Longer paths through the forest. Less direct routes toward the base of the mountains.

There, a few banner poles carry only the city’s heraldry: a frost-laden black wolf on a pale field. No single guild color claims those approaches. No polished line of matching tabards stands beneath them.

Instead, scattered parties gather in shifting knots beneath the city banners: mixed guilds, smaller teams, and adventurers negotiating reluctantly into larger groups.

Adventurers wearing different pins, colors, and bits of livery watch one another with the careful interest of people deciding who might be useful, who might be dangerous, and who might get them killed.

Some groups look like they are pairing off for cautious runs along the Timberline.

Others are clearly trying to assemble something larger.

Three full parties. A proper Raid Group, if the Hostess’s warning is to be believed.

The sideways glances between the different parties and liveries say plenty.

This is not the confident pageantry of the Silverwing Sovereigns or their rivals at the prime approaches.

This is a bargaining ground.

Enora steps up beside me, eyes moving over the field with quiet academic focus.

“We will not have much chance under the guild banners,” she says. “Not unless we want to be recruited. Or assessed. Or possibly…”

She trails off, walking herself into the shape of the problem without finding the exit.

Perri’s ears droop slightly.

“Rejected,” she says.

Kit brushes that away with one flick of her tail.

“Then why don’t we try over there?” she asks, nodding toward the city banners near the edge of the field. “See if we can sneak in and take a peek?”

Raka’s eyes stay on the forest.

“I would like to see what we are up against,” she says.

Which is Raka’s way of saying she is itching to hit something and has been politely waiting for the world to provide it.

I weigh the options.

“Fine,” I say. “We are just looking. We poke in for a moment, get a sense of the place, and if anyone asks, we play off the sponsor thing.”

The words come out less certain than I want them to.

Because near the city-banner approach, two very official-looking guards stand beside the post, directing parties with the calm authority of people who do not need to raise their voices.

My HUD pings as I look them over, marking both as Tier 3, and the entire idea of slipping past them folds quietly in on itself.

We head in that direction and come to stand beneath the city banner, where several nearby groups eye us with the careful interest reserved for newcomers, possible liabilities, and people who might accidentally make the morning more entertaining.

The guards step in before we even reach the actual path, dead-eyed professionals moving with the calm certainty of men who have done this too many times to find it interesting. Kit inches just a little too close to what looks like empty air, and her hand brushes across something invisible. A faint ripple bends the light around her fingers. She freezes at once, ears dropping as if she has been caught halfway through doing something she absolutely intended to do.

One of the guards looks down at her without blinking.

“The Timberline is not closed to unguilded parties, miss,” he says. “It is closed to unsponsored ones. Find a sponsor or remove yourselves.”

No blade is drawn, because none needs to be. Between the guard’s voice and the invisible barrier still faintly shimmering where Kit touched it, the message is perfectly clear.

Kit steps away from the barrier with her ears slightly lowered, embarrassed in the very specific way of someone who has been caught testing a rule she was absolutely going to break if it let her.

Enora gives her a stern look, the kind usually reserved for apprentices, unstable reagents, and people who attune cursed magic items without doing any research on them.

I choose not to take that personally.

The guard steps back into position with unquestionable authority.

“Well,” Kit says, brushing at her sleeve as if that explains everything. “Now we know.” She glances up at me, a little sheepish but not remotely apologetic. “I had to try, Master.”

“It’s all right, Kit,” I say. “We’ll just have to…”

“Ridiculous rules, really.”

The voice cuts in from my right, feminine, amused, and far too comfortable for someone standing this close to a Tier 3 guard and an invisible barrier.

I turn toward it.

The woman attached to the voice has a riot of dark curls, purple-hued skin, and form-fitting black leather not entirely unlike Kit’s, though hers comes with a red layered short skirt and boots with far too many buckles to be practical by accident. A tabard hangs bunched over one shoulder as if she technically agreed to wear it but refused to let it win.

The short, curved horns and slender tapered tail ending in a heart-shaped tip finish the look.

Even half-worn, the heraldry is clear.

Iron Jest.

“First time to Timberline?” she asks.

Her smile is bright in a way I do not expect, especially considering the four guild members standing a short distance behind her. They wear the same colors, the same mark, and none of them look nearly as friendly.

She follows my gaze to the tabard, then to whatever preemptive judgment has already settled across my face.

“Don’t let the guild nonsense scare you off,” she says. “It’s peacock feathers and show, mostly. If we were really hardcore Jest, we’d be over at our own guild banner with the rest of the lunatics.”

She extends her hand with a warrior’s directness that does not quite match the curled smile on her lips.

“I’m Bliss,” she says. “And this is my crew.”

Her sharp eyes drift over us, taking in the perfectly fitted Winterglass gear, the clean fur trim, the polished boots, and every inch of clothing that has clearly never seen a Timberline fight.

“Welcome to the Timberline,” Bliss says, smile brightening. “We can get you in. Care for a go?”