Chapter 6: Cracks Beneath the Circle
Veilthorn smelled of smoke, wet stone, and unspoken threats.
Corvin walked its streets with calm purpose, blending effortlessly among mercenaries, hunters, rogue mages, and drifters. Here, anonymity was a shield and a weapon.
The Mercenary Guild squatted near the center of the town, a brutalist building of blackwood and dark iron. Some simple banners were the only indicator of the building.
He pushed the heavy doors open.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of sweat, ale, blood, and old parchment. Rough warriors lounged at battered tables, studying job boards or brokering contracts over whispered deals.
No one looked up.
He approached the front desk, a slab of obsidian etched with old contract glyphs. Behind it sat a bored scribe, an elf with silver hair tied back in a harsh braid, ink stains blotting his hands.
Corvin spoke first, his voice low and cold.
"I’m here to register."
The scribe looked up, studying him, the way a butcher studies new stock.
Name?"