Chương 3: Worry

The stables were quieter than usual when Tessa arrived, the morning warmth not yet fully cutting through the smell of hay, leather, and lizard dung. A few mounts stirred in their pens—saddle drakes, scaled goats, a particularly bad-tempered beetle—but none of them made a sound as she passed. Larry was waiting for her in their usual corner stall, perched on a heap of straw like a plump, feathery throne. His white plumage puffed up the moment he spotted her.

He let out a low, trilling chirp and wobbled forward, massive talons thumping softly on the straw-covered floor.

"Alright, alright," Tessa said, slipping into the stall and pulling the wax-wrapped meat from her satchel.

"I brought breakfast. Don't act like you weren't just chewing on the gate again." Larry chirped louder in response, wings twitching with anticipation. She unwrapped the parcel carefully and laid the mix of organ meat and tendon across a flat wooden bowl. Before she could even step back, Larry was on it—shoving his beak into the pile and swallowing hunks whole, feathers flaring around his neck in excitement. It was gone in under a minute.

Tessa crouched by the stall wall, arms resting on her knees as she watched him lick his beak and blink contentedly.

"Still hungry?" she muttered. Larry blinked again, then flopped onto his side, satisfied. She smiled faintly, but the warmth in her chest didn't last long. He hadn't grown in month. Not in size, not in stats. Not even a change in his feathers. She knew he was still young—maybe too young to hit another growth spurt yet—but still… She bit her lip and opened his status screen. As his tamer, she could see the basics.

Name: Larry Class: – Juvenile Cliffstrider lvl 22 Strength: 34 Vitality: 47 Dexterity: 36 Intelligence: 6 Wisdom: 11 Luck: 24 Health: 612/612 Stamina: 2250/2250 Mana: 58/58 Tessa sighed and shut the window. She pulled a feather off her sleeve, one of Larry's, and twisted it between her fingers.

"I'm trying, y'know?" she said quietly. He blinked his pale eyes and waddled over, nuzzling his head into her shoulder before sitting down like a fluffy boulder beside her. She leaned into him, forehead pressed gently against his side.

"If I had more coin, you'd be eating pheasant liver and fresh fish," she said.

"Instead of raw kidney and scrap tendon." He chirped again, soft this time. Almost like a purr. Tessa closed her eyes. After a moment she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The stables didn't run themselves, and the early calm had already begun to fray at the edges. Sunlight lanced through the high windows, catching flecks of dust and hay in the air, and the scent of warm fur, saddle oil, and animal waste thickened with each passing hour.

Her shift lasted until third bell—six hours of brushing, mucking, mending tack, and feeding creatures that ranged from temperamental to outright carnivorous. She started with the scaled runners in the far paddock—sleek, low-slung lizards used by scouts and border messengers. Their scales shed weekly and got caught in their harnesses if not cleaned. Tessa moved quickly and confidently, brushing them down while avoiding their snapping jaws.

They didn't bite unless spooked, but they would tail-slap you across the stable if you weren't careful. Next was the boulderhorn, a massive, squat beast with two curled horns and a back like a stone ridge. Used mostly for hauling goods or traveling in rough terrain, it required thick gloves and a steady hand to apply salve to the cracked plates along its spine. Tessa muttered soft nonsense while she worked—it helped keep the thing calm. Then came the mist goats, favored by alchemists and other crafters.

Nervous things, jittery even in calm weather. She had to move slow, speak soft, and never show the bucket of sulfur hay until she was inside their pen. One spooked and tried to phase through its gate. It didn't make it all the way through, and now the latch needed replacing.

"I'll fix it after lunch," she muttered, adding it to the growing list in her head. Between jobs, she checked water troughs, replaced feed, and hosed out the mud-and-manure drains that constantly clogged from feather tufts, shed hide, and worse. Her boots were soaked. Her arms ached. Her braid had come loose hours ago, but she didn't stop to fix it. She didn't stop, period. The stablemaster had long since stopped checking in on her. Tessa was fast. Careful.

She never complained, never cut corners, and never made the beasts agitated—which made her a rare breed herself. By mid-shift, she was repairing a saddle harness for a ghostmane, a lightly phasing feline mount favored by nocturnal patrol teams. Its fur shimmered faintly as it paced behind her, its body flickering every few seconds like it couldn't decide what plane it wanted to be on. She kept her tools quiet and her stitches clean. [+42 XP Gained - Combat Contribution Detected] A small ping. Barely noticeable.

Still, she smiled. It meant someone was out there with one of her fixes. Fighting. Surviving. And she'd helped, even if no one knew it. By the time the bell chimed, Tessa's arms were sore, her boots soaked, and her shirt clung to her back in a way that promised blisters later. She wiped her hands on a rag that had started the day grey and now leaned fully into brown, then gave Larry one last scratch under his beak.

He trilled contentedly, belly full and feathers fluffed up as he dozed in the hay pile she'd fluffed just for him.

"I'll be back before dark," she whispered, slinging her satchel over one shoulder.

"Try not to eat anyone." Larry opened one eye and chirped, smug and lazy. She smirked and stepped out of the stall, the door creaking shut behind her. The stablemaster gave her a brief nod as she passed—he always did when she worked a full shift without complaint. Which was always. Tessa didn't linger. She had energy still humming in her chest, and 42 XP's worth of hope that maybe—just maybe—she could find more work today. Something with risk, sure, but also reward. Wealthy clients tipped.

That coin had been very welcome. She cut through the western walkways toward the job board, the same route she always took, passing familiar cracked bricks and mossy gutter pipes and the sharp stink of boiled fish from someone's back alley pot. The sun had climbed high now, angling golden light across the street and warming the flagstones.

As she rounded the corner near the cluster of inns and bars, the sound hit her like a warm wave—laughter, music, the clatter of mugs, and the echo of a bard's off-key mandolin strumming through a second-floor window. It was late enough that the city was pulsing with movement again, but early enough that the true drinkers hadn't come out in force yet. She kept her head down at first, planning to slip past the groups clustered outside—until a voice cut through the hum:"Tessa? That you?" Enjoying this book?

Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. The voice stopped her cold. She turned slowly, every instinct telling her to keep walking—but pride didn't let her ignore it. They sat around a low table outside The Silver Sump, a half-shaded patio strung with cheap lanterns and full mugs. Drenslouched back in his chair like always, boots crossed, looking like he hadn't worked a day in his life.

Meela sat beside him, sharp-chinned and confident, twirling her mug between her fingers with just enough flourish to draw the eye. Two others—fighters, from the look of them—flanked the table, mid-laugh until they noticed her. Then they went quiet.

"Tessa Goljen," Meela said, smiling like a cat that had found something interesting on the step.

"Still breathing. Didn't think we'd see you again."

"Still breathing," Tessa echoed.

"Still working." She knew what she looked like—boots caked in dried muck, a sweat-stiff shirt, a few strands of hay still tangled in her braid. She hadn't even had a chance to wash her face since the shift ended. And Meela, never one to miss a crack in the paint, leaned in slightly.

"Is that—" she sniffed theatrically, wrinkling her nose.

"Is that stable muck I smell? What have you been doing, rolling in it?" Tessa's cheeks flushed before she could stop them.

"I was at the stables," she said flatly. Meela gave an exaggerated blink.

"Shoveling shit is what makes you happy now?" Tessa opened her mouth, then closed it again. She didn't want to admit she worked as a stablehand—not to them, not like this. So instead she said, "I was with my mount." That shifted things. There was a pause—just long enough to register surprise. Dren straightened slightly. Meela's head tilted. One of the fighters at the table spoke first.

"Wait, you have a mount?" Tessa nodded once.

"Yeah."

"You've been outside the walls?" the fighter on the left asked.

"Courier job?"

"I've done a few runs," she said, voice even. And technically, she wasn't lying. She had done courier jobs, She had been outside the city. Just not far. Not like they assumed. But she didn't correct them. Because now they were reevaluating her. Because a mount meant something. It meant money, training, the kind of clearance that allowed you to leave the capital and come back alive. Most people didn't invest in a mount unless they were going to use it—which meant she wasn't just scraping by.

It meant she was building something. Even Meela's smile flickered, just a little.

"Must be nice," she said, tone suddenly unreadable. Dren looked like he wanted to say something more. Something meaningful. Instead, he asked, "What kind of mount?" Tessa met his eyes.

"Fast one." Dren huffed a laugh and leaned forward, arms braced on the table like he wanted to say something real. But Meela got there first.

"Well, it'd have to be fast," she said, sipping from her mug, "if it's got to make up for your level." Tessa's stomach clenched, but she didn't flinch. Meela smiled at her own words, sweet as syrup.

"What are you now, level… fourteen?! You were always good at theory, but you've got to do something to level up, you know."

"I know," Tessa said quietly. There was a short pause. Not long enough for anyone to say something kind. Just long enough to let the silence feel like a bruise. Dren looked uncomfortable. He scratched at the rim of his mug but didn't look at her. Level 14. She hadn't gained a level since leaving school. Everyone else at that table had probably doubled that. She tried to use her inspect skill to see their levels, but came up with only question marks. They where now far above her own level.

It wasn't just about experience. It was about momentum. Every year that passed made it harder to catch up. Adventurers leveled fast. Combat classes soared. Crafting? Crafting was slow. And patching gear for mounts that weren't hers didn't yield enough experinence points to matter. The system didn't reward survival. It rewarded action. Blood. Boldness. And she'd chosen a class that couldn't afford to take damage, couldn't punch back. Her growth was stitched into other people's victories.

If no one used her gear, she might as well not exist. She glanced at her hand—blistered at the fingers, knuckles nicked from hauling tack, still stained faintly from the boulderhorn salve. Level 14. It wasn't nothing. But standing here, under Meela's scrutiny, it felt like nothing.

"That's a bit harsh, Meela," Dren said finally, still not meeting Tessa's gaze.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," Meela said.

"She used to wipe the floor with me in exams. You think I'm not going to gloat a little?"

"I'm sure you've earned it," Tessa said, voice dry. Meela blinked—she hadn't expected her to bite back. Dren gave a low laugh, almost reluctant.

"She did always have teeth when she wanted." The comment made something twist in Tessa's chest—old affection, maybe. Old pain, definitely. But she didn't want his half-sympathy. Not anymore. She turned to go—but Meela's voice followed her like a hook through the back of her coat.

"Oh, I'm now working in my father's department at the Maker's Guild, by the way," Meela said, lifting her mug.

"Finally moved up to project assistant last month. You know how it is— legacy benefits." Tessa paused, just for a moment.

"Even Dren got in now," Meela added, too casually to be casual. Dren shifted, the sound of his chair scraping faintly against stone.

"Meela—""What?" she said, blinking innocently.

"She'd find out eventually. It's not like it's a secret anymore." Dren said nothing. Tessa met his eyes, and for just a second, something passed between them—the truth. The truth she had known since the day his name had appeared on the final list, while hers had been quietly dropped. He hadn't earned the spot. His mother had bought it. And he'd let it happen. He hadn't even told Meela, apparently. Not until now. Tessa gave a small smile. It didn't reach her eyes.

"Congratulations," she said. Dren flinched, just a little.

"Thanks." It came out awkward, like the word tasted wrong in his mouth. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But not enough to let it show. Meela, still unaware she'd opened a wound, pressed on.

"Honestly, I always thought you'd be in the Guild too. With your scores? And your sister's name? Everyone expected it. You were practically built for it." Tessa's mouth tightened. My sister's name doesn't buy seats, she wanted to say. It's earned. Or it was, once. But she didn't say that. She just said, "Didn't work out." That shut Meela up for half a beat. Not long. Just enough for the weight of the words to hang between them. Dren looked like he wanted to say something again, but she didn't give him the chance.

She nodded once, politely, like they'd just discussed the weather.

"Glad things worked out for you both." And she turned, feet steady even if her breath wasn't. She didn't look back. She had only made it halfway down the lane when she heard quick steps behind her.

"Tess—wait—" She didn't. But Dren caught her by the arm anyway. She jerked back, trying to twist free.

"Don't—touch—me."

"Will you just stop for a second?" he hissed, glancing over his shoulder.

"Please." His grip tightened as she tried to pull away again. He wasn't trying to hurt her—she didn't think—but he was still stronger than she was. Her boot scraped against loose gravel as he dragged her off the main street and into the narrow mouth of a side alley, tucked behind a shuttered baker's stall.

"Dren—" she snapped, but he cut her off.

"I just—don't tell them, alright?" he said, voice low, rushed, desperate.

"About the Guild. About my mother." Her breath hitched in surprise, then steadied into something colder.

"That's what this is about?" He looked pained.

"They don't know. I never—Meela wouldn't let it go if she found out, and the others—Tessa, just—please." She tried to yank her arm back again, harder this time, but he stepped in close, crowding her back against the alley wall. His hand landed flat beside her head—not threatening, not quite—but it still pinned her there. Too close. Her fingers itched toward the side pocket of her satchel, where her utility knife was tucked in a leather loop. Not for combat. Not really. But sharp enough to make a point.

She didn't draw it. Yet. His voice softened.

"I just wanted to explain."

"I didn't ask for one."

"Tessa—""Why?" she said, cutting him off.

"Why'd you do it?" His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Then: "Why shouldn't I?" Her eyes narrowed. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug that didn't hide the guilt behind it.

"Your father sold the spot. My mother bought it. It was a clean deal." She didn't answer. She couldn't. Because it was true. Her chest ached. She remembered that night— the quiet arguments behind closed doors, the desperation in her father's voice, the way her sister refused to look at either of them afterward. They'd needed the money. Badly. And her father had found a way to get it fast. Without asking her. Dren's voice lowered again.

"It's not like I forged anything. The guild accepted me. I tested in. I've done good work. It's not like I didn't deserve it."

"You didn't earn it."

"That's not the same thing." She hated that he said it so calmly. Hated more that it was technically true. She stared at the buttons on his coat, her jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Her fingers hovered near the edge of her satchel. She could leave a mark. Just one. He'd remember. But she didn't move. She just said, flatly, "Let me go." Dren froze, her words pressing into the narrow alley air like a drawn blade. Then, slowly, he stepped back. Tessa pushed past him, jaw tight, shoulders square.

But she didn't get more than a few steps before he spoke again—quiet this time. Almost hopeful.

"Tess... wait. Just wait a second, okay?" She didn't stop.

"I'm not just here to grovel," he said, hurrying after her.

"I've been thinking about... things." That stopped her. Not the words. The tone. She turned, only slightly, enough to glance over her shoulder.

"Things." He gave a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"You and me. It wasn't all bad, was it?" She stared at him. Dren scratched the back of his neck, suddenly boyish in a way that didn't suit his age.

"We grew up together. Our parents used to joke about us getting married. You remember that?"

"Yeah," she said.

"I also remember you stopped talking to me the second your name showed up on the Guild list and mine didn't."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" He opened his mouth, then looked down.

"I didn't know what to say."

"You didn't say anything."

"I was... ashamed, alright?" He met her eyes again, and this time, she saw a flicker of real guilt.

"I didn't ask for it to happen that way. But once it did, what was I supposed to do? Turn it down?"

"Yes," she said simply. Silence.

"I'm not that kid anymore," he said finally.

"I've got a steady post, a full workshop team, real contracts coming in. I'm not scrounging for copper, I'm not fighting my parents, and I'm not chasing grades anymore. I'm in a good place now." She tilted her head.

"And?"

"And I thought maybe... you and I could talk again. Start over." He shifted awkwardly.

"It doesn't have to be how it was. But I miss you, Tess. You were always the one who kept me grounded. You made me better." But then he stepped closer and reached out, his hand brushing her arm, lingering there—soft and familiar and unwanted. Her heart stuttered. She pulled back slightly, but he closed the space again. This time his hand touched her waist, fingers pressing in like muscle memory, like he had a right to be there. Her breath caught, and her body went still.

"Dren." Her voice was low. He didn't move away.

"I miss you, Tess. You were always the one who kept me grounded. You made me better." For a split second, the years peeled away— scraped knees, late-night study sessions, him bringing her broken bits of junk to fix like gifts, the way he used to look at her like she was the cleverest person in the world. Then her gaze cooled.

"You want me back because I make you feel better about yourself."

"No," he said, too quickly.

"That's not—" He stepped in again, one hand rising like he might tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. She slapped it away. Not hard. Just final.

"Because I know you," she said, cutting him off.

"Because I won't ask you to be better than you are." He flinched.

"You miss the version of me who didn't know what you were willing to take from me." Dren's voice dropped.

"I thought we were going to end up together."

"That was before you bought my future." The words hung in the alley like smoke. She turned again, and this time, he didn't follow.