Chương 5: Initiate

The Adventuring Guild tower loomed taller the closer Tessa got. Not just in size, but in presence—its walls thick with enchanted stone, its windows reinforced with shimmering sigils. The front steps were worn smooth by generations of boots and claws alike. She climbed them slowly, one hand on the strap of her satchel, pulse loud in her ears. Inside, it was even worse. The front hall was bustling—wide and open, with a vaulted ceiling high enough to make her feel smaller with every step.

Adventurers filled the space, moving in and out of queues, posting job reports, trading tokens, bickering over rewards. Some wore gleaming armor, some travel-stained cloaks. A few had blood still drying on their sleeves. Tessa stood in the entry like someone who'd walked into the wrong building. She was unarmed. Unarmored. She smelled faintly of straw and oil. Her boots were patched. Her class wasn't listed on any leaderboard, and she doubted it ever would be.

She kept her head down and made her way toward the front desk. The receptionist—a broad-shouldered man with greying hair and a mild, thoughtful expression—glanced up as she approached. He wore a Guild tabard over a quilted vest, and a half-pair of reading glasses rested low on his nose. She opened her mouth, then realized she had no idea what to say.

"New?" he asked gently, setting down his quill. She nodded, throat dry.

"Yeah. I, uh… I want to register." He smiled. Not mockingly—just warmly. Like he'd seen a hundred people in her exact position before. Probably had.

"First-time applicant?"

"First time," she confirmed, trying not to fidget.

"I'm not… I'm not a fighter."

"Well, neither are other folks who walk through that door," he said, reaching under the desk and pulling out a thin stack of parchment.

"We've got herbalists, messengers, cooks, alchemists, scouts—hell, I registered a guy last week who said his job was 'holding ropes.'" Tessa blinked.

"Seriously?" He gave a shrug and an amused smile.

"Paid well, apparently. You don't need a sword to be useful." She relaxed a fraction. He set the stack in front of her.

"Alright. Full name, age, class, and your preferred job category. Don't worry if you're not sure what to pick—we'll talk through it." She reached for the quill.

"Tessa Goljen. Nineteen. Patchwork Crafter." That gave him a moment's pause.

"Rare class," he said, not judgmental—just curious.

"I know."

"Well. Bet you make a hell of a backup strap." He winked. She smiled, just a little.

"Welcome to the Guild, Tessa," he said, reaching beneath the desk and came up with two items: a small metal badge and a smooth, circular token the size of a plum. The badge was simple—oval-shaped and brass-toned, stamped with the Adventuring Guild's crest: a stylized mountain cleaved by a sword and a quill. Beneath it, her name had been etched in steady, system-clean script. Tessa Goljen – Initiate The token was heavier than it looked—made of some dark, cool metal, and inscribed with tiny runes around the edge.

There was a shallow notch in the center, like it was meant to be slotted into something.

"What's this for?" she asked, turning the token in her hand.

"It's your job token," the receptionist said.

"It records what you're registered for. When you complete a job, you take this to any Adventuring Guild hall and present it for payment. It's proof you're the one who took the contract." She nodded slowly, tucking the token into the side pocket of her satchel, then clipped the badge to her coat. It looked strange there—too official on someone who still smelled like hay and leather oil.

"Come on," the man said, stepping out from behind the desk.

"Let's see what we've got in the logbook." She followed him across the entry hall to a wide wooden board mounted to a post, where handwritten job listings were pinned beneath category signs carved directly into the wood. The edges were worn, the parchment corners curled, but everything was well-maintained. A thick, leather-bound ledger sat on a podium beside it.

The categories were as she remembered: Gathering – Escort – Delivery – Subjugation Each section held dozens of notices in tidy script, some still damp from the scribe's pen. Tessa lingered on Delivery, pulse quickening. The man raised a brow.

"Courier work?"

"I've done some unofficial jobs before. On foot." He nodded.

"Not uncommon. We've got a few open contracts that haven't been picked up yet. Low clearance needed. Take your pick." Tessa leaned in, eyes scanning the page.

"Parcel to West Garden District (Fragile)" – Low pay, short distance.

"Letter to Glassmaker's Hollow" – Slightly higher pay, requires discretion.

"Scroll Delivery to Outpost Vire (Time-Sensitive)" – Long distance, high pay.

"Writ to Merchant Bannershade (Requires courier clearance)" – Courier rank too low. Tessa squinted at the third one. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"Outpost Vire?" she murmured.

"That's… near the outer reaches." The man followed her gaze.

"Just opened up recently. Roads are rough—might be why the pay's generous." Tessa bit her lip.

"You thinking about it?"

"I could use the coin," she said. He studied her, then gave a thoughtful nod.

"It's a long run. Might take a couple of days. No escort, no mount rental unless you pay yourself. You'd be going in low-level."

"I've got a mount," she said, before she could second-guess herself. His eyebrows rose, impressed.

"Well then. If you're sure…" He didn't push. Just nodded and flipped open the ledger, writing her name into the appropriate line and date-stamping the token with a small brass seal from his belt. When he handed it back to her, the job was official. Registered Job: Scroll to Outpost Vire Client: Guild Dispatch – Authorized Branch Contact Deadline: 7 days from acceptance Reward: 11 silver base + completion bonus upon delivery She stared at the ink for a moment. Her name, in permanent record.

Her token, now carrying weight. Not just survival anymore. Direction. The man gave her a quiet smile.

"Safe road, Tessa." She nodded, fingers curling around the token. Now she just had to earn it. The receptionist disappeared for a moment into the back room, then returned with a slim, tightly sealed scroll.

"Here's your payload," he said, holding it out to her. Tessa took it carefully. The scroll was bound in dark ribbon and marked with a wax seal bearing the Adventuring Guild's emblem. No visible sender. No other markings. No idea what was inside. Not that it mattered. She wasn't being paid to know—just to carry. She slipped it into the inner sleeve pocket of her coat, where it nestled flat against her chest. Safe. Secure. Heavy.

The weight of her decision settled in as she stepped back out onto the street, the job token warm in her pocket, the scroll pressing into her side like a second pulse. She hadn't actually planned to take a job today. She was supposed to browse. Think. Wait. Instead, she'd signed up for a high-paying, long-distance delivery that would take her all the way to the fringe of the Empire. And she'd need to leave soon—probably by morning, if she wanted any chance of staying ahead of the deadline.

Panic fluttered behind her ribs. She hadn't prepped. She hadn't bought supplies. Larry's saddle wasn't finished. Her gear was patched together with Quick Mend and stubbornness. She didn't even know what she needed to pack.

"Okay," she whispered to herself as she walked quickly down the steps of the Guild and into the afternoon bustle.

"Okay. Materials first. Then the stablemaster." The leather shop wasn't far—just off the eastern square, down a narrow lane that always smelled like boiled glue and dye. She ducked inside, bartered quickly for what she needed: extra strapping, padded lining, new buckles. More than half her savings vanished in moments. But it was enough. Enough to remake the saddle. Enough to fit Larry. And enough to make this run possible.

She clutched the wrapped bundle of supplies against her chest as she jogged back toward the stables, breath short, heart racing. The sky was already beginning to shift, light fading into the golden tones of early evening. At the stable, she found the stablemaster near the tack wall, inspecting a cracked bridle. He looked up as she approached.

"I won't be in for a few days," she said before he could ask.

"I got a job. Adventuring Guild delivery." His eyes scanned her face, then the bundle in her arms. He gave a small grunt, not unkind.

"You'll be back?"

"I plan to." He nodded once.

"I'll hold your slot." Relief pulsed through her. She hadn't realized she'd been afraid of losing it.

"Thank you." She ducked into the stall where Larry was waiting—half-asleep and curled like a fat feathered boulder—and began mentally checking through her pack while he blinked awake. Food. Water. Bedroll. Tools. Spare thread. Knife. Saddle materials. A backup pair of socks? How many days? How much feed for Larry? Should she carry dried meat or try to forage? Would she need a second pair of boots? The questions came faster than she could answer them, crowding her thoughts.

Larry tilted his head at her, one beady eye fixed with mild confusion.

"Yeah," she muttered.

"I know. I didn't think this through." But she was in it now. And she'd figure it out. Because she had to. The last sliver of daylight had vanished by the time Tessa finished clearing the stall. A single lantern hung from a hook above, casting warm light over Larry's drowsy form and the small work area she'd carved out near the corner. The stable was quiet now—just the occasional rustle of straw and the low breathing of resting mounts.

Tessa knelt beside the rolled-up bundle she'd carried back from the leather shop, unwrapping it with care. The smell of fresh hide and metal buckles filled the air. The old saddle lay beside her, its stitching worn, its padding faded, and the straps far too short for the bird Larry had become. He watched her sleepily from his nest of straw, eyes half-lidded.

"You're too big for this now, you know," she murmured. He let out a soft huff of agreement. She got to work. Needle. Heavy thread. The fresh straps. She cut away the worn edges, measured new lengths, checked fittings twice over. Her fingers moved with practiced certainty, but there was a tension in her shoulders she couldn't shake. This wasn't just a patch job. This wasn't something she'd mend and forget. This mattered.

After nearly an hour of cutting, stitching, and reworking straps, Tessa sat back and eyed the saddle critically. It looked solid—better than solid. The fit was clean, the new padding even, the reinforced girth wide enough to sit snug against Larry's chest. But it still wasn't enough. She reached for her satchel lying in the corner and placed her hand on it.

"Sorry, old friend," she muttered. The faint glimmer along the seams faded as she released the Tinker's Touch enchantment. It had been useful—kept the satchel dry, kept the stitching from fraying—but now she needed that magic elsewhere. She turned back to the saddle, resting her hand on the freshly reinforced leather.

"Make this one count," she whispered. The skill activated with a quiet pull in her chest, the system responding with a faint warmth in her palm. Tinker Touch applied: Saddle (temporary buff – reinforced durability, minor stability assist) It was subtle. No glow, no fanfare. But she could feel it settle into the work—tension balanced, seams smoothed, the piece more resilient than it had any right to be. She exhaled and stood watching Larry doze beside her.

Quietly, careful not to wake him, and slipped out of the stable into the chill night air. The city was darker now, calmer—but her mind was still racing. Tessa ran through the empty streets, her breath misting in the cool night air. The city had quieted, but her thoughts hadn't. Her boots slapped against stone as she cut across narrow alleys and past shuttered storefronts, the saddle still fresh in her mind—done, imbued, ready. Now she needed the rest of it. The house greeted her with stillness.

The same way it always did. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, barely pausing to light a lantern before heading to her room. She pulled out her old pack from under the bed and dropped it onto the cot. It was worn, but the straps still held. She moved quickly—grabbing essentials first: one changes of clothes, a worn bedroll, flint and steel, her toolkit, a coil of cord, a tin of salve. Dried fruit, a bit of hard cheese, the last of the salted root chips.

She paused at her shelf, eyes scanning the books and little jars lined up neatly along the wall. What else? What was worth carrying? She reached out, touched the spine of a well-used field guide on plant-based tinctures, then pulled it free and added it to the pack. Then her hand stilled halfway to a jar of old buttons. Something was missing. She frowned, looking around the room. Then it hit her.

"The crossbow." She crossed to the narrow storage trunk and pulled it open, digging past scraps of worn leather and a wrapped cloth roll of spare tools. And there it was. Her hand crossbow. Small, light, and compact enough to sit under her arm, with a folding stirrup and a cracked grip she'd always meant to replace. But she still had the muscle memory and skill to help her. She checked the string, gave the limbs a slow pull. It would hold. She grabbed the bow, the maintenance kit beside it, and the spare string.

The rest of the night passed in silence. Tessa sat cross-legged at her worktable, lit only by a flickering oil lamp, shaping bolts one by one. She had only enough material for about twenty—half with sharpened metal heads, the rest fitted with hard-carved tips and fletched with whatever she had left. Crude, maybe, but they flew well enough. She didn't have any illusions about fighting. But if she needed to distract, disarm, or buy herself seconds, she would.

By the time she finished, the sky outside had just begun to fade to gray. Her eyes were raw. Her fingers stained with oil and glue. The bolts were neatly stacked in a leather quiver at her side. She looked around the room one last time. Whatever she hadn't packed, she didn't need. It was time to go.