When they finally arrived, the first thing they noticed about Ashvale was the wall. It was massive—thick slabs of dark, weather-beaten stone reinforced with metal beams that had long since rusted from the constant damp. The walls didn't look elegant or even uniform, just functional. As if someone had built them while under siege and kept piling stone until it felt safe enough to breathe again. Spikes of wood jutted out unevenly along the upper ridges, and sentries paced behind them with slow, deliberate steps, their bows slung low and crossbows cocked.
The second thing they noticed was the gate: thick iron bars with layered wood, reinforced with layers of overlapping metal plates. It was shut tight like the lid of a tomb.
Bral whistled low under his breath. "Well… that's not exactly what I'd call a warm welcome."
Idin gave him a dry glance. "What do you expect? This region is practically the stomach of a beast. No roads, no merchant routes, and barely any daylight without something trying to kill you."
As they approached, the snap of a crossbow made everyone freeze.
A guard on the parapet had his weapon pointed directly at them, eyes narrowed. "Hey! You lot. State your business."
Amukelo stepped forward, calmly raising his guild badge in the air. "We're adventurers," he said, his voice steady but not threatening. "We've come regarding a quest."
Bral stepped up beside him and unrolled a weather-beaten scroll of parchment, the official quest seal pressed at the bottom. "We were dispatched by the association. Official work."
The guards on the wall looked at each other. There was a quiet moment, then one waved a hand behind him. A few moments later, with a loud series of clunks and grinding gears, the gate began to creak open.
The inside of Ashvale wasn't particularly pretty, but it was alive. Cobbled streets—if they could be called that—were made from whatever stones had been hauled in from the hills. The houses were squat, heavily built things with metal-reinforced shutters and sloped roofs to repel rainfall. Tents lined some of the inner streets, and small market stalls had been set up wherever there was space. Even with all of it, the whole town felt like it had grown sideways rather than up, spreading like a moss colony clinging to survival.
A soldier approached them as they stepped past the gate. His armor looked beaten and patched in places, but his stance was confident, relaxed but alert. He stopped a few feet from them and glanced at the group.
"Word of advice," he said. "Don't go blabbing about the quest. It's messier than it looks on paper. If you want to get real info, talk to the other adventurers."
Bral raised a brow. "Other adventurers?"
The soldier nodded. "Two of 'em. Only ones still bothering with this cursed job, really. Most people give up before they step foot in this town. These two stuck around, and from what I've heard, they've figured out quite a bit."
"Then why haven't they dealt with it already?" Idin asked, folding his arms.
"Because they don't want to get into too much trouble," the soldier answered. "They're cautious. Don't talk much, but I've seen them take notes, investigate, ask around. Not many stick around long enough to do that. They might talk to you, if they think you're serious."
Amukelo smiled. "That's… actually really helpful. Thank you."
Idin sighed into his hand.
Pao giggled behind them, and the soldier chuckled. "Well, I'm not helping you out of kindness. If you lot can finish this thing, then that's fewer deaths on our end. It's in my interest too."
Bral nodded. "Still, thanks. That's more than we usually get."
"Don't thank me yet," the guard said. "You still have to survive it."
Bral asked one more thing. "How will we know who these adventurers are?"
"Easy," the soldier said. "Older man, maybe mid-fifties. Hair's gone grey, but he walks like someone who hasn't lost a step. The other's a kid—can't be older than eighteen. Brown hair, pale, sharp eyes. Wears a leather coat. You'll find them eventually. Stay at the inn or the pub, and they'll cross your path."
"Appreciate it," Bral said.
The soldier gave a half-nod and turned back toward the gate.
As they made their way further into town, Idin glanced around. "Well, that narrows it down. An old man and a teen in a town filled with exhausted villagers. Should be easy."
Bral grinned. "Better than nothing. At least we don't have to start from scratch."
They turned toward the main road of the village. There weren't many signs, but a rough carving on a stone block pointed toward a single building that looked marginally more cared for than the others.
"The pub," Bral said with a satisfied sigh. "Perfect."
Bao sniffed the air. "Hopefully no one's vomiting in buckets this time."
She cast a sidelong glare at Bral.
"Hey, I've retired," Bral said, raising a hand in mock surrender. "Drinking contests are behind me."
Pao giggled. "Until the next town."
The pub was warm, noisy, and full of the scent of slow-cooked stew, ale, and wet cloaks drying near the hearth. Idin was hunched over his bowl, shoveling food into his mouth like a man who hadn't eaten in days.
"No one looks like what the soldier described," Amukelo said, glancing around between spoonfuls.
Idin didn't even look up. "Give them time. They're probably doing their job, not stuffing their face like us." He paused to raise another spoonful, then sighed with satisfaction. "This stew is awesome. Didn't expect that from a place that looks like this."
Amukelo tilted his head, eyeing the room again. Most of the patrons were locals—hard-faced workers, weathered farmers, the kind of people who looked like they'd fought off beasts with pitchforks more than once. Nothing out of the ordinary. "Still," he muttered, "you'd think two people that distinctive would stand out."
Pao sipped from her mug, half-listening, while Bao just leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, watching the room like she expected someone to cause trouble any second.
Then Amukelo, who had been fiddling with the rim of his cup, asked, "By the way… how did people even build this town here? In the middle of nowhere, surrounded by monsters, no roads, no nothing?"
Idin—still chewing—mumbled, "Probably 'cause they're close to Durtharak."
Amukelo looked at him, unimpressed. "I barely understood that."
Idin swallowed hard and waved a hand. "Durtharak. Dwarf territory. The mountains to the far west. Dwarves build in places nobody else would even consider. Underground, on cliff faces, middle of monster territory—they love a challenge. If this village has dwarf ties, that'd explain it."
Amukelo raised an eyebrow. "Hard to imagine dwarves setting up trade with humans in this wasteland."
"They don't," Idin said with a shrug. "Not usually. But they might trade knowledge. Tools. Maybe even protection for a price. Who knows. Honestly, I'm too tired to care."
"You're also stuffing your face like a starving raccoon," Bao muttered.
"I'm a noble," Idin mumbled through another bite.
"You don't look like one." Amukelo said flatly.
Idin just gave a muffled grunt.
Then, the bell above the pub door jingled as two figures entered.
Amukelo turned toward them, then straightened in his seat. "Oh, that's them. Hundred percent."
Idin looked without much interest, still chewing. "What's the rush? They're not going anywhere."
Amukelo ignored him and kept watching.
The first figure was young—no more than sixteen, maybe even younger. His face was sharp, elegant without being delicate. Brown hair framed his face. His cloak was clean, even pristine, and his posture was too disciplined to belong to anyone but someone trained since early childhood.
Beside him walked an older man with the weight of hard roads in his steps. His coat was long, stained and weathered, but reinforced in a way that made it clear this man expected danger at every turn. Maps and scrolls were tucked into the belts crossing his chest, his boots polished despite their wear. His face, partly hidden by a deep blue scarf, was aged more by tension than years—his grey hair tied back in a rough knot, white streaks threading from the temples.
Without a word, they took a seat at a side table and placed their order with the server like it was routine.
Bral pushed his plate away, wiped his mouth, and stood. "Let's go," he said.
They crossed the room, and Bral approached with his usual confidence, offering a hand.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Bral," he said. "Mind if we sit?"
The younger boy didn't answer. Instead, he looked at the older man, who stood up and shook Bral's hand with a steady grip.
"Sure," the man said. "Name's Jinrai. He's Tharion."
The boy nodded once in silent greeting, eyes curious but unreadable.
"What brings you here?" Jinrai asked.
Bral slid into the seat opposite, already gesturing for the others to follow. "We're adventurers. We came regarding the quest. We heard you might have learned a thing or two about what's going on in this place."