The workshop didn't slow down just because Mauve arrived.
The cart creaked as the horse stopped inside the fence. Workers moved to unstrap rope and guide logs into place like they'd done it a thousand times. The air filled with the dull, comforting rhythm of labor—boots on wood, rope sliding, mallets thumping wedges.
Mauve stood beside the cart like he'd simply wandered in from a nap.
Dust clung to his clothes. His hair was a mess that looked intentional only because it never changed. His eyes stayed half-lidded, but they weren't dull. When he looked around, he looked like someone who noticed everything and simply didn't care to react.
Bruen had stepped aside and left me a clear line to Mauve, like this was my job now.
Mauve waited.
Patient.
Lazy.
His hand went up to rub his chin as if he was trying to remember what problem I belonged to.
I swallowed, feeling my ribs pull slightly under my shirt.
Say it right. Say it simple. Don't sound desperate. Don't say too much.
I stepped forward and bowed, because politeness was safe.
"My name is Trey," I said. "Trey Austere."
Mauve's brows rose a fraction, like he'd expected me to introduce myself as "kid with the sling."
"Trey," he repeated, tasting it like a name he might forget. "Alright. What do you want, kid?"
His voice had that older-sibling roughness—like he might flick your forehead and then feed you if you looked hungry.
I kept my tone careful.
"I need an escort," I said. "For a gathering quest."
Mauve's hand kept rubbing his chin. He leaned closer, squinting, not in threat—more like he was trying to see if I was serious.
"Gathering," he said slowly. "Herbs and all that?"
"Yes," I said quickly. "Primrose Forest. It's the nearest safe gathering area."
"Nearest and safest," Mauve repeated. "That's what they all say."
I held my breath, trying not to react.
If he turned me down, I'd have to go back to the guild before the day ended and try my luck with strangers. Maybe beg someone at the board. Maybe offer coin I didn't have. Maybe get laughed at.
Mauve straightened a little, still rubbing his chin.
"I don't know, kid," he said, voice dragging like he didn't want to commit to effort. "Guild rules say you need someone with a rank high enough to take you out. I don't know if I can—"
The way he said it made my stomach tighten.
Not because he sounded weak.
Because he sounded like he was dodging the question.
I couldn't help myself. I tried to ask without asking.
"Are you… in the guild?" I said carefully. "Like—do you have a rank?"
Mauve sighed like I'd asked him to recite a poem.
His chin-rubbing paused.
Then he muttered, almost bored, "Yeah. Had one."
He lifted his eyes to mine.
"B," he said.
The letter hit my brain and didn't make sense at first.
Then it did.
My chest tightened.
B-rank was… ridiculous. That was real adventurer territory. That was the kind of rank people bragged about and fought over. That was the kind of rank that usually came with ego big enough to block sunlight.
It was a full rank above Myrina.
The thought jumped in like a knife—fast, sharp—and I shoved it down before it could twist into something visible on my face.
Mauve watched my expression change anyway, as if he'd seen this reaction before.
I felt suddenly small.
Smaller than my height.
Smaller than my sling.
Smaller than my coin pouch.
My mouth opened to apologize. To back away. To say I didn't mean to waste his time.
Before the words came out, Mauve raised one hand like he was stopping an annoying conversation.
"Don't do that," he said.
I blinked. "Do what?"
"Look like you're about to cry or grovel or whatever kids do," he said, then yawned mid-sentence like even his own advice bored him. "Rank doesn't matter to me."
The words didn't fit.
I frowned. "It doesn't?"
Mauve snorted. "Kid, I don't take guild work anymore. I keep the badge because it opens gates and keeps idiots from trying to mug me."
That was the most practical explanation I'd ever heard.
"And," he added, voice flat, "I'm retired. So don't stare at me like I'm a hero."
Retired.
He didn't look old enough to be retired. Late twenties, maybe. He looked like someone who should still be climbing ranks, not stepping away from them.
My curiosity flared, but I strangled it immediately.
I didn't want to pry.
Everyone had reasons.
Some reasons were sharp.
I swallowed and steadied my voice.
"So…" I tried. "Would you help me?"
Mauve looked up at the roof beams like the answer might be written there.
His chin-rubbing returned, thoughtful in the laziest possible way.
"Hmmm," he hummed.
Then he asked, "Primrose Forest, right?"
"Yes," I said.
"Nearest safe gathering area," he repeated, making it sound like a joke.
I didn't laugh.
Mauve sighed. "I'm not sure about this," he said, which sounded like him preparing to refuse.
My heart sank.
Then he added, "But it might be my chance to chill a little."
A worker nearby—strapping logs—snorted loudly.
"Mauve!" the man called. "You can't use a kid as an excuse to laze around!"
Mauve didn't even turn his head. "Whoops," he said blandly. "I'm helping him. How is that lazy?"
Another worker laughed. "Helping him is fine. But go talk to the Big Boss first, or you'll be mauled."
The word mauled made me stiffen.
Mauve's lazy face went pale so fast it was almost magical.
He stopped rubbing his chin.
He stared into the distance like he'd seen his own funeral.
Then he sighed, long and defeated.
"Sure," he muttered. "Sure. I'll go."
He waved one hand at me—lazy, commanding, like he was gathering a stray dog.
"Come on, kid."
I blinked. "Where?"
"Big Boss," Mauve said, already walking. "He decides if I can go with you or not."
My stomach flipped.
Big Boss.
Bruen's father.
The man everyone respected enough to joke about like he was a monster. The man who could apparently make Mauve—B-rank Mauve—turn pale.
I was scared.
And, weirdly, excited.
I glanced at Bruen.
He fell into step behind us without a word, like he'd been planning to follow the entire time.
We walked toward the warehouse building at the edge of the compound.
Mauve moved like he wanted to nap standing up, but his pace was steady and sure. Bruen walked like he was used to being near loud machines and heavier men. I followed, trying not to limp, trying not to look like a kid asking adults to solve his problems.
The warehouse door creaked open.
We stepped inside.
The air smelled of sawdust and stored timber, and the sound of the workshop dulled behind thick walls.
A staircase rose to the second floor.
Mauve climbed it without hurry. Bruen followed. I went last, one hand on the railing because my ribs didn't trust me fully yet.
At the top, there was only one door—straight ahead, plain wood, no decoration.
Mauve knocked.
A faint voice came from inside.
"Come in."
Deep. Gravelly. The kind of voice that could command people without raising volume.
Mauve straightened, suddenly less lazy.
Bruen's posture sharpened too.
Mauve opened the door.
And we stepped into the Big Boss's room.
***
The room wasn't huge.
It didn't need to be.
It was packed with work the way a mind was packed with plans.
Papers stacked in uneven towers. A large drawing board on a stand, covered in lines and measurements. Notes pinned to the wall—small sketches, lists, wood types, tool inventories. There were strings marking corners on one blueprint like someone had argued with the paper and won.
My eyes drifted to the wall beside the drawing board.
A framed certificate hung there—cleaner than anything else in the room, as if someone had decided that this one piece of paper had to survive every storm.
The letters were bold and formal, the kind of writing you didn't see on casual notes.
Harven NorrisCertificate of Ownership — Norris Carpentry Works
There was an official Azuris seal pressed into the bottom, dark ink and authority stamped into the paper like it could bite.
So this was the Big Boss.
Not just a nickname the workers liked to throw around.
A real name. A real owner. The man whose workshop filled half the compound outside.
I looked back to the desk.
The man sat in front of the drawing board, and he didn't look up right away. His pencil kept moving—steady, practiced—like his hand could keep working even if his attention was somewhere else.
Even sitting, he looked tall. Broad. Built like the kind of person who could lift a beam without asking for help. A sleeveless shirt showed thick arms that didn't look like "training" muscle, but years of labor muscle. Thin hair, thin beard—nothing fancy, nothing cared-for.
His eyes lifted only slightly, just enough to acknowledge we'd entered.
"What is it," he said, voice deep and gravelly, "that you've climbed up here for?"
Mauve—who had been yawning five minutes ago—stood straighter than I'd seen him stand at all.
He bowed his head slightly, respectful.
"Big Boss," Mauve said, and the name sounded half joke and half prayer. He pointed at me with one finger. "This kid wants me to escort him to Primrose for a gathering run."
The Big Boss's pencil didn't stop.
His eyes shifted to me.
They squinted.
Not unkindly.
Assessing.
I could feel his gaze scan my sling, the bandages, the way I held my ribs without thinking.
"Who's this kid?" he asked.
From behind Mauve, Bruen stepped forward.
"He's my friend," Bruen said.
The Big Boss's eyes slid to Bruen.
"Your friend?" he repeated, half question.
"Yes, Dad," Bruen said, voice steady.
So this was it.
Harven Norris.
The Big Boss.
Bruen's father.
Harven's pencil finally paused, just for a breath. Then it resumed, as if the answer hadn't changed his work schedule.
Bruen explained in short, blunt sentences—like he was nailing facts into place.
"He wants to go outside the wall," Bruen said. "Guild rules. Needs escort. Errand work inside isn't enough."
Harven's mouth moved—barely—like a growl suppressed behind teeth.
"Grrh."
It wasn't anger. Not really.
More like this is a problem the world makes too often.
His eyes returned to me.
"Where are your parents?" he asked.
The question hit hard.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it was direct, like a foreman checking who was responsible if a kid got hurt on the job.
I looked down, choosing my words carefully.
"I don't have any," I said quietly.
Harven's pencil scratched. No comment.
"And who's responsible for you?" he asked.
I swallowed.
"It's just me," I said.
Harven's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Where do you live?" he asked. "You homeless or what?"
My cheeks warmed, but I kept my voice steady.
"I have a small house near the guild," I said. "It belonged to my sister."
Harven's pencil stopped.
"Sister," he repeated, and the word was rougher this time. "Where is she?"
My throat tightened.
I felt the old reflex rise—to lie, to hide, to keep names safe.
But if I lied too hard, it would look strange. It would look like I was hiding something worth prying open.
And I couldn't afford that.
So I chose truth without the dangerous parts.
"She's… missing," I said, voice low. "In the dungeon."
I didn't say which one.
I didn't say Expedition 43.
I didn't say the number that made adults turn into locked doors.
Harven's eyes stayed on me. For a second, his pencil didn't move.
Then he grunted.
"Hmph."
This grunt sounded different from the earlier ones.
Not confusion.
Understanding.
"So," he said, voice quieter, "you need money."
"Yes," I admitted.
I forced the rest out before my courage slipped away.
"My rank is still low," I said. "I can't take gathering quests outside the wall alone. And inside-wall errands… it's not enough to buy even the cheapest proper food."
Harven's eyes stayed on me for a long moment. The room felt smaller the longer he measured me—my sling, my ribs, the fact that I was standing here asking for something that wasn't meant for kids.
My throat tightened, but I held still.
Mauve was silent beside me, his usual lazy air gone, like even he understood this wasn't a joke anymore. Bruen stood behind us, solid and wordless, as if his presence could somehow make this request less reckless.
I swallowed once, and waited for the answer that would decide whether today was a step forward… or a dead end.