The city was strange.
Not a ruin, not a sanctuary, but a militant outpost carved from steel and stone. The streets were orderly, patrolled by soldiers with sharp eyes and stricter discipline. Dozens wore standard military gray, but more impressive were the figures in black armor, each adorned with a glowing pendant denoting their rank.
Adventurers.
Not one pendant was below diamond.
He passed a trio gathered outside a tavern—two with twin daggers, one with a massive cleaver slung across his back. Their pendants gleamed like stars, and their movements were lazy, confident, lethal.
Argolaith quickened his pace.
Soon, he reached a wide stone building marked by an iron sigil: the image of a sword plunging through a mountain.
The Adventurers Guild.
He stepped inside.
The main hall was loud and alive. Soot-dark chandeliers hung from high rafters, casting gold light over long tables, stacks of bounty posters, and a bar filled with hardened warriors drinking at midday.
