"Some doors lead to adventure. Others just charge an entry fee."
The city gate loomed ahead—civilization or just bureaucracy in cosplay.
Kael adjusted the worn-out cloak on his shoulders and took a deep breath.
"No trouble. We get in, register, eat something halfway decent."
"And by 'decent' you mean food that doesn't glow in the dark?" Tharon hissed, dripping with sarcasm.
"It happened once!"
"It was last night."
The guard spotted them from afar and let out a sigh—the kind reserved for problematic regulars.
"Oh great... the disasters are back," the guard muttered, scratching his chin.
"Guild ID. Now."
Kael dug through his pockets, belt, backpack.
"Uh… it was here... I swear..."
"He swears," Tharon said theatrically.
"Must be right next to the brain he forgot to bring."
Finally, Kael pulled out a twisted, nearly rusted iron plate with a guild seal so faded it matched his dignity.
"Here it is."
"That was supposed to be straight."
"It was."
"How the hell do you bend an iron pass?!"
"Accidents happen."
"You slept on it again, didn't you?" Tharon jabbed.
The guard sighed so hard he nearly inhaled his own patience.
"Just go in before I change my mind. But don't make me regret this, Kael."
"Relax. This time will be different."
"You said that last time."
"And it was! That fire wasn't my fault!"
"It was your fault, Kael!" Tharon yelled.
"JUST GO IN!"
"Brilliant. Public humiliation by a city guard. Truly the chosen path of prophecy."
"Did you hear the way he talked to me? That was personal."
They passed through the gate, heads low.
"A grand entrance... if the goal was public shame," Tharon muttered, as they walked through the semi-chaotic streets.
Kael adjusted his cloak instinctively.
Something felt off.
Maybe it was the silence between the shouting.
Maybe the air, just a bit heavier than it should be.
And then, from absolutely nowhere, a ragged goblin appeared—wearing a suspicious grin and holding a weird-looking object.
"This stone… fell from the sky during a reverse eclipse. It glows… from inside your mind."
The "glow" was just a dirty, cracked piece of tile.
"Yeah, you're glowing alright. That liver's probably working overtime, uncle," Tharon shot back, sharp as ever.
"What does the stone do?" Kael asked, eyebrows raised.
"It does… if you believe it does."
Before they could reply, the goblin tripped and vanished in a blur—crashing into a cabbage cart and disappearing completely, leaving only the tile behind.
Kael picked it up, eyeing it with vague curiosity.
It wasn't pretty.
Didn't look valuable either.
But something about it itched.
Like an echo from something that never happened.
"You think this might actually be some kind of relic?" he muttered, not quite sure why he asked.
Tharon, never pulling punches:
"Did you not notice he was a scam artist, or are you just trying out a new kind of stupid?"
Kael closed his hand around the tile.
The itch didn't go away.
And as if the day hadn't already started off weird enough—
A hoarse voice rang out from a nearby stall:
"YESTERDAY'S BREAD! TAKE THREE, PAY FOR TWO! Chew enough and you won't even notice!"
Across the street, a huge orc in a grimy apron and boundless confidence (but questionable common sense) yelled back:
"TOMORROW'S BREAD! FRESH! Doesn't even exist yet, but it's already better!"
"My bread's real!" the first vendor shouted, unwilling to back down.
The orc burst into laughter:
"Real is easy! Selling what doesn't exist? That's skill!"
He held up an empty board like it was a masterpiece.
"This is future bread! Visionaries buy now!"
Meanwhile, a rat dashed between the two vendors. No one noticed.
In the middle of the nonsense, Kael whispered:
"I just wanted cheese."
He said it like a sacred plea to the wrong universe.
Tharon clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes like he'd just witnessed blasphemy.
"Cheese is a luxury for constipated nobles. We barely have coins to pay for expired hope, and you want cheese?"
"Just a little piece. The really smelly kind that burns your nose.
A sign there's still something rotten enough to be worth it."
They weaved through stalls, dodging shouts, rusty cans, and the warm stink of cabbage fermenting in the sun.
"Good cheese stinks. Just like life," Kael philosophized like a tired drunk.
"Or you're running a fever. Who knows," Tharon grumbled.
Kael kicked an empty bottle that bounced off a dwarf sleeping on the ground.
They passed a dried meat stall. A gnome was selling "winged pig ham" that looked more like boot sole than anything edible. Kael didn't even glance.
"Did you know my mom used to make cheese at home?" he said more to himself than to Tharon.
"She used goat's milk and patience. Both went sour pretty fast."
Tharon snorted but didn't answer right away.
The silence stretched for about three seconds—a record—before he broke it with a slap on Kael's shoulder.
"You're nostalgic. That's dangerous. People with soft memories end up buried or in debt. Sometimes both."
Kael stopped by a neglected flowerbed where herbs died of thirst and hope.
He looked at the tile piece in his hand for a moment. It didn't glow. Never did.
It should've weighed next to nothing, but right then it felt like a ton.
"Gonna make an altar for that now?" Tharon asked, impatient.
Without answering, Kael dropped the tile onto the bed.
A dry clack. Nothing happened. No magic, no glow.
Just the sound of something finally accepting what it was: trash.
"There. Made my offering," he said flatly.
"The goddess of uselessness thanks you for your contribution," Tharon said with a crooked smile.
Further ahead, the guild was already visible.
An ugly building, twisted iron, stone stairs, and a heavy door that looked designed to block entrance, exit, and hope all at once.
When they stopped in front of it, the world seemed to get quieter.
That kind of silence that comes just before pain—or a terrible deal.
Kael stared at the cold metal.
It separated him from whatever little was left.
And Tharon, loyal even in sarcasm, whispered:
"Let's go in, failure. The show must go on."
Kael stopped in front of the guild door. The cold metal under his palm felt heavier than it should. He took a deep breath. Pushed.
A golden flash escaped from the magical lamps hanging from the ceiling, revealing a crowded room full of adventurers, attendants, broke mercenaries, and drunks in denial.
The murmurs stopped for a second. Eyes turned.
"It's him…" someone muttered, cup halfway to their mouth.
"The fire guy?"
"The one who blew up the mill?"
"No, I think it was the stable."
"A failed hero, that's what he is," whispered another, loud enough to hurt.
Tharon jingled at Kael's back, satisfied.
Her voice, sharp as ever, slipped behind his neck:
"Look at you, more famous every day. Our great hero… of the fire."
"…"
"Or better yet," she continued, savoring the words, "the hero who caused the fire."
Kael didn't answer. Not because he didn't want to, but because his dignity was busy digging an invisible hole in the guild floor.
Tharon didn't stop.
"Go on, smile. Pretend you have honor. They love that part."
From the back of the hall, someone shouted:
"Hey, you arsonist! Here to torch another town or just looking for a quest?"
Laughter. A mug flew. Someone clapped.
Kael took a deep breath. He regretted not having died in the incident. Or the one before. Or before meeting Tharon.
The sword jingled again.
"Come on, steady steps. Pretend you're the protagonist."
Kael walked to the counter, each step heavy as if dragging the weight of all life's wrong choices.
He let out a dry sigh, like someone who already knows this conversation won't be pleasant.
"I'm here to turn in the quest," he said, throwing the scroll onto the counter.
"Defense of the village of Karthen. Goblins. Four."
"Four goblins… or four villages?" asked the attendant without looking up from the registry book.
Kael stayed silent for a second, his eye twitching.
"Four goblins. One village. It's written right there."
"It's written… but is it completed?"
Tharon vibrated like metal under pressure, outraged.
"He just said yes, you literate mole!"
The attendant slowly raised his eyes. Calm as ever.
He adjusted the crooked glasses on his nose—the only thing out of place in his meticulously calculated posture.
"And you are… the sword?"
"The sword that will cut your throat if you keep being stupid!"
"But who's the stupid one, the talking sword or the man talking to the sword?" the attendant replied, blinking like he just quoted Socrates.
"Idiot!" growled Tharon.
"Idiot who asks… or idiot who answers?"
Kael rubbed his face, tired.
"Just… give me the damn quest completion stamp."
"Physical stamp or existential one?"
Tharon squirmed in his sleeve.
"Let me cut him. Just once. One leg. It'll grow back."
The clerk shrugged, stamping the paper with a magical seal that released a little puff of blue smoke.
"Done. But does any quest ever truly end?"
"I'M GONNA RIP YOUR SOUL OUT THROUGH YOUR EAR."
"Tharon, breathe," Kael murmured.
"I don't have lungs, you idiot!"
The clerk looked at the scroll without lifting his eyes.
"Two silver coins for four goblins... and the satisfaction?"
Kael took the coins, tired.
"Money is money. What's next?"
The clerk shrugged again and said,
"Seven spitfire herbs. Ever wondered why they're called that?"
Tharon trembled in protest.
"If he philosophizes any more, I'll cut his tongue out."
Kael sighed.
"Let's go before this turns into a sermon."
Kael was already pushing the door open when a thin, high-pitched voice came out of nowhere. In the background, laughter and the sound of a glass hitting the floor. They stopped.
A man in a faded robe appeared, his eyes far too big to be normal.
"Ever heard of the Rat who ran away from the clock?"
"No?"
Silence. Kael blinked. Tharon just muttered something metallic.
"Yeah. He ran forward and backward at the same time, but never left the spot." The man took two steps, staring at the ceiling like he expected the rat to fall from there.
"They say he eats tomorrow's bread… but that bread is made from screaming silence, you know?"
Kael opened his mouth. Closed it again. Decided to stay quiet.
"Oh, and watch out for the shadow with no owner," the stranger continued, now almost whispering.
"It wanders around stealing memories no one's lost."
Tharon grumbled,
"I've seen weapons with more sanity than this guy."
"Some swear the shadow and the rat meet every time time forgets to exist," the man concluded, crossing his arms.
"Or maybe… it's just an excuse for whoever lost their cheese in the middle of the night."
He blinked. Twice. Turned and vanished into the night as if he'd never been there.
Kael looked at Tharon.
— "Are we... just going to ignore that?"
— "With all our might."
It was already night when they left the guild.
The streets were empty, except for laughter coming from some nearby tavern.
The smell of roasted meat poked at Kael's stomach, but he pretended not to notice.
— "So... can we rent a room now?" — Tharon asked.
Kael counted his coins. Counted again. Sighed.
— "Can barely buy tomorrow's bread..." — he said, dry.
They exchanged another resigned glance before moving on.
The stable was dark, but quiet — the bare minimum for anyone just wanting to forget their hunger.
The smell of old hay, manure, and defeat greeted them with open arms.
Kael lay down between two barrels, pulling his cloak up to his chin. His stomach growled, empty.
Tharon tinkled softly.
— "Go to sleep already, hero. Maybe you'll dream of a feast."
Kael closed his eyes.
The scent of hay almost disguised the hunger. Almost.
— "Only if it'stomorrow's bread."*
And the silence fell, heavy.
Between hay and silence, the hero fell asleep.
No bread. No promise.
Only the emptiness growling where dreams should live.
End of Chapter 2