We returned to Highridge long after midnight. The gates were still open, but the guards only gave us a passing glance as we trudged through—our boots caked in mud, our cloaks stiff with dried ichor.
Arya said nothing for most of the walk. She just kept her hood pulled low, her pace steady, her hand always near her dagger. I could tell she was thinking about the creature in the crypt—just as I was.
The guild hall itself was quiet when we pushed through the doors. A few apprentices dozed by the hearth. A lone attendant scribbled something into a ledger at the front desk and barely looked up when we dropped the rolled proof-of-kill parchment onto the counter.
But before he could even speak, another voice called from the balcony above.
"Holt. Moran. Upstairs. Now."
We both froze at the sound of it.
The guildmaster herself.
Arya shot me a quick look, then straightened her cloak and started up the stairs. I followed her up into the private offices, my legs heavier with every step.
We found her waiting in a room lined with bookshelves, papers scattered across her oak desk. A pair of silver-rimmed spectacles sat low on her nose, though her sharp green eyes glimmered at us like a hawk's.
She gestured to two chairs across from her.
"Sit."
We obeyed.
For a long moment, she just stared at us, her fingers steepled under her chin.
Then she spoke, her voice soft but cutting all the same.
"So. You found it."
Arya reached into her satchel and set a small cloth bundle on the desk. The guildmaster unfolded it to reveal one of the creature's claws—black, curved, still glistening faintly even now.
The guildmaster's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Charming," she murmured. Then she set it aside and leaned back in her chair.
"Do you know what it was?"
I shook my head. Arya didn't answer either.
The guildmaster's gaze swept between us.
"They're called duskspawn," she said finally. "An old name. From the border wars. You wouldn't know it, of course—because the guild's spent the better part of thirty years keeping the public from learning just how many of them are still out there."
My chest tightened.
"You're saying there are more?" I asked.
Her eyes flicked to me, then softened—just barely.
"There are always more," she said quietly.
For the first time, Arya spoke.
"Why send us?" she demanded. "If you knew what we'd find, why not send a full team?"
The guildmaster's gaze hardened again.
"Because you're expendable," she said flatly. "You want to wear our crest? Earn your place here? This is the work. And if you can't handle it, you're welcome to leave before it kills you."
Her words hit like a blade through the ribs. But I held her stare and said nothing.
At last she stood, smoothing her coat.
"You've done well enough for a pair of greenbloods," she said. "Get some sleep. Report to the yard at dawn. There's a caravan in need of escort through the Ashvale passes. If you're still standing after that… maybe I'll start calling you proper guild apprentices."
We stood and bowed stiffly before leaving.
---
The bunkroom was dark and quiet when we finally collapsed onto our cots.
Arya lay with her hands folded behind her head, staring at the ceiling.
I lay on my side, staring at nothing.
After a long silence, she spoke.
"You believe her? About… there always being more?"
I thought of the creature's black eyes in the crypt. The sound of its claws scraping stone.
"Yes," I said.
She didn't say anything else.
Eventually I drifted into a restless sleep, my dreams filled with whispers and the glint of claws in the dark.
---
Morning came all too soon.
We assembled in the guild yard with the others, the fog still clinging to the stones as the caravan leader shouted instructions.
Two wagons. Four horses. A dozen crates of supplies bound for Ashvale.
And bandits, wolves, and worse waiting in the passes.
The guildmaster watched us from her balcony as we mounted up. Her green eyes followed me all the way out of the gate.
She didn't wave.
She didn't smile.
But somehow, I knew this was another test.
And I swore to myself—this time, we'd come back alive.