Part I: Valuable Assets
The Guild hall was an echoing cavern in the early morning light.
Lyra sat alone at their table, methodically working her way through a plate of eggs and bacon.
Emethriel approached like a ghost, his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight, and took the seat opposite her.
He looked as though he hadn't slept, his eyes hollowed out and haunted.
Lyra didn't look up from her plate. "You're D-rank," she began, her voice cold and sharp, devoid of pleasantry. "Explain to me what you were doing in the Southern Expanse."
"We got lost," Emethriel mumbled to the tabletop, the words empty of energy.
Lyra's fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
She finally met his gaze, and her eyes held no sympathy. "No Halfling ever gets lost."
The accusation struck him like a physical blow.
He looked up, his face crumpling, a desperate battle against tears making his throat work.
"I pushed them," he choked out, the words a painful confession. "We were bleeding coin... tired of sleeping in the cold, of taking missions that barely paid for our rations. My greed..."
He swallowed hard, the word tasting like poison. "...My greed got them killed."
Lyra's interrogation wasn't finished.
"Greed doesn't send a D-rank party to Dragon's Cliff. That's a suicide mission. You could have hunted lesser beasts anywhere in the Expanse and still turned a profit. Why there?"
Emethriel flinched. "I had a tip," he whispered.
"What tip?"
"A man... in a tavern. I overheard him boasting. He said there was a dragon's egg. Unattended."
Emethriel reached into his pack and, with trembling hands, began to pull out a large, curved fragment.
It wasn't just red; it was the color of a ruby held to a flame, shimmering with a faint, internal heat even in the dim light of the hall.
Lyra's eyes widened.
"Gods," she breathed, her voice dropping to a low, heavy whisper. "Put that away."
She leaned forward. "Do you have any idea what that is? That's a castle. And in this part of the world, that's a knife in your back in a dark alley."
Emethriel looked at the priceless artifact, then pushed it across the table. "Take it."
Lyra stared at him, bewildered. "Why?"
"You saved my life," he said, a pained, broken smile touching his lips. "It's yours. Maybe... maybe this is my penance. To stay poor. To remember what it cost."
For the first time, Lyra's expression softened.
The hard-edged commander receded, replaced by the weary veteran. "Emethriel," she said, her voice now quiet but firm. "What's our Creed?"
He looked up, a lost pup searching for a command. "The dead…" he began, his voice cracking. He bowed his head, unable to finish.
"…are no companions for the living," Lyra finished for him, the words a stark, fundamental truth of their profession.
She pushed the scale fragment back toward him.
"I'm not foolish enough to turn down a fortune. But this is more than compensation for a life. I don't like being in anyone's debt."
Emethriel stared, utterly confused.
A small, wry smile touched Lyra's lips for the first time. "So I'll have to hire you instead. Join us."
The offer was so unexpected it seemed to physically stun him. "Why?" he stammered, his voice quivering.
Lyra leaned back, her pragmatic mask firmly in place again.
"Don't get sentimental. Having a Halfling is a strategic asset. You people know the secret paths, the whispers on the trade winds. You're a walking beast compendium and a capable halfling can carry a tonne of weight. In a few months, the Dawnbreakers are leaving Qesh. We're going on a long, hard hunt. We'll need someone with your skills."
"But I—" he started, about to drown in his own guilt again.
"Don't overthink it," Lyra cut him off, but her tone was gentler now.
"You'll have a roof over your head, a hot meal in your belly, and…"
Her gaze drifted toward the stairs, where Brimor, Aeris, Arthur, and Ingrid were just descending, a chaotic, mismatched collection of figures ready to start their day. Emethriel's own eyes followed hers.
"...and a place to heal," she finished, her voice barely a whisper.
He watched them approach—the stoic dwarf, the aloof elf, the two broken children who were somehow, slowly, putting themselves back together.
He looked back at Lyra, and for the first time in days, the horror in his eyes was replaced by a flicker of something else. Hope.
He stood, his posture a little straighter. "Thank you," he said, the words thick with an emotion he couldn't name.
"For everything. I'll... I'll go get my things from the inn."
As Emethriel departed, the four others reached the table and began to settle in for their morning meal, a new, quiet member now a part of their broken family.
Part II : The Dragon's Dowry
Brimor and Aeris took their seats, and a moment later, Lilia was there to take their orders.
But before Brimor could grunt his usual request for ale and meat, he caught the look on Lyra's face.
It was an expression he hadn't seen in years—a manic, irrepressible energy that made her eyes glow like forge embers.
She was staring at him, a smirk on her lips that was less a smile and more a challenge, daring him to ask.
The stoic dwarf tried to ignore it, focusing on his empty stein.
But the stare was a physical weight. He finally let out a low growl of surrender. "Spit it out, Lyra. You're practically vibrating. It's unsettling."
Arthur and Ingrid, who had been focused on their plates, looked up, sensing the shift in the air.
"Oh, it's nothing," Lyra said, her voice dripping with feigned innocence as she nonchalantly placed a heavy, rolled-up leather bundle on the table with a solid thud.
Brimor's eyes narrowed. He watched as she unrolled the leather, revealing the dragon's egg scale fragment.
The dwarf's stoicism didn't just crack; it shattered.
He let out a sharp, incredulous breath, his eyes widening as he leaned forward, forgetting his ale, his breakfast, everything. "Gods and stone," he whispered, his voice rough with disbelief. "Is that…?"
"It is, old friend," Lyra grinned, savoring the moment.
"How? Where in the blazes did you—"
"The halfling that just left."
"Emethriel?" Brimor's surprise was compounded.
"You know him?" Lyra asked
"He and his party pulled me from a tight spot in the woods years back,"
Brimor rumbled, his gaze still fixed on the impossible artifact. "How did a D-ranker get his hands on this?"
Lyra's smile faded. "I saved him. His party didn't make it."
A shadow passed over Brimor's face. "So Korbin's gone. A good axe. May his forge-fire never cool."
Arthur and Ingrid exchanged a bewildered look, utterly lost.
"He's joining us," Lyra added quietly.
"Good lad," Brimor grunted, his craftsman's mind already taking over.
"Impulsive, but his heart's in the right place. Competent scout."
He looked back at the scale, his grief for a fallen adventurer giving way to the focused passion of a master artisan.
His hands, thick and calloused, hovered over the scale as if it were a holy relic. He took a few deep breaths, his mind clearly at work.
"It's large enough," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone.
"Two cuirasses. " He glanced at Arthur and Ingrid, who were now pointedly trying not to stare.
"The rest… I can flake it, grind it to powder, and bond it with the Elderthorn sinew. A bow that would never warp, never lose its tension. A weapon for a lifetime."
He paused. "There will be shavings left. I can bond a thin shell to your blade, and a pair of daggers, maybe two if we are lucky."
"The dust," Aeris interjected, her quiet voice cutting through the planning.
She hadn't looked up from her book, but her attention was clearly elsewhere. "If the purity is high enough after your work, it is the final catalyst for the Adamant Brew."
Lyra's head snapped toward her, her eyes wide. "Truly?"
"Theoretically," Aeris replied, finally closing her book. "The original texts are… interpretive. But the potential exists."
"Don't you worry about purity," Lyra said, a fierce pride in her voice as she clapped Brimor on the shoulder. "There are maybe three smiths in the whole of the Runic Pass who can work a forge better than this stubborn blockhead."
A rare, deep rumble of a chuckle vibrated in the dwarf's chest—the closest he ever came to a boast.
He looked at the two children. "You two know the regimen. I'll be occupied. Train yourselves."
They both nodded affirmatively.
"I'll oversee them," Lyra interjected. "Don't you worry."
Brimor finished his meal in three large gulps, then stood, his purpose clear.
He carefully wrapped the scale and took the bag.
Thorgar, having heard the commotion, joined him. "Stonemason's Quarter?" he asked.
Brimor just grunted an affirmative, and the two warriors headed for the door, their steps heavy with purpose.
As they left, Arthur finally spoke up. "Lyra, what was all that about?"
She looked at her brother, her good mood fully restored, and winked. "That, little brother, is a surprise."
The rest of the meal passed in a strange, charged silence.
Lyra was lost in the golden possibilities the scale represented;
Arthur and Ingrid were lost in the familiar, anxious calculus of the training ahead;
and Aeris had produced a different, much older tome, its pages filled with the spidery script of an ancient alchemical recipe.
Just as they were finishing, two figures stepped through the Guild's doors, their silhouettes stark against the bright morning light, walking toward their table with a familiar, easy stride.