Rowan didn't go back to the house right away.
Instead, he walked.
The village was livelier now than it had been earlier. Voices carried through the air—laughter, arguments, the clatter of tools and footsteps on stone. Life in Arias moved with a rhythm that felt practiced, as if the world had been turning this way long before Rowan arrived.
He kept his hands in his pockets and his senses open.
The strange thing was how easy it was to feel people.
Not their emotions. Not their thoughts.
Their presence.
Most felt ordinary—solid, grounded, unremarkable. But a few stood out, faintly brighter, like embers hidden beneath ash. Magic users. Not powerful, but trained enough to leave a trace.
Rowan looked away quickly whenever he noticed one.
So this is normal here, he thought. Magic isn't rare. Control is.
That didn't make him feel better.
He stopped near a stall where an older man was selling dried meat and simple tools. Two adventurers stood nearby, their voices low but animated.
"…telling you, it wasn't a beast," one of them said. "No tracks. No blood. Just a crater."
"A spell gone wrong?" the other guessed.
"Too clean for that."
Rowan slowed his steps, listening without turning his head.
"Guild's already put out notices," the first man continued. "Anything that leaves marks like that isn't something villagers should deal with."
The word came up again.
Guild.
Rowan moved on, pretending he hadn't heard anything.
He passed a small group of children chasing each other through the street, their laughter sharp and carefree. For a moment, the tension in his chest eased.
This was a real place.
Not a stage. Not a test.
People lived here.
And that meant consequences.
Rowan exhaled slowly.
I can't just hide, he realized. Not forever.
The presence he'd felt earlier hadn't returned—but the memory of it lingered like an afterimage. Something ancient had noticed him. Whether it would act or not was uncertain.
But waiting blindly felt worse than moving forward.
Rowan's gaze lifted—and stopped.
At the center of the village stood a building unlike the others.
It was larger, built of stone rather than wood, with wide doors reinforced by iron bands. A simple emblem was carved above the entrance: a crossed blade and staff, worn smooth by time.
The Adventurer Guild.
People came and went freely. Some laughed. Some argued. Some looked exhausted.
All of them looked like they belonged.
Rowan stood across the street, staring.
Structure, he thought. Rules. Records.
If anyone could tell him how this world worked—without asking too many questions—it would be a place like that.
And if anyone noticed strange magic, they would too.
Rowan's fingers curled slightly.
"Better to step into the light," he murmured, "than wait to be dragged out."
He crossed the street.
The closer he got, the heavier the air felt. Not oppressive—focused. Layers of restrained power overlapped inside the building, faint but unmistakable.
Trained magic.
Rowan paused at the entrance.
The door stood open.
Inside, voices blended together into a steady hum. He could smell ink, metal, and something faintly sharp—mana residue, lingering but controlled.
He took one step inside.
The sound shifted instantly.
It wasn't silence—but attention.
Not directed at him exactly. More like the subtle adjustment of a room that had gained something new.
Rowan swallowed and moved forward.
The interior was wide and orderly. A long counter ran along one wall, behind which several attendants worked, quills moving quickly across parchment. Adventurers gathered in small groups, some armored, some not, weapons resting easily at their sides.
Rowan felt it again.
The difference.
Their mana was like contained flames—finite, shaped, disciplined.
His own felt like a still sea beneath glass.
No one spoke to him yet.
But one woman behind the counter glanced up briefly, then paused.
Her eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but interest.
Rowan felt a chill crawl up his spine.
I was noticed.
He forced himself to breathe normally and looked away, pretending to study the notice board mounted near the entrance.
Requests. Rewards. Danger levels marked in simple symbols.
Clear. Efficient.
This place existed to give chaos a shape.
Rowan turned back toward the counter.
He took two steps—and stopped.
That pressure returned.
Not from the guild.
From within.
His chest tightened as warmth flared deep inside him, responding to something distant. The sensation wasn't overwhelming—but it was unmistakable.
A resonance.
Rowan clenched his teeth.
Not now, he thought firmly.
The sensation eased, retreating like a tide pulling back.
Rowan exhaled slowly.
Whatever that presence was, it wasn't going to wait forever.
Neither could he.
He stepped forward again.
This time, when he reached the counter, the woman was already watching him.
"First time?" she asked calmly.
Rowan met her gaze and nodded. "Yes."
"Name?"
"Rowan," he said after a brief pause. "Rowan Richards."
She wrote it down without comment.
"Registration is simple," she said. "But before that—"
Her pen stopped.
She looked up at him again, more carefully this time.
"…You're unusual."
Rowan's heart skipped.
"In what way?" he asked carefully.
The woman studied him for a long moment, then smiled faintly.
"You'll find out soon enough," she said. "Take a seat. Someone will speak with you."
Rowan did as instructed, his mind racing.
As he sat down, one thought repeated itself, clear and unavoidable:
The quiet life he wanted hadn't ended yet.
But it was already slipping out of reach.