The woman released his arm carefully, as if she still considered it something fragile. Then she returned behind the desk and opened the ledger again, the same one she'd used to record his information. Her pen began to glide across the parchment,no ink, no smear,leaving marks only where they were needed.
"The Saint's first available appointment is in exactly two weeks," she said at last without looking up. "That's the earliest we can manage."
Rethan let the air out slowly. Two weeks in a foreign city with a half-useless arm wasn't an ideal plan. But he also knew schedules like this weren't made on a whim,they were made around the limits of people who could actually heal.
"I understand," he said, giving a short nod. "Thank you."
This time she looked up properly, studying him like she wanted to be sure he would remember what came next.
"On the day of your visit, report to the main hall of the temple," she explained in a calm, even tone. "Introduce yourself to the priestess there and tell her you have an appointment with the Saint. You'll be escorted to her."
Rethan confirmed with another nod. He rewrapped the bandages, then stepped away, blending into the steady stream of people entering and leaving the temple. Once he'd put some distance between himself and the stairs, he turned toward the Adventurers' Guild hall. At least there, he knew what to expect.
The Guild building in Vethan was solid and practical,no unnecessary ornamentation, but clearly well maintained. Inside, the air carried the familiar mix of wood, paper, and the sweat of people who spent more hours here than they did at home. When he approached the reception desk, the woman behind it looked up,and smiled immediately.
"Well, well. Rethan," she said with mild amusement. "Vethan again, and the temple again, I'm guessing?"
"Guilty," he replied, lifting a shoulder as much as the pain allowed. "Only this time a regular priestess won't cut it. I need the Saint."
The receptionist,Liora,raised her eyebrows and leaned forward, eyeing the bandages.
"If it's the Saint, you must've taken a real hit," she said, then reached for the ledger beside her and began flipping pages. "How long are you staying?"
"Two weeks," Rethan answered. "I need a room."
Liora sighed softly, already doing the math in her head. She tore off a small slip of paper and wrote down three names.
"These three inns work with the Guild," she said, handing it to him. "Fair prices. And the owners know adventurers sometimes come back worse than they left."
Rethan tucked the paper away, nodded his thanks, and headed for the door, setting his course for one of the inns. For the next few days, his world would shrink down to food, rest, and waiting,until the moment someone who actually mattered put their hands on his arm.
The caravan rolled onward for several more days, passing fields, smaller settlements, and stone bridges. Then the road began to widen and the traffic thickened in a way that always meant the same thing: they were nearing a city that didn't live off farming or soldiers, but off the flow of goods and people.
High walls and towers appeared on the horizon,Valemar. A city that had long functioned as the trading heart of this region: wealthy, orderly, and shamelessly profit-driven, where every stone seemed to speak of contracts, warehouses, and deals made over wine and parchment.
The caravan slowed, then stopped before the gate. Otto jumped down from the wagon and walked over to Klein. Three adventurers were already there, guarding the crates of goods and Klein's personal effects.
"We continue without you," Otto said, offering his hand. "On the way back, we'll pass through here again. We'll compare what we learn."
Klein gripped his hand firmly, like a man who didn't waste words.
"I'll be waiting," he said. "And I have a feeling we'll have plenty to talk about."
Otto nodded, gave the crates one last glance, then returned to the caravan. The wagons moved on, leaving dust and the steady clatter of wheels that slowly faded into the distance.
Klein turned toward the gate and stepped forward. The guards stopped him only briefly, asking for identification,without the routine suspicion you ran into in noble cities.
He presented a merchant card: well cared for, clearly used often, yet kept in perfect condition. The guard glanced at it and handed it back at once.
"We don't charge an entry fee," the guard said evenly. "Valemar doesn't belong to any noble house. This is a city of the Merchant Guild."
Klein nodded as if he'd expected nothing else and walked through the gate,into a city that hit him with one single, unified message from the very first step.
Trade.
The streets were wide and clean. The warehouses were tall and heavy-boned. Shop signs hung shoulder to shoulder, shouting prices, weights, and promises of profit. Caravans waited in lines to unload. Porters barked at one another, counted crates, signed receipts. The air smelled of spices, metal, and freshly cut wood.
Valemar didn't try to be beautiful in the classic sense. It was functional. Rich. Brazenly proud that everything here had its price,and its place. And as Klein walked, he felt like he'd finally stepped into a city where the world worked the way it was supposed to.
He moved deeper without hurrying, the way people walked when they weren't chasing anyone and didn't need to prove anything. They knew they'd get where they needed to go,so they could afford to watch, to listen, to collect the right conclusions on the way.
Valemar ran from morning to night on the same exhausting rhythm. Visitors often found it draining. Regulars called it normal,because here, almost every step came with a negotiation, an estimate, or an attempt to pull you to someone's side, whether through a lower price or the promise of future deliveries.
At the first major intersection, Klein had to slow. Porters blocked the way with a wagon stacked with grain sacks. Beside them stood a short, broad man in an expensive doublet, gesturing sharply as he counted on his fingers,trying to convince the supplier that the contract from three weeks ago mentioned a different weight.
"The weight matches," a porter said calmly, leaning against the wagon. "If you want to check, go get the city scale."
"That's not the point," the merchant hissed. "It's about quality."
Klein gave them a brief glance, memorizing the man's face and the crest on his belt. Those were always worth remembering, even when they didn't matter today. Then he kept going, the argument behind him rising louder,perfectly normal background noise in Valemar.
A few streets later, he passed a metals stall where an older woman with sharp eyes and cracked hands bargained with a young artisan over the price of copper ingots. The boy tried to blame recent increases on transport. She shot back that transport hadn't gone up in months, and he could stop pretending she was stupid.
"Master Klein," someone called suddenly.
Klein turned and found a slender man in a pale coat, smiling too widely for someone who'd supposedly just recognized him by chance.
"It's been a long time," the man continued, stepping closer. "I heard things have been going well for you down south."
Klein returned the smile,mildly surprised anyone still remembered him here,but he didn't slow his stride. That was one of the simplest tests: it told you quickly what the other person wanted.
"News likes to travel," Klein said. "Especially the kind someone needs."
The man chuckled as if it were a clever reply and tried to match his pace.
"Perhaps we should talk," he suggested. "I have a few contacts that might interest you."
"Perhaps another time," Klein replied evenly. "I already have meetings today."
There wasn't a shred of lying in it. In Valemar, every minute was a meeting, even when no words were spoken. The man in the pale coat realized he wasn't getting anything and slowed, vanishing back into the crowd.
Klein kept walking, watching the city's machinery at work: two agents from the transport guild exchanging papers and seals near a warehouse; a young boy running with a letter, careful not to end up beneath a wagon wheel; a handful of men in the shadow of a building murmuring over a spread-out sheet of parchment, clearly arranging something that wasn't ready to be written into any official book.
A few more people tried to stop him,some pretending to be old acquaintances, others cutting straight to business. Klein gave each of them exactly as much attention as necessary. No more. No less. From a tone of voice, a look, a half-step too eager, he could tell who had something real to offer and who was simply gambling on a convenient opportunity.
For him, Valemar wasn't noise and chaos. It was logic, clean, ruthless logic, wearing the mask of disorder. And as he walked its streets, he felt it settle into him like a familiar coat.
Then he lifted his gaze to the large storefront ahead.