The guild's training yard lay behind the main hall—a packed dirt arena ringed by weathered wooden fences, scarred from countless spars. Morning sun beat down, turning the air shimmering and hot, dust kicking up in lazy swirls with every impact. The scent of sweat hung heavy, mixed with oiled leather and the faint metallic bite of drawn steel. Grunts and clashes echoed: blades ringing, shields thudding, the occasional shout of exertion or pain.
Riven observed from the fence's edge, cloak drawn back to allow freer movement. His mask caught the light, crimson veins pulsing faintly against the heat pressing on his skin. Quests mounted steadily—cleared with efficiency, rewards claimed without fanfare. Whispers grew: the masked tactician who turned ragtag groups into precise machines. Rank climbed incrementally. Still far from the heights where Vespera's party perched, basking in stolen glory.
But patience was his blade now. Sharpened daily.
A challenger approached the yard's center—a woman built for battle, golden-tanned skin glistening under the sun like polished bronze. Cropped silver-blonde hair spiked in windswept disarray, framing sharp cheekbones and stormy indigo eyes that scanned for worthy opponents. Her armor was practical yet form-fitting: leather harnesses that accentuated firm D-cup breasts and toned abs, low-cut top and rugged breeches highlighting powerful thighs that flexed with each stride. Sweat already traced paths down her neck, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone.
Thalira. Known in the guild for testing newcomers—fierce, unrelenting, seeking something in the clashes she rarely named.
She hefted a longsword, blade catching sunlight in blinding flashes. "Any takers?" she called, voice bold and challenging. "Need to shake off rust before the next contract."
Eyes turned. A few bronze-ranks shuffled, but none stepped forward.
Riven pushed off the fence.
She noticed immediately, indigo eyes locking on his mask. A spark ignited—curiosity, perhaps hunger. She grinned, teeth flashing white. "You. The shadow. Heard you cleared imps like swatting flies. Spar?"
He drew his sword without response, stepping into the ring. Dust puffed under his boots.
The yard quieted. Spectators gathered along the fences.
Thalira circled first, sword raised in guard. Her stance was strong—weight balanced, muscles coiling visibly under tanned skin. Sweat beaded on her brow, trickling down to soak the edges of her top.
She lunged—a powerful overhead strike meant to overwhelm.
Riven sidestepped fluidly. "Evade right."
The words slipped out—habit from command, quiet but clear.
She adjusted mid-swing, twisting right as if following instinct. His blade met hers in a controlled parry, the clash vibrating up arms. Steel scraped with a shrill ring.
She pressed, aggressive flurry—thrusts and slashes that forced him back a step. Her breaths came heavier, breasts rising and falling with exertion, thighs tensing in powerful drives.
Riven countered precisely. "Block low."
Again, she obeyed unconsciously—sword dipping to intercept his feint. The impact jarred her, dust exploding from the ground.
Frustration flickered in her eyes, mixed with something else—thrill. She redoubled, sweat flying in arcs, silver hair matting against her forehead.
He dismantled her rhythm methodically. A disarm attempt; she recovered, but slower.
"Yield," he said.
She froze, sword tip dropping. Chest heaved, sweat-slicked skin shining. Indigo eyes met his mask's sockets, softening in a way that surprised onlookers.
The yard murmured approval. Thalira lowered her blade fully, rubbing her wrist. "Damn. Never lost that clean." A pause, voice dropping. "Train me? Need... direction. Someone who knows how to lead."
Her tone carried need—abandonment scars buried deep, craving structure to fill voids left by unreliable pasts.
Riven sheathed his sword. "Quest board. Thicket fiend—group needed."
Her eyes lit. "I'm in."
Word spread quickly. Nyxara appeared soon after, gown exchanged for a practical yet gothic variant—embroidered bodice with lace accents, still plunging to reveal pale cleavage, fishnet clinging to thighs. Mud from the groves long washed away, but her amethyst gaze held lingering intrigue, ribbon on his wrist mirrored by one she now wore.
Elowen joined last, robes dusted from archives, glasses polished, curls tamed somewhat. She clutched notes on fiend weaknesses, freckled cheeks flushing at the gathering.
The quest: a marauding fiend in the southern thickets—massive beast terrorizing trade routes, reward substantial for coordinated takedown.
They set out at dusk, four now. The path wound through dense woods, air cooling rapidly, carrying the rich scent of pine resin and damp earth. Thickets closed in—brambles snagging cloaks, branches whipping with sharp snaps.
The fiend's territory announced itself: trampled undergrowth, claw marks raking tree bark in deep gouges that wept sap. Roars echoed distantly—deep, guttural challenges that vibrated through the ground.
Riven took lead. "Formation. Nyxara, binds and debuffs. Elowen, barriers and strikes. Thalira, frontline with me."
They nodded—Nyxara with a poetic murmur, Elowen with a nervous ramble about lore, Thalira with eager readiness.
The beast charged from shadows—a hulking mass of matted fur and jagged tusks, eyes glowing feral yellow. The ground shook with its impacts, earth churning under massive paws.
Thalira met it first, sword clashing against tusk in a shower of sparks. The force drove her back, boots skidding in dirt, muscles straining visibly.
Riven flanked. "High guard—then low sweep."
She executed flawlessly, blade arcing to force the fiend's head up.
Nyxara wove shadows—tendrils lashing from her hands, coiling around limbs with inky wetness. "Bound in eternal night," she intoned, voice steady despite the chaos.
Elowen erected a shimmering barrier, azure light humming as claws raked across it, sparks flying like shattered glass.
The fight intensified. The fiend roared, breath hot and fetid, slamming Thalira aside. She rolled, grunting, sweat mixing with dirt on her tanned skin.
Riven directed seamlessly—positions shifting, attacks synchronized. The beast weakened under coordinated assault: Nyxara's bindings tightening with slick sounds, Elowen's bolts piercing hide in bursts of mana-scented ozone.
Final blow: Thalira's sword, guided by his timing, plunged deep. The fiend collapsed with a thunderous crash, blood pooling dark and thick, metallic scent overwhelming.
Victory settled. Breaths ragged, bodies adrenaline-flushed.
Thalira leaned on her sword, indigo eyes on Riven—pleading subtly for approval. Nyxara brushed dirt from her gown, amethyst gaze lingering. Elowen adjusted glasses, freckles stark against flushed skin, a shy smile breaking through.
Bonds formed in the thicket's gloom—ties pulling tighter.
Riven harvested proof—a tusk, heavy and warm still. Rank would rise again.
Higher. Always higher.
Until Vespera looked up—and saw only his shadow eclipsing her world.