The sky over Ironclad was the kind of perfect blue that made people forget rain had ever existed. Sunlight poured down in generous sheets, turning the capital's common ground into a golden stage. Flags snapped in the gentle breeze, each emblazoned with the crests of every major guild: the Hero Guild's blazing sword, the Ironclad Legion's anvil-and-shield, the Arcane Conclave's silver rune-circle, the Ranger Coalition's drawn bow. Today was Selection Day—the single most important event of the year for anyone dreaming of a life beyond plow and shop.
Thousands had gathered. Young men and women from every corner of the kingdom stood in long, nervous lines, armor half-polished, weapons trembling in sweaty grips. Parents hovered at the edges, whispering encouragement or silent prayers. Children darted between legs, eyes wide with the spectacle. Criers moved through the crowd with enchanted voice-amplifiers, calling names and categories:
"Mages to the eastern pavilion! Warriors to the central ring! Tanks and healers to the north tents! Archers and scouts to the west fields! Soldiers for the Legion—line up here!"
It was organized chaos. Skill assessors in guild tabards moved methodically, testing mana flows, strength, reflexes, healing affinity. A fireball flared harmlessly in one corner; a shield of light bloomed in another; an arrow split a distant target with perfect precision. Cheers erupted every few minutes when someone earned a rare nod from a guildmaster.
Back on the hill, Vael stood in the doorway, adjusting the strap of his bag.
"I'm leaving for the market to collect materials for the new house," he told his mother.
She looked up from folding laundry, eyes bright with sudden excitement.
"I'm coming along with you three."
Vael blinked.
"Three?"
His mother smiled, already reaching for her shawl.
"I heard there's a big event going on in the capital today. Let's hurry!"
Vael opened the door—and froze.
Gruk and Aamon stood right outside, both smiling in that overly polite, too-wide way that screamed they were lying even without speaking a word.
Vael's voice came out flat.
"I thought you two left last night."
Aamon, face perfectly blank, answered calmly:
"We were about to. But your mother insisted we stay. She said it was dangerous to travel at night. We couldn't refuse."
Vael stared at them, then at his mother, then back. The birds chirping in the trees suddenly sounded like nails on slate. His morning mood—already fragile—crumbled.
"We slept with the cows," Aamon added, deadpan.
Vael's mother cheerfully closed the house door behind her.
"Come on, let's go!"
Vael's expression shifted in an instant. He turned to Gruk, voice low and deliberate.
"Gruk. Did you measure the cowshed and its dimensions last night?"
His mother waved a hand.
"Stop talking, Vael. Let's go!"
Gruk's smile stretched wider—the mocking, sharp-toothed grin Vael knew too well.
The demon prince looked like he was enjoying every second of this.
Vael didn't flinch.
"Stop smiling, Gruk. You're taking the cart for carrying boulders."
Gruk's grin froze mid-curl.
For the first time in days, something like genuine humiliation flickered behind his red eyes.
(Gruk and Aamon both knew one thing: they had nowhere else to go. The Underworld had turned its back. Shadowmoon Valley was lost to them. The only place left—somehow—was Vael's house. Neither could explain why they kept coming back to it.)
Vael stepped past them without another word, shoulders squared, heading down the hill toward the capital road.
His mother hummed happily behind him.
Gruk and Aamon followed—Gruk dragging his feet, Aamon silent as ever.
The capital gates loomed ahead like open jaws, iron-bound and sunlit. But as Vael, his mother, Gruk, and Aamon passed beneath them, the city felt strangely hushed. The usual clamor of merchants, carts, and street performers was muted. Only a few elderly citizens shuffled along the wide cobblestone streets—old men leaning on canes, old women carrying small baskets—heading home early or avoiding the crowds. The recruitment grounds farther in still roared with distant cheers, but the outer districts seemed to have exhaled and gone quiet.
Vael glanced at his mother.
"When the event ends, we'll wait for you outside the city entrance," he said. "Meanwhile, we'll collect the materials."
She nodded happily.
"I'll find you when I'm done. Don't take too long!"
She hurried off toward the common ground, shawl fluttering, already humming with excitement about the "big event."
Vael turned to Gruk and Aamon.
Neither demon spoke.
Neither needed to.
The silence between the three of them was thick enough to cut.
It didn't take long to gather what they needed. Timber merchants were eager to offload stock after the long rainy week; stonecutters had surplus slabs. Vael paid in gold coins—quietly, efficiently—while Gruk and Aamon stood like sullen statues behind him.
They bought in bulk.
Far more than one trip's worth.
None of them wanted to return to the capital again and again, hauling loads under the sun. So they loaded everything at once.
Vael and Aamon carried massive bundles of timber beams on their shoulders—each stack heavy enough to crush a normal man's spine. Gruk pulled the cart behind them, piled high with boulders the size of barrels. The wheels groaned under the weight. Yet none of them breathed hard. None of them complained.
They didn't speak to each other at all.
Vael walked ahead, eyes forward.
Aamon kept pace beside him, expression blank.
Gruk trailed, cart rumbling, red eyes burning holes into Vael's back.
As they approached the exit gate, Vael's mother was already waiting on the opposite side of the road. She waved enthusiastically.
"Over here, Vael!"
She hurried across, cheeks flushed from the walk.
"There were no seats left," she said breathlessly. "The stands were packed. I couldn't see anything. So I left early."
Vael nodded.
"Let's go home."
But before they could move, a sharp voice cut across the street.
"Look at that, Darius!"
Kufa—massive, scarred, the guild's unbreakable tank—stood frozen, pointing straight at them. Beside him, Commander Darius narrowed his eyes, taking in the sight:
Two men carrying impossible loads of timber like firewood.
A third pulling a cart stacked with boulders that should have required oxen.
And none of them looked like they were even trying.
Kufa's jaw dropped.
"No man can carry that much. And look at their faces—they're not even struggling."
Darius didn't hesitate.
He strode forward, Kufa at his side.
Both wore the Hero Guild's insignia—silver sword on black tabard. Both moved with the easy confidence of men who had faced death and walked away laughing.
Darius raised a hand in greeting as he approached.
"Hello! We're recruiting citizens of Ironclad to join the guilds as adventurers. You three look tough enough for one of the top guilds. Strength like that could—"
Vael cut in, voice calm and final.
"Not interested."
Kufa blinked.
"We're paying a salary of ten gold coins a month. Training, gear, advancement. You'd rise fast."
Vael met his gaze without blinking.
"Sorry. We're just farmers."
Aamon, standing silently beside the timber bundle, tilted his head slightly—confused by Vael's flat rejection.
Gruk, still gripping the cart handles, let out an irritated huff. His red eyes flashed.
Then—before anyone could speak—Gruk opened his mouth and spoke in a voice dripping with mockery.
"If you two are interested in building a house for the cows, you can tag along."
Vael's mother gasped softly.
She stepped forward quickly, hands raised.
"I'm really sorry from their side. They don't know who you are—the Heroes of Ironclad."
She turned to Vael, eyes wide with gentle reproach.
"Don't you think this is an opportunity?"
Vael said nothing.
He looked down at the ground for a long moment—silent, unreadable.
Then Aamon spoke.
His voice was quiet, smooth, almost clever.
"Dear heroes," he said, "staying up on that hill, we're just humble farmers. You can visit anytime. But now we have work to do. So if you'll excuse us."
Darius raised an eyebrow.
Kufa looked like he'd been slapped.
Vael's eyes flicked to Aamon.
In his mind, one thought rang clear:
I'll give you extra work for letting them know where we stay.
His mother kept talking as they started walking—still cheerful, still hopeful.
"Don't you think it's a chance, Vael? Your father would have been so proud. All those stories he told about heroes and guilds… he always said you had something special in you."
Vael didn't answer.
He just kept walking—timber balanced on his shoulder, pace steady.
Gruk muttered under his breath behind him.
Aamon stayed silent.
The cart wheels rumbled.
The road back to the hill was long and quiet.
Vael's mother filled it with gentle encouragement—talking about glory, security, a better future for the family. She spoke of the recruitment cheers she'd heard in the distance, of young people finding their place, of heroes being made.
Vael listened.
He didn't argue.
He didn't agree.
Behind him, Gruk pulled the cart with growing irritation—each boulder rattling like a threat he couldn't voice.
Aamon walked beside him, eyes on Vael's back, calculating.
They reached the hill as the sun began to dip lower.
The house waited—small, patched, ordinary.
The vegetable patch was still damp from last week's rain, but the new stakes stood straight.
The cowshed—unfinished—waited for its extension.
Vael set the timber down carefully.
Gruk let the cart roll to a stop with a groan of wood and stone.
Aamon placed his load beside the others without a sound.
Vael's mother smiled at them all.
"What a productive day! Thank you, boys."
Gruk forced a grin.
Aamon inclined his head.
Vael looked at the pile of materials.
Then at the two demons standing in front of his house like reluctant hired hands.
He didn't smile.
But the corner of his mouth twitched—just once.