The guild’s door opened as the guard and I stared off, briefly spilling the sound of raucous laughter onto the street. The cloaked man who exited the building saw our focused stance, paused, and quickly diverted course to move around us. I trailed him with my eyes, waiting until we were alone before answering the guard's spy accusation.

  “Of course I’m not,” I said. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I really did grow up in a cabin.”

  “Yep,” she replied, “pretty hard to believe. So hard to believe that the guild won't believe it.” Her voice had a sharp, sarcastic twang that was noticeable but not overdone, and when she pointed to the sign above us, the thing she was agonizing over became clear.

  “Of course they wouldn't…” I replied with a wry smile. I really was suspicious—an individual without documentation or history anywhere—one who staunchly refused to say where they were from. That dawning realization crept up slow, but it soon seized me, filling me with a boundless state of anxiety. Somehow, I would need to overcome this limitation in full, but I didn't even have local currency. I didn't know where to start!

  The guard must've known my darkening face was genuine—and not some scheming ploy—because her hardened eyes panicked and darted away, as if to avoid being swayed by my expression.

  I opened my mouth, hoping she would point me toward two gold dealers (one to go to after the first tried to rob me), but she spoke first.

  “Can you… actually purify the water?” she asked. “Like… actually, actually?”

  I laughed darkly. “That depends. Will anyone let me?”

  She bit her lip, agonizing as she moved her head this way and that in frustration. “Michaendale…” she finally said. “On your application, say you're from Michaendale. It’s deep in the bumble woods, so I doubt anyone will question your accent.”

  I couldn't believe it. She just gave me a ticket for forging a fake identity!

  “So… Does that mean you believe me?” I asked.

  “Of course not!” she said hotly, and I could tell she meant it. Despite that, she trailed off, focusing on a rock beside her shoe. “But… I believe you can purify the water, and you actually plan to do so… So, don’t screw me. Okay?”

  My eyes softened when I saw her pleading expression. “Okay. I’m Kalas, by the way.”

  “Sara,” she whispered.

  I stared at her for a moment, wondering what else to say—how to thank her. Then, a terrible idea strangled my brain and refused to let go. It wasn’t exactly “nice,” but it was sensational. A gift, considering the context.

  I had to do it—at any cost.

  “Hey, sorry to ask for a favor after everything you’ve done,” I said, rummaging through my satchel. “But I actually went to that fountain to make a wish.” I retrieved my silver purification coin and offered it to her.

  Sara accepted it dubiously. “A... wish?”

  “Yeah. I heard it’s a common tradition to flick coins in fountains to make a wish. I was hoping that you’d make one for me.”

  Sara twisted her wrist to examine both sides of the blank coin. “Uh… I guess so. What should I wish for?”

  “For me to pass the license test.”

  She snorted as if that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “That’s unnecessary. But… sure. I’m going there anyway.”

  “Splendid. I owe you one.” I quickly opened the guild's door, blessing the street again with the sound of jingling bells and roaring drinkers. “Thanks again!”

  Sara stepped after me, “Wa—” She tried to stop me, but I quickly jumped in and shut the door, barely making it before my mask cracked, and I developed a terrible grin. I’m such an ass, I thought, eyes gliding to the left. Well, kinda.

  Sara clearly wanted to purify the water, and the artifact fulfilled her wish—albeit in a dickish sort of way. It wasn't ideal, obviously, but it answered her wish without causing anyone real problems. Sara was doing the deed, a key fact, and she had an insignia, or whatever. And even if she didn't, it was an unmarked artifact, and no one would punish her for using it to purify the blight. In the worst-case scenario, frantic government officials would show up at my door and say, “Can you really purify the water?” and I’d say, “If you assholes let me,” and present my empty palm—demanding the elusive licenses and permits Sara kept talking about. I mean—it was water. Public utilities were the government's job! They would surely praise the ground at my feet!

  And even if they didn't, even if it caused me some trouble and I had to flee due to my lack of credentials—oh, the spectacle! Oh, God, I wish I could see Sara’s face when the coin hit the water. Even a second-hand account would make it worth the headache!

  Taking a deep, satisfied breath, I looked around the guild hall.

  The suited man was right: I found “my people” on 12th and Marca. Sleya would fit right in with the drinkers to my right, all getting shit-housed in a tavern-style drinking hall. It wasn’t even sunset, and the house was packed, filled with people clinking shots and slamming frothy beers. To my left, I found my ilk, adventurers wearing armor and weapons and cloaks staring at a corkboard filled with drawings of beasts.

  The receptionist was the only one who didn’t fit in. She was slightly younger than me, wearing an elaborate emerald dress and a matching hair ribbon—a true gem in a coal mine. Or so it seemed from a distance. She looked to be suffering from a hangover, judging by how she had propped her elbow on the desk, cradling her forehead with one hand while jotting down notes in a notebook with the other. She didn’t even notice me until I subtly tapped the desk. Then, her bloodshot eyes drifted upward—and her countenance changed.

  “Oh… hey~.” She sat up slowly, shifting her palm to cradle her chin instead of her forehead, staring at me dreamily. It was a bizarre reaction made stranger by its ambiguity; interested eyes—hard-laced with mockery.

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  I didn't respond, so she yawned and sat straight. “Right… you probably have legitimate business here. Can I check your guild card?”

  I rubbed the back of my ear. “Ah, yeah. About that. I’m actually here to get one.”

  She eyed me up and down, then clicked her tongue with a triple tsk, reaching for a folder. “It’s always the pretty boys,” she muttered as she retrieved an application.

  I frowned. I didn’t know what “pretty boy” meant—but I knew it was a blunt insult. I was a man—and men weren't “pretty.”

  “Here you go,” she said, sliding an inkwell and pen over with the application. “Fill this out the best you can. If you don’t know any of the words, I’ll explain them. Though…” She eyed me from face to waist again, this time appraisingly rather than teasingly. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem…” Her eyes glided to the tavern area in thought. “Anyway, we hire beast cullers, and smart people don’t do it, so we expect questions and mistakes. So don’t hesitate to ask for help.”

  I caught her subtle warning, but it felt silly, especially coming from a “pretty girl,” so I said, “Thanks,” and watched her jade ribbon bounce back and forth as she walked away. Once I was sure she was gone, I fastened my eyes to the application, grimacing at the third field:

  City of Origin

  She didn’t tell me how to spell it… I thought, kicking myself for focusing on schemes rather than asking about logistics. I guess I should feign illiteracy… I stared at the paper with a grimace. Sloppy handwriting it is.

  My skin crawled as I wrote my application, using letters that I could barely read. If I scrawled runes with that calligraphy, it wouldn't even work—it was that bad! I sacrificed a piece of my soul to do it, but it needed to be done. Michaendale was not an easy word to spell out, so I had to be extra blotchy—praying it would work. I finished and put the pen down, on edge, waiting nervously to see how things would play out.

  The receptionist returned with a pep in her step. “You’re quite in luck. Celia’s still here, so we should be able to get you in within the hour.” She peeled my sheet off the counter and stared at it with flickering eyes. “So pretty… where’d you learn to write like this?”

  My face scrunched into an unsightly display of raw judgment. “Wait… you call that ‘pretty’?”

  She puckered her lips and laughed. “Oh, boy, you’re in the wrong place…” She read the page. “Or maybe not. You misspelled Michaendale.”

  I winced. “I wrote it the ‘common’ way by accident, and figured it was better misspelled than unreadable.”

  “Fair, fair,” she said strangely. “I’ll fix it. Oh, I’m Emilia. There’s three of us who run the reception desk, but I'm the pretty one. It's a pleasure.” She offered her hand.

  “Pleasure’s mine,” I said, accepting it. Her hand was as delicate as her dress, but her smooth, honey eyes were sharp as shattered glass as she held my hand. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't let go—that she had trapped me—that she'd expose my secret. Then, she roared like a wild beast, and I jolted, prying myself free from her grip as I stumbled backward.

  Emilia burst into giggles. “Whoa, calm down, Jack, I'm not going to eat you,” she said, creating claws with her hands. “It'd be a problem if I could. You’re supposed to kill real beasts here.” She winked at me. “Alright, let's get you sat down, pretty boy.”

  I reluctantly followed Emilia to an upstairs waiting area, thinking back on that look she gave me—concluding that she knew I was bullshitting her, but was accustomed to such things. Those were my thoughts as she sat me beside an ornate door with a golden placard. The title read—

  Celia Merkil | Vice Guild Leader

  —with two boars engraved on it, one on each side.

  “Good~luck~,” Emilia said as she walked off, leaving me to reflect in silence.

  I spent the first five minutes in a state of paranoia, but I was soon distracted by the beautiful paintings on the wall. They were black and white, and the skill involved was unthinkable.

  They’re so realistic… I thought, studying a painting of a muscular man lifting a massive beast's head by its antlers. There’s not even a divination record.

  Sleya and I had captured many divination fragments to relive memories, but this one captured blades of grass as clearly as the man's smile—and there wasn't a lick of magic involved in its making. It was simply unthinkable. The artist who painted that picture had talent beyond mortal comprehension. Oh, how I wished they were at the fountain when Sara flicked that coin into the water. The painting would fetch a fortune!

  —Sara—

  Sara balanced the coin Kalas gave her between her forefinger and thumb. She flicked it, testing its weight, reveling in the ting and whine as it rotated—flashing brightly in the sunlight before falling back to her hand. She then committed herself, rebalanced the coin, angled it toward the fountain—and flicked.

  It arced over the water flawlessly, falling toward the surface. It nearly hit, but Sara desperately caught it with telekinesis at the last second.

  What am I doing? she wondered, pulling it back into her palm. She returned to her post, a shaded section of the wall where she could see the whole area, and then brooded in silence.

  Why couldn’t she just flick the coin?

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want Kalas to be successful. That was a foregone conclusion. Even though it looked like she and Kalas were using the same telekinesis spell, they weren’t. Telekinesis was a magical construct, and she used it through an intricate series of flash casts stored in her Codex. [Separate]. [Turn]. [Seek Mana]. He wasn’t. It was as if he were asking the water for its participation, and it heeded his call!

  There was no way that someone with that level of skill didn’t know battle magic. Magic’s primary purpose, after all, was killing things.

  That fact made her uncomfortable. His accent made it clear he wasn’t a local, and his lack of credentials was bluntly unbelievable. She shouldn’t have helped him—but his demonstrated desire to purify the water made it impossible for her to question him. She had to believe him.

  (Had to.)

  It had nothing to do with him being absurdly handsome. That didn’t influence her decision in the slightest. His messy black hair and vibrant blue eyes didn’t make her freeze up on contact: she was just confused by his cloak, which was unnaturally white despite the dusty surroundings. Yeah, that was it—it was strange attire—suspicious even. The fact that it covered two hundred-something pounds of sculpted muscle was purely circumstantial.

  (What a joke.)

  Sara broke the law, ditched her guard duty, and potentially aided a foreign agent because the man was a visual dreamboat with a playful personality. Her life had become a farce.

  (Just ask for world peace. Get it over with.)

  Sara returned to the fountain, preparing herself to say something sarcastic, even though the truth might slip. She readied the coin, staring at the blight webbing throughout the fountain.

  I wish… Kalas would actually purify the water. And that…

  (He’ll stick around.)

  With her wish and intrusive thought spoken, Sara flicked the coin. She watched it spin, refracting white light as it moved toward a glimmering section of the fountain. It hung in the air for a second, suspended in time. Then, it hit the water with a devastating plop—and the nightmare began.