The next moring
Morning comes with the faint glow of sunlight pushing past the curtains, warming the wooden floorboards. Outside my window, i hear the muffled clatter of crates being loaded into a wagon and the rhythmic sweep of a broom against cobblestones.
The smells from The Lantern’s Rest kitchen drift into my room—fresh bread, frying eggs, and something spiced just enough to make my stomach stir. Somewhere in the main room, the low murmur of early customers blends with the occasional laugh.
I watch says it’s still early—plenty of daylight ahead. The city outside the inn walls is already waking, voices drifting from the square as stalls are set up and merchants haggle over deliveries.
I pull on my clothes, slip my watch back into my pocket, and step out into the common room. The Lantern’s Rest is busier than i expected this early—half the tables are already occupied.
Merchants with dusty boots nurse steaming mugs, a pair of travelers argue quietly over a map, and two guards sit near the corner, helmets on the table beside their plates.
I claim an empty spot near the wall, where i can watch the room without drawing too much attention. The red-haired innkeeper from last night passes by, setting down a plate of eggs, bread, and a small wedge of cheese without a word. A mug of something warm follows, the steam curling into the air.
I eat slowly, keeping my ears open. Bits of conversation drift over from nearby tables—complaints about rising stall fees in the market, gossip about a new caravan arriving from the north, and one hushed exchange between the guards that catches my attention."—another wagon through the east gate last night,"
one says, voice low. "Packed full again."
*The other grunts."Don’t talk about that here."
They both glance around the room, as if to make sure no one’s listening too closely.
I take a slow sip from my mug, tilting my head just enough to seem like you’re watching the fire while angling your ear toward the guards’ table.
"It’s getting worse," the first guard mutters. "Wasn’t just the usual mix. There were kids this time. And not all of ’em looked like they were picked up outside the city."
*The second guard shifts uncomfortably, lowering his voice further. "Keep it down. You know the deal—people who ask too many questions about those wagons… don’t stay in Springvale long."
There’s a pause, the clink of a fork against a plate, then the first guard says, almost under his breath:"Still think someone ought to do something."
The other just grunts again, the kind of sound that ends a conversation. They go back to eating in silence, but the tension between them hangs in the air like smoke.
I keep my head down, pretending to focus on your food as the inn’s door swings open. The early sunlight spills across the floorboards for a moment before it’s blocked by a familiar figure—dark blue tunic, leather gloves, that same unhurried stride.
*Jack.
He doesn’t spot me; his attention is fixed straight ahead as he weaves between tables, making a beeline for the guards in the corner.
He stops at their table, resting one gloved hand on the back of a chair.*"We’ve got a problem," he says in a tone low enough to keep from carrying too far, but im close enough to catch it. "Some merchandise is missing."
The guards exchange a look. One leans in slightly. "Missing? Or—""Ran,"Jack interrupts, his jaw tightening just enough to show his irritation. "Slipped out sometime last night.
Two, maybe three. Don’t know how yet."
The second guard grimaces. "Baron’s not gonna like that."
No," Jack says evenly, "he isn’t. Which means neither will you if we don’t get them back before someone else does."
The table goes quiet for a moment, the word “merchandise” hanging between them like something sour. Then Jack straightens, his eyes scanning the room once before he gestures for the guards to follow him outside.
I keep my head angled toward my plate, letting my peripheral vision track them as they leave. Jack moves first, the two guards falling in behind him. Their boots thud softly against the wooden floorboards, then fade into the muffled sounds of the street outside.
The door swings shut, and the common room slowly returns to its earlier rhythm—mugs clinking, quiet chatter, the scrape of chairs. But the echo of Jack’s words lingers in my mind, the meaning behind “merchandise” leaving little doubt about who, or what, he was talking about.
I take another slow bite of bread, forcing myself to look as though im just another traveler passing through. Inside, though, the pieces are starting to line up—Luna’s sudden appearance last night, the wagon at the gate, the guards’ unease.
I finish the last of my bread and drain my mug, leaving a few copper coins on the table as you rise. The streets outside are livelier now—Springvale’s market in full swing, hawkers calling out prices, the scent of fresh produce mingling with roasting meat and the tang of horse tack.
I wander with half an eye out for work—odd jobs, shop signs, anything that might trade coin for labor. Most of what i find are “Help Wanted” boards offering hauling, cleaning, or cart driving… nothing that pays much more than the bread stunt from yesterday.
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Then, turning down a side street near the edge of the merchant quarter, i spot something different. A new-looking building, its wooden facade still pale from fresh construction, stands between an old stable and a weaponsmith’s shop. Hanging above the door is a sturdy sign carved with a sword crossed over a shield, framed by laurel leaves. Below it, the letters read:
SPRINGVALE ADVENTURERS’ GUILD – BRANCH OFFICE
A smaller, hand-painted board hangs beneath:
Now Accepting New Members
Through the open door, i can see a large common room with tables, a notice board covered in parchment, and a counter where a sharp-eyed woman with a ledger sits speaking to a young man in travel gear.
I step inside, the faint scent of fresh-cut wood mixing with the aroma of oiled leather and parchment. The room feels new—floorboards still clean, furniture unscuffed—but there’s already a low hum of activity. A few armed travelers sit at tables comparing maps, and a man in chainmail is pinning a new parchment to the large quest board.
At the counter, the sharp-eyed woman looks up from her ledger, her expression professional but not unfriendly.
Looking to join?"she asks.
Maybe," i reply, stepping closer.
"But first—I’ve got questions. Does it cost anything to sign up?"
"Two silver for registration,"she says without hesitation.
"That covers your guild license, recordkeeping, and access to posted jobs."
"Alright. What about requirements i ask.
"You’ll need to pass a basic competency check—nothing too dangerous for newcomers. We just need to see you can handle yourself without getting killed in the first ten minutes of a quest. You’ll also be expected to follow guild regulations while on a contract."
"And… is there a quota? Like a certain number of quests you have to take?"
She shakes her head. "No quotas. But if you go more than a season without taking work, your license becomes inactive. You can reactivate it for a small fee, but we prefer active members."
She studies you a moment, then adds,"We’re a new branch.
We’re looking to build a roster, so anyone who shows promise will get plenty of work."
"Two silver’s more than I’ve got to spare right now," i admit, offering a small shrug.
"I’ll think about it and come back once I’ve got the coin."
The woman gives a short nod, clearly used to hearing that. "Fair enough. We’re not going anywhere—when you’re ready, bring the fee and we’ll get you set up. In the meantime, the quest board’s public. You can take a look to see what kind of work we post."
I glance toward the board. Most of the parchment slips list smaller jobs—herb gathering in the nearby forest, escorting a merchant caravan, pest control for a grain warehouse. A few are marked with colored seals denoting higher difficulty, clearly meant for more seasoned adventurers.
After one last look around the guild hall, i step back outside. The streets are still bustling, and the day’s only half gone. The two silver i need feels like both a small and large gap between me and that guild license.
I drift away from the busier market streets, where the shouts of merchants fade into the lighter hum of smaller shops and side businesses. That’s when i spot it—a squat, cluttered storefront with a sign over the door that reads in flaking paint:
"Gerrick’s Marvels – Timepieces & Other Wonders"
Inside, it smells faintly of oil and metal shavings. The walls are lined with shelves stuffed with gears, springs, and all manner of makeshift contraptions—most of them looking like they were cobbled together by someone with more enthusiasm than skill. On one counter sits a row of clocks: one ticks too slow, another’s hands spin uselessly, and a third is stuck halfway between hours.
A stocky man in a leather apron, his thinning hair sticking up in every direction, looks up from a desk where he’s wrestling with a stubborn spring.
"Eh? Customer? Or critic?"
As your gaze sweeps the sad lineup of clocks, your fingers brush the watch in my pocket—my Earth watch. Perfect, steady, far more precise than anything here. An idea clicks into place.
I pull the watch from my pocket, letting the brass catch the light as i hold it up between two fingers.
"Neither,"i say with a faint smirk. "But I thought you might appreciate this."
Gerrick squints, his eyes sharpening as he leans over the counter. "Well, now… that’s a neat bit of craftsmanship. Never seen gears that fine. And the tick—" He stops, leaning closer until his ear is nearly against it. "—steady as a royal drumbeat."
I flip it open just enough for him to see the perfectly aligned hands, the smooth sweep that puts every clock in his shop to shame.
He lets out a low whistle. "That’s… impressive. Where’d you get it?"
"Let’s just say it’s from a long way off," i reply, snapping it shut before he can reach for it. "And no, it’s not for sale. But I might be willing to… help you improve your own designs."
Gerrick narrows his eyes, clearly torn between curiosity and suspicion. "So you show me this marvel just to dangle it in front of me? What’s your angle, boy?"
"Paid consultation," i say plainly, slipping the watch back into your pocket.
I can explain what makes it so accurate, maybe even show you ways to improve your own clocks. But my time’s not free—same as yours."
Gerrick leans back, rubbing his chin with oil-stained fingers. "Hmph. Confidence, I’ll give you that. And maybe a touch of arrogance."
"Two silver," i say without hesitation, matching the exact amount i need for the Adventurers’ Guild.
He barks out a laugh. "Two silver? For talkin’?"
But i can see the flicker of intrigue in his eyes. "Alright. You give me something useful—real improvements I can make—and you walk out with two silver. If you’re bluffing, you walk out with nothing but your fancy watch and wasted breath. Deal?"
"Two silver is just for advice," i say, keeping my tone calm but confident.
"But if I give you more than talk—if I walk you through building a prototype that actually works better than anything you’ve got here—you’re paying extra. Four silver total."
Gerrick snorts, but there’s a glint in his eye now. "Four silver? You think you can waltz in here, make one of my clocks run better, and walk off with near a week’s profit?"
"I think," i reply, leaning slightly on the counter, "that if I make a working model, people will see it in your shop, word will spread, and you’ll be charging double for your timepieces. Seems fair you share a little of that profit with the one who made it possible."
He studies you for a long moment, the faint tick-tick of one of his less broken clocks filling the silence.
"Alright, mister," he says finally, offering his hand.
"Four silver if you make it work. But if you fail, you owe me a day’s labor as payment for wasting mine."*
I clasp Gerrick’s hand firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching.
"Deal," i say. "And I’ll make sure this is so accurate it’ll put every other timekeeping device in this city to shame."
Gerrick smirks, the kind of grin that’s half challenge, half anticipation. "Big words, boy. Let’s see if you can back ‘em up."
"Pick one of my worst,"he says.
Gesturing to a sad lineup of clocks—some with missing hands, others whose faces are cracked or warped.
"If you can make that keep time better than the town bell, you’ll get your silver."
My hand instinctively brushes my watch in my pocket—the steady tick like a hidden ace in my sleeve.