Miri leaned on the counter while the Guild clerk sorted through her submission tags.

  Tony sat beside her like an enormous, striped punctuation mark. Adventurers and recruits both pretended not to stare. One very young swordsman failed entirely and walked straight into a pillar.

  “Two gathering contracts,” the clerk muttered. “Grave-reed bundles. Clean cuts. Good quality.”

  Tony’s tail thumped once.

  “And… river haunt dispersal?”

  Miri lifted a shoulder. “The very moody ghost of a Mr. Horm.”

  The clerk paused. “You did that one alone?”

  “Yeah.” She hesitated, then added, “It fought harder than I expected. But so did I.”

  The clerk blinked slowly, then slid a small stack of stamped chits toward her. “Payment will be credited. Ghost contract bonus included.”

  “Bonus?” Miri perked up.

  “Spectral entities are rarely ‘moody,’” the clerk replied dryly.

  Before she could pry further, a large shadow fell across the counter.

  Grath.

  He looked at Tony first.

  Then at Miri.

  Then back at Tony.

  “…You’ve acquired a tiger.”

  “Technically,” Miri said, “he acquired me.”

  Tony blinked at Grath without moving. Grath grunted once, which in Troll translated loosely to mild approval.

  “Let’s get him a collar.”

  He stepped behind the counter and returned a moment later with a thick leather band reinforced with silver-thread stitching. He set it on the desk and pulled a ledger closer, dipping his pen without ceremony.

  Miri crouched and slid the collar around Tony’s neck. It settled into his fur like it belonged there. She scratched under his jaw while she adjusted the buckle.

  “Very distinguished,” she murmured. “Very employed.”

  Tony rumbled. Grath turned the ledger toward her. “Sign.”

  She scrawled her name and pressed her palm to the page when instructed, the guild mark warming faintly in acknowledgment.

  Grath glanced up at her. “You look steadier.”

  “I almost died.”

  “Yes,” Grath replied. “And yet. Steadier.”

  He gestured toward an open table. They moved away from the counter, Tony padding behind them. “Tell me,” Grath said, folding his massive hands. “How did you handle the ghost?”

  Miri recapped the week.

  Arc Bolt on the liscamp.

  Warden Veil timing.

  Overloading the blade against the ghost.

  Cleanse mid-fight against the snot fairy.

  Learning how far she could extend the sword without wrecking her wrist.

  Grath listened without interrupting. When she finished, he nodded once.

  “You fight to survive,” he said.

  “…Is that not the goal?”

  “It is,” he said calmly. “But it tells me what you are.”

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  She leaned back in her chair. “Which is?”

  “You’re not a back-line caster. You’re not artillery. And you’re not a front-line bruiser either.”

  “That clears up nothing.”

  “Let’s say three bandits rush you,” he said. “One with a shield. One with a spear. One with a crossbow.”

  She opened her mouth but he held up a finger.

  “You shield the first strike. Fine. You Arc Bolt one. Good. But the shield drains. The spear keeps you at distance. The crossbow doesn’t stop shooting. What do you do when you can’t close the gap cleanly?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You’re good at correcting mistakes,” he said. “Your control keeps you from blowing yourself up. That’s discipline.”

  He tapped the table. “But you don’t have anything that forces the enemy to react.”

  She blinked. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you respond well. You don’t dictate.” He leaned back slightly. “You don’t stun. You don’t snare. You don’t wall off space. You don’t burst someone down in two heartbeats. You don’t soak punishment for long stretches.”

  Tony flicked an ear.

  “The tiger helps,” Grath said. “He can pressure one enemy. Knock someone off balance. But he can’t hold a shield wall. He can’t intercept arrows. He can’t break a formation.”

  Miri crossed her arms. “So what am I good at?”

  “Extended fights,” he said immediately. “Attrition. Adaptation. Chaos.”

  That got her attention.

  “You don’t crumble when things go wrong,” he continued. “You adjust. You clean the problem. You reposition. You keep going.” He pointed at her chest. “That makes you hard to finish.” He let that hang.

  “But if someone decides you are the priority target? You don’t have a way to survive focused pressure for long.”

  She thought of the crossbow bolt in her back.

  “You need someone who can stand in front of you and take the first wave,” Grath said. “Or someone who can delete a threat before it reaches you. Or someone who can lock down a group while you dismantle them.”

  “So I’m… middle support?”

  “You’re control and sustain,” he said simply. “Inside the fight. Not outside it.”

  That sounded better. Somewhat. Miri was still learning the nuances of how all this worked. She just wanted to jump in and do the thing, not hear that she couldn't.

  “You don’t need to change what you’re building,” he added. “Arcane suits you. Your control is already strong.”

  He met her eyes. “But stop pretending you’re a solo army. You don’t need to rebuild,” Grath said. “You need people around you who hit harder, hold longer, or see farther.”

  Tony yawned and stretched, massive paws sliding forward across the wood. Grath glanced at him. “You’ve made a start,” he admitted.

  Miri looked down at the tiger. “…So I’m not weak.”

  “No,” Grath said evenly. “You’re specialized. And specialization without a team is just a vulnerability waiting to be exploited.”

  * * *

  Hank had not slept.

  He sat at the small desk in the Adventurer’s Guild lobby long before the doors officially opened, hat in his hands, eyes sunk deep in a face that looked older than it had any right to.

  The clerk kept glancing at him.

  “You alright there, Mister Hank?”

  “No,” Hank said simply.

  He slid a folded parchment across the counter. His hand trembled, just slightly.

  “I need a Warder,” he said. “High level. Experienced and discrete. Not an apprentice. Not someone who read a pamphlet and bought a charm kit. Whoever’s best — maybe the specialist in North Downing.”

  The clerk unfolded the paper and scanned it.

  Urgent Contract

  Locate and Escort Master Warder to Helmsworth.

  Substantial Compensation. Discretion Required.

  The clerk’s brows lifted.

  “That’s… vague.”

  Hank didn’t smile.

  “Yes.”

  “You want to put the reason on the notice?”

  “No.”

  The clerk hesitated. Then nodded. Some jobs didn’t need details.

  “How urgent?”

  Hank looked toward the tall windows of the guild hall. Morning light spilled across the floor. His reflection in the glass startled him. He looked thinner. Paler. Something in his eyes seemed a bit dimmer.

  “Yesterday,” Hank said quietly.

  The clerk swallowed and reached for the stamping seal. With economical movements, he placed the blue 'urgent' ribbon on the bottom corner and wax hit the parchment with a soft, final press.

  The notice went up on the board.

  Hank stood slowly, hat still in his hands. For a moment, he stared at the collection of contracts pinned there. Lost livestock. Road clearing. Quarry expansion.

  Normal problems.

  He hoped they could stay that way. Then he turned and left the guild hall, moving carefully, as if something inside him might spill if he walked too fast.

  The clerk stared at Hank’s retreating form and decided to go get Grath.