My hand was still on the cold iron of the door handle when the Game Master’s voice cut through the strange scene before me. I stood frozen, a statue of disbelief, as he formally introduced the chaos.

  “Kaelen, allow me to introduce your team,” he said. His tone was utterly flat, devoid of pride or enthusiasm. It sounded less like a military briefing and more like a man reading a list of side effects for a medication that might kill you.

  The room beyond the door was a holding cell disguised as a waiting room. Crates were stacked haphazardly, and five distinct figures occupied the space, each radiating an energy that clashed violently with the others.

  “Faelar Stonefist,” the Game Master said, gesturing to a figure sprawled across a reinforced crate. “Our resident demolition expert.”

  The dwarf was built like a keg that had grown limbs. He wore armor that looked like it had been cobbled together from the scrap metal of three different wars, and his beard was a thicket of red hair braided with heavy steel rings that clinked softly as he moved. He didn't stand up. Instead, he shifted his weight, causing the crate beneath him to groan in protest.

  He held a flask the size of a human shinbone. He uncorked it with a wet pop, and the smell hit me instantly—a pungent mix of turpentine, rotten apples, and rubbing alcohol.

  “Expert is a modest term,” Faelar boomed, his voice sounding like gravel tumbling down a chute. He took a swig that would have killed a horse, wiped his mouth with a hairy forearm, and belched. “I’m more of a maestro of mayhem. If it stands up, I can knock it down. If it’s already down, I can make it dust.”

  I wrinkled my nose, fighting the urge to step back. This was my heavy infantry? He looked like he was one stumble away from cardiac arrest.

  “Liam,” the Game Master continued, moving the spotlight to a lanky elf perched on the back of a chair. “Our scout and infiltrator.”

  Liam didn't look like a soldier. He looked like a dagger wrapped in silk. He was balancing a throwing knife on the tip of his nose, his body perfectly still, his eyes crossed slightly to watch the blade.

  “And finder of shiny things,” Liam corrected, his voice muffled slightly by the need to keep his jaw steady. “Don’t forget that part. It’s important. Essential for morale.”

  With a twitch of his head, the knife flipped into the air. My hand instinctively went to my belt, but before I could even flinch, Liam’s hand blurred. The knife was gone, vanished back into some hidden fold of his leather armor. He grinned at me, a predatory expression that promised trouble.

  “Willow,” the Game Master said, pointing to a small figure in the corner. “Our cleric.”

  Willow was a gnome, barely reaching my waist. She was kneeling on the floor, her hands buried in a pot of dirt she must have brought with her. She was humming a soft, vibrating melody that made the hair on my arms stand up.

  She turned and looked up at me. Her eyes were large, liquid, and terrifyingly sincere.

  “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you!” she chirped. She stood up, wiping dirt on her pristine white robes without a care. “The ferns were just telling me they had a good feeling about you. Well, the one on the left was skeptical, but he’s been moody since the transplant.”

  I stared at her. “The… ferns talk to you?”

  “Oh, constantly,” she whispered conspiratorially. “They have very strong opinions on humidity.”

  “And Elmsworth, our wizard,” the Game Master finished, nodding towards an ancient man who looked less like an arcane master and more like a vagrant who had robbed a costume shop.

  Elmsworth was draped in robes that had once been blue but were now a patchwork of stains, scorch marks, and what looked like dried soup. His white hair was a static-charged halo around his head.

  “And, of course, Nugget,” the Game Master added, sighing.

  Perched on the wizard's shoulder was a chicken. Not a familiar, not a hawk, but a barnyard chicken. Currently, its feathers were shifting through a slow, hypnotic cycle of colors—from a deep, bruised purple to an iridescent, sickly green.

  The bird puffed out its chest, looked me dead in the eye, and let out a single, dignified cluck. It sounded judgmental.

  Elmsworth narrowed his eyes at the bird. “Don’t you start,” he muttered to the chicken. “Don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you for the teacup incident. That was Ming dynasty porcelain, you feathered vandal.”

  My training—ten years of rigorous, soul-crushing discipline—had prepared me for strategic combat. It had prepared me to hold a spear wall against a charging cavalry. It had prepared me to calculate supply lines for a siege.

  It had not prepared me for a team that consisted of a drunk, a thief, a hallucinating gardener, and a senile man arguing with poultry.

  I felt a headache beginning to form behind my eyes, a sharp throb that pulsed in time with my heartbeat.

  “Alright, settle down,” the Game Master said, clapping his hands once. The sound was sharp, final, snapping the room’s attention to him.

  “Your mission parameters will be delivered in the morning. Until then, you are confined to the barracks.” He gestured toward a set of heavy oak doors at the far end of the room. “These are your new living quarters. You will be spending the next few weeks here, preparing. Get acquainted.”

  He turned his gaze to me. For a fraction of a second, the mask of bureaucratic indifference slipped. I saw genuine pity.

  “Kaelen,” he said quietly. “Coordinate. Strategize. And try to keep them from burning the place down. My expectations are… moderate.”

  “Sir, wait,” I started, stepping forward. “I have questions about the—”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  He turned and was gone. The door clicked shut behind him with the finality of a coffin lid, leaving me alone with my new command.

  The silence lasted for about a half-second.

  “Well, are we going to stand around here all day playing statues, or are we going to inspect the new digs?” Faelar roared.

  He pushed himself off the crate with a grunt of effort and strode towards the oak doors. He didn't use the handle. He kicked the doors open with a crash that shook dust from the ceiling.

  “Open sesame!” he bellowed.

  The doors swung wide, revealing a surprisingly spacious common room. It was clearly designed for a standard squad of ten men. There was a roaring fireplace on the far wall, a long tactical table in the center, and a collection of mismatched furniture scattered around.

  “Ha! Now this is more like it!” Faelar shouted.

  He marched toward a hulking monstrosity of a chair near the fire—cracked leather, stuffing poking out of one arm. He didn't sit; he threw himself into it. He bounced once, twice, testing the springs with violent enthusiasm.

  “Acceptable!” he declared, slamming his flask down on a delicate side table that wobbled threateningly. “That armchair has my name written all over it! Literally. I’m going to carve it in later.”

  Liam didn’t walk into the room; he flowed. He zipped past me, a blur of motion, his eyes scanning every corner, every shadow, every drawer handle.

  “Ooh, what’s this?” he chirped.

  He was standing by the mantelpiece, holding a dusty old compass. He shook it. The needle spun wildly, never settling on North.

  “Aha, a genuine anti-navigational device! Perfect for when you want to be truly lost,” he said, tucking it into his pocket. “Or for selling to a gullible tourist.”

  He moved to a locked cabinet against the wall. He didn't ask what was inside. He pulled a thin wire from his sleeve, inserted it into the keyhole, and twisted. Click.

  “Empty,” he announced, sounding heartbroken. “Not even a spare potion. Cheapskates.”

  Willow drifted in after him, avoiding the center of the room entirely. She moved along the walls, running her hand over the stone.

  “Oh, look! There’s an alcove for plants!” she gasped, rushing to a sunny corner where a few neglected, brown pots sat.

  She knelt before a withered peace lily. “Oh, you poor darling,” she cooed. Her fingers began to glow with a soft, pulsing green light. “Did the bad men forget to water you? Shhh, it’s okay now. Auntie Willow is here.”

  As I watched, the brown leaves turned green. The stem straightened. And then, horrifyingly, the plant seemed to nuzzle her hand.

  Elmsworth shuffled in last, muttering to Nugget. He stopped in the middle of the room, holding up a crooked wooden staff.

  “No, no, no,” he muttered. “The energies are all wrong. You see, Nugget? The principles of geomancy suggest the couch should face east to facilitate better arcane flow.”

  He pointed his staff at a heavy oak sofa. “Motus!”

  Sparks flew from the tip of the staff. The sofa didn't move. Instead, one of its legs detached with a loud crack and skittered across the floor like a frightened rat.

  “Fascinating,” Elmsworth noted. “The friction coefficient of the floor is higher than anticipated.”

  Nugget clucked.

  “I know!” Elmsworth snapped back. “An excellent point. The feng shui is a disaster.”

  I stood in the doorway, watching them scatter. Faelar was carving his initials into the chair with a dagger. Liam was juggling a pewter mug and a gargoyle statue he’d found. Willow was conducting a photosynthesis séance. Elmsworth was breaking the furniture.

  My training kicked in. It was a survival reflex. Assess. Command the space. Establish a clear chain of command.

  I took a deep breath, filling my lungs, and stepped into the center of the room. I slammed the butt of my spear against the floorboards. Thud.

  “Alright!” I said, my voice projecting from the diaphragm, the way Marcus had taught me. It came out louder and more forceful than I intended, bouncing off the stone walls.

  They all froze. Faelar looked up, knife in hand. Liam caught the mug mid-air. Willow gasped.

  “We need to discuss our operational readiness,” I announced, trying to look taller than I felt. “And we need to establish a schedule for the coming weeks. Discipline is the foundation of survival.”

  Faelar stared at me for a long moment. Then, he let out a groan that sounded like a dying bear.

  “Readiness? Lad, I’m always ready,” he grumbled, sinking deeper into the leather chair. “Mostly for a drink. Anyone else feel a powerful thirst coming on? My throat’s dryer than a goblin’s armpit.”

  “I could go for an ale,” Liam said, tossing the pewter mug from one hand to the other. “But as for a schedule? I’m generally opposed to them on principle. They ruin the spontaneity. What if I feel like napping at noon? Or stealing a pie at midnight? A schedule is just a cage made of time.”

  “A schedule sounds lovely,” Willow said from her corner. She looked hopeful. “We should be sure to schedule in at least an hour of quiet meditation each day. It’s very important for the soul. And the ferns get very anxious if there’s too much shouting.”

  “The only schedule that matters is the celestial one,” Elmsworth declared, stroking his beard as he inspected the broken sofa leg. “The stars are not in alignment for logistical planning today. Mercury is in retrograde. Or possibly Gatorade. I can never remember which.”

  He looked at the chicken. “They are, however, perfectly positioned for the contemplation of cheese. Nugget is quite fond of a sharp cheddar.”

  I pressed my lips into a thin line. It was like trying to herd cats. Drunk, magical, kleptomaniac cats.

  “This isn’t a holiday!” I snapped, losing my composure. “This is preparation for a mission that will likely involve life-or-death situations. Demons. Cultists. Things that want to eat your souls!”

  Liam leaned over to Faelar. “He’s got that ‘I spent my entire youth reading rulebooks’ look down pat, doesn’t he?” he murmured.

  “Aye,” the dwarf grunted back, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “Probably needs to loosen his belt a notch or two. He’s wound tighter than a gnome’s coin purse.”

  Faelar looked directly at me, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tell you what, lad. You look like you know how to hold that spear. That’s good. But do you know how to hold your liquor? That’s better. First round’s on me, as soon as I find the tavern in this place. A good brawl and a pint is the only team building I need.”

  “There is no tavern,” I said through gritted teeth. I felt like I was explaining physics to a toddler. “This is a secure military facility. We are underground. There is a mess hall, which serves nutrient gruel.”

  Faelar’s face fell. The color drained from his ruddy cheeks. It was an expression of such profound, devastating disappointment that it was almost comical.

  “No… tavern?” he whispered. “What kind of backward, uncivilized, god-forsaken operation are they running here?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, gathering my patience. Become the calm center of their storm. That’s what Marcus had said.

  At the moment, I felt more like a twig about to be snapped in half by a hurricane.

  I opened my eyes. I looked at Faelar, who was mourning the lack of ale. I looked at Liam, who was checking the resale value of the pewter mug. I looked at Elmsworth, who was trying to reattach the sofa leg with spit.

  “Fine,” I said, my voice even, conceding the battle to win the war. “Let’s just… settle in for tonight. No schedules. No drills. Just… exist.”

  I turned toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “But we will begin strategic exercises tomorrow. At dawn. Sharp.”

  A collective groan went through the room.

  “Dawn?” Liam complained, flopping onto a rug. “The sun is so… bright at that hour. It’s bad for the complexion.”

  “We’ll be there!” Willow chirped cheerfully. “Won’t we, everyone?”

  Her optimism was met with noncommittal grunts and a cluck from the chicken.

  My entire life had been a straight line of discipline and purpose, leading me to this exact moment. I was a spear, forged and sharpened for one thing: to lead a charge. I had my mission. I had my command.

  I just hadn’t realized my command would be a living, breathing exercise in chaos theory.

  I turned without another word and found the door that led to my own quarters, the quietest corner of our new shared space. As I closed it behind me, shutting out the sounds of Faelar singing a bawdy dwarven ballad and Elmsworth arguing with furniture, I leaned against the wood.

  I let out a long, slow breath.

  The training was yet to come, and I already felt exhausted.