Chapter 19: the mask of kael
Almaarad rose from the desert like a fortress carved into the bones of the earth—walls of sun-bleached stone, towers capped with rust-red tiles, banners fluttering in the dry wind.
They passed through the gates without trouble. Leira flashed a copper medallion at the guards. No one asked questions.
The city's heartbeat hit Kael immediately—loud, hot, alive. Street vendors shouted over the clamor of wheels on cobblestone. The smell of roasted dates and ironwork filled the air. Overhead, swallows darted between awnings.
Kael kept his hood up. Not to hide. To observe.
They passed a church—tall, white-stoned, with polished marble steps and twin bells in the tower.
Kael's gaze lingered.
Not long.
Just long enough.
Leira noticed.
"Locals call it the Lantern Keep," she said quietly. "They like their gods loud here. Keep your opinions to yourself."
Kael didn't respond.
They turned down a quieter street. This one was lined with mercenaries—some drunk, some sharpening blades, all alert. The smell of sweat, oil, and steel grew stronger.
At the far end stood a large hall: dark wood, tusk-shaped arches, and a blood-red banner stretched across its frame.
The Iron Tusk.
"Mid-tier guild," Leira said. "You'll get work. No oaths. Just gold."
Inside, the main hall buzzed with low voices. A job board dominated one wall. The air felt thick with experience—people who'd bled before, and planned to again.
Leira walked straight up to the front desk, Kael one step behind. The clerk glanced up from a thick, ink-stained ledger.
"New?"
"Freelancer," Leira said. "Name's Kael. Worked with us outside the city."
The clerk didn't look impressed. "Surname?"
"None."
"Rank?"
"Novice."
The clerk clicked his tongue and jotted something down. "Three copper for registration."
Kael reached for his cloak pocket—then paused. His fingers curled back.
"I don't have coin."
The clerk sighed and opened his mouth to wave him off—but paused. Took a better look.
"You kill beasts?"
Kael nodded once.
"Then you've got parts."
Kael tilted his head slightly.
The clerk looked irritated. "You're new, yeah? Fine. We accept materials at market rate—hide, fangs, scales, bones. Clean kills only. No rot. Got anything?"
Kael swung his pack off his shoulder and unlatched it.
He laid down a long, narrow fang, a strip of fresh hide, and a pair of claws still dusted with dried blood.
The clerk blinked.
"Tier-2 parts?" he muttered. "For registration?"
Kael didn't answer.
Leira smiled faintly from behind him. Vaen raised an eyebrow.
The clerk cleared his throat, took one claw and the fang, weighed them quickly in a hanging scale, then scribbled something in the ledger.
"More than covers the fee. Here." He slid a stamped bronze tag across the desk.
Kael – Iron Tusk Guild: Registered.
The clerk leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Next time, start with the parts. Makes you look less lost."
Kael said nothing. He took the pendant, nodded once, and stepped back from the desk.
Later, on the second floor, Kael leaned against the railing overlooking the sparring yard. Recruits moved below in slow, clumsy drills.
Leira stood beside him.
"You'll find your place here," she said.
"I already have."
She glanced sideways. "You don't talk much."
"I say what I need."
She smiled faintly. "You'll fit right in."
She walked off without another word.
Kael stayed, watching the steel flash below, the grunts, the footwork. The routine of violence.
Then he turned his eyes toward the rooftops—toward the white dome of the church that gleamed behind them.