The mana testing room looked like it could double as a torture chamber.

  Bare stone walls. One flickering crystal light overhead. A heavy chair was bolted to the floor, fitted with straps and wires and metal contacts. Against one wall sat a squat, boxy machine bristling with dials, crystals, and glass tubes full of faintly glowing liquid.

  It looked ancient.

  Miri eyed it warily. “That thing… works, right?”

  Grath paused. “Define works.”

  She snorted despite herself.

  “Sit, please,” he said, gesturing to the chair. “This will measure mana flow, channel integrity, and output stability. Do not cast anything. Do not resist. Do not attempt to ‘help.’”

  “I wasn’t planning to,” Miri said, lowering herself into the chair.

  Grath secured the straps with careful professionalism, clipped cold metal bands around her wrists, and placed a broad plate against her sternum. The contact buzzed faintly, like a tuning fork pressed to her chest.

  “Relax,” he said.

  Miri stared at the ceiling. “I’m very relaxed.”

  “Good.” Grath stepped back to the machine and flipped a switch.

  It came to life with hum.

  A needle on the main dial trembled, hovering just above zero. The machine ticked softly, as if thinking.

  Miri held her breath.

  The needle fluttered.

  Paused.

  Then slammed to the far end of the dial with a thunderous BOOM.

  The entire room shook.

  Dust rained from the ceiling. One of the smaller crystals popped and went dark with a pathetic plink.

  Silence.

  Miri and Grath stared at each other.

  Wide-eyed.

  “…Was it supposed to do that?” Miri asked faintly.

  Grath cleared his throat.

  The machine emitted a long, wounded hiss and began smoking aggressively.

  He wafted the smoke away as he stepped closer to the box and peered at the dial—which was now bent slightly backward—then at a glass tube that had cracked clean through the middle. Curls of smoke rose from melted wires.

  “Hm,” he said.

  Another pause at a fzzt sound.

  “Well,” he continued carefully, “you are… capable.”

  Miri barked out a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

  Grath unplugged the machine. It continued to hiss angrily for a few seconds before giving up entirely.

  “We will not be repeating this test,” he said briskly. “Congratulations.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because the machine died?”

  “It retired,” Grath corrected. “With dignity.”

  Miri nodded solemnly. “Of course.”

  He gestured toward the door immediately. “We will proceed to the field assessment.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  She glanced back at the smoking machine. “Should I apologize to it?”

  Grath paused, considered, then shook his head. “It knew the risks.”

  And with that, he opened the door and ushered her out before anyone else could wander in and ask questions.

  * * *

  Miri met Tamsin five minutes after the smoking remains of the mana-testing machine were quietly forgotten.

  “This is your field assessor,” Grath said, gesturing to the woman waiting near the guild’s side entrance. “She will accompany you for the next forty-eight hours.”

  Tamsin inclined her head once.

  She was tall even by elven standards, lean and sharp-featured, with silver-blonde hair braided tight against her scalp. Her armor was practical and well-worn, patched in places where vanity had clearly lost arguments to survival. A longbow rested across her back, and the sword at her hip had seen use.

  “This is not a partnership,” Tamsin said calmly. “I will not fight for you. I will not save you. I will not carry your gear.”

  Miri straightened. “Got it.”

  “I will advise,” Tamsin continued. “I will intervene only if your actions endanger civilians or violate Guild law. Otherwise, what happens out there is on you.”

  Miri nodded again, more serious now.

  After a discussion regarding Miri’s inventory and the fact that she was well prepared for leaving immediately, they left Helmsworth through the east gate and entered the forest as the late morning light filtered through the canopy.

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  The forest felt attentive in a way Miri had never felt back home.

  She would swear she felt eyes following her, but nothing jumped from the bushes or tree branches. She rolled her head back from shoulder to shoulder and returned her focus to surroundings.

  They walked in silence.

  Not a comfortable silence. Not a companionable one.

  Just the kind that stretched and stretched until it felt like it was judging Miri personally.

  The forest swallowed sound. Boots on leaf litter. The occasional bird. Tamsin moved like she belonged there—eyes constantly scanning, posture loose but ready.

  After ten minutes, Miri cracked.

  “So,” she said, because she physically could not help herself, “is this the part of the assessment where we pretend the other person doesn’t exist?”

  Tamsin didn’t look at her. “No.”

  “Oh good.” Miri gestured vaguely. “Because I was worried I’d failed already.”

  Another few steps passed.

  “You’re allowed to talk,” Tamsin added. “It just won’t help you.”

  “Disagree,” Miri said. “Silence is making me imagine monsters.”

  “That is accurate.”

  Miri sighed. “Okay. I’ll start small. How long have you been with the Guild?”

  Tamsin hesitated. Just long enough to be noticeable.

  “Eight years.”

  “Wow,” Miri said. “You’ve done this assessment a few times before then.”

  Dozens, Tamsin said.

  “So has a guild applicant ever died during the field assessment?” She looked at Tamsin from the corner of her eye.

  The woman’s mouth twitched and Miri grinned in response. “Comforting.”

  They walked a bit farther.

  “You don’t have to answer this,” Miri said, softer now, “but why the Guild?”

  Tamsin was quiet for several heartbeats.

  “Money,” she said finally.

  Miri blinked. “Oh.”

  “I’m High Elf,” Tamsin continued, voice neutral. “Western marches. Poor land. Poor family. The Guild pays well.”

  She adjusted the strap of her pack, not looking at Miri.

  “I send most of it home.”

  “For…?”

  “My parents,” she said. “And my siblings.”

  That was it. No embellishment. No sentiment.

  Miri nodded. “That’s a good reason.”

  “It’s a necessary one,” Tamsin corrected.

  They walked on.

  After a moment, Miri said, “For what it’s worth, I think that’s honorable.”

  Tamsin didn’t respond.

  But she didn’t tell Miri to stop talking, either.

  They reached their first contract marker—a shadow-imp nest flagged by a warning rune.

  Tamsin stopped. “Four confirmed. Likely more nearby.”

  Miri drew her sword, heartbeat picking up the pace as she catalogued her surroundings.

  “Shadow imps teleport short distances,” Tamsin said. “Claws cause bleeding. They prefer flanking.”

  “Of course they do,” Miri muttered.

  “I will not engage,” Tamsin reminded her.

  “I know.”

  The imps came in hot.

  The air stuttered around her as they flickered in and out of existence—claws screeching across stone, blades of shadow slicing close enough to whisper past her skin. One second they were there, the next they were gone, leaving afterimages and pain in their wake.

  Miri took a hit to the ribs. Then another across her shoulder.

  She hissed and staggered, teeth clenched, forcing mana into her sword until it vibrated in her grip, a low hum thrumming up her arms. She moved because stopping meant dying—feet sliding, blade flashing, instincts screaming.

  One imp reappeared too close.

  She reacted without thinking, driving her sword forward.

  It shrieked once before collapsing, dissolving into shadow at her feet.

  [ You have defeated a Shadow Imp Lv3! ]

  Miri dismissed the message. The others didn’t slow.

  They darted around her, carving shallow cuts that burned like acid. Blood soaked into her shirt—not deep wounds, but many of them. A thousand paper cuts, each one stealing a little strength, a little breath. They were wearing her down.

  Exhausting their prey.

  Another imp blinked into existence just as she lunged, her blade punching through it by sheer luck. The body vanished before it hit the ground.

  “Too fast,” she gasped. “Way too fast.”

  They kept her turning—vanish, strike, vanish—forcing her to spin again and again until the world blurred.

  Then she noticed it. A tell. A pattern.

  One imp vanished—and another appeared across from where it should have been. Then another. Always offset. Always circling. Herding her and keeping her in the center.

  The next imp vanished.

  Miri didn’t turn toward where it had been.

  She spun instead, committing fully, sword sweeping in a wide, desperate arc.

  The imp teleported straight into her blade.

  The cut was clean.

  The body split in two and hit the ground with a wet sound that made her stomach flip.

  For half a heartbeat, there was silence.

  Then the last imp screamed and charged her head-on.

  It hit her like a battering ram. Claws tore into her side as they tumbled together, rolling hard across the ground. Pain flared white-hot.

  Miri twisted, found her feet first, and swung.

  The imp died mid-screech.

  [ You have defeated a Shadow Imp Lv4! ]

  Miri bent over and leaned on her sword, chest heaving, blood dripping, and laughed—a breathless, disbelieving sound.

  Tamsin stared for a long moment.

  “…Good,” she said.

  Miri beamed.

  Because they were partied, the loot automatically routed to Tamsin’s inventory.

  “I’ll transfer it when we’re back,” Tamsin said. “Guild rules.”

  “Fair,” Miri replied, still grinning. “Do I get bonus points for not screaming?”

  “No,” Tamsin said. “But I noticed.”

  Not all contracts bled.

  The next job was gathering moonpetal flowers—fragile white blooms used in alchemy. Delicate work. Slow. Miri learned how easy it was to ruin something valuable with impatience.

  Moonpetal flowers were especially important for mana-reactive potions like Mana Restoration Draughts, one of the big sellers at the Mercantile.

  Miri noted the location of the biggest flower patch to return another time. There were always moonpetal contracts to be found and it was easy money.

  The contract after that was immeasurably less pleasant.

  Bear scat.

  Large quantities of it.

  Tamsin handed her a shovel and a sack. “High payout. No volunteers.”

  Miri stared at the forest floor. “…I hate this.”

  “Everyone does.”

  They worked anyway.

  By the time they finished, Miri smelled like regret but had learned an important lesson: not every job was heroic, but every job mattered to someone.

  Plus, her Cleanse skill should level up pretty soon.

  The last contract was physical labor on a small farm at the forest’s edge. A farmer needed help moving stones to build a low wall before his livestock gave birth.

  They hauled. Lifted. Sweated.

  Miri’s muscles screamed—but she didn’t quit.

  The farmer beamed when they finished. “Come back next week,” he said warmly. “Cubs should be born by then.”

  Miri smiled. “I’d like that.”

  As they walked back toward Helmsworth, tired and filthy and accomplished, Tamsin finally spoke again.

  “You did well,” she said. “You didn’t complain when it got ugly. You didn’t cut corners.”

  Miri shrugged. “Someone needed it done.”

  Tamsin nodded once. “That’s the job.”

  The Guild gates came into view.

  Miri’s heart thudded—not with fear, but anticipation.