"Do you need a moment?" Michael asked. "Your mouth is hanging wide open."

  Pete hadn't realized he'd stopped walking. He closed his mouth and smiled. "Maybe. I've only been in this world for what, two months? But it feels so much longer."

  He swallowed, staring at the distant city. "Would you believe this terrifies me more than meeting Malachar?"

  Michael didn't answer right away. They both just stood there, looking at Greyport.

  The city was larger than Pete had expected. Thousands could fit within those walls. Wooden structures crowded together, haphazard but functional. The forest around it had been cleared for half a mile in every direction. Probably for the lumber, but also to see the monsters coming.

  Some fields were being worked despite the danger. People bent over crops, moving quickly, and often glancing at the treeline.

  The wall surprised him most. He'd expected wood, but this was solid stone.

  "You've got this," Michael said finally, clapping Pete on the shoulder. "Just let me do the talking and don't punch anyone."

  Pete took one last look at the city and followed Michael down the hill.

  He felt like a child trailing after his father. But no, that wasn't right anymore. Michael wasn't his guardian.

  He was his friend.

  ***

  The gate guards barely glanced at them. Two more adventurers entering Greyport was nothing unusual. Michael had warned Pete about this: the Borderlands attracted all kinds. As long as you didn't cause trouble, nobody cared who you were or where you came from.

  The smell hit Pete first. Unwashed bodies mixed with cooking fires, sewage, leather. And underneath it all, something else. Something wrong.

  It was the stench of fear.

  They turned a corner and then he saw the cages.

  Wooden cages lined the street like market stalls. People inside, pressed too close to sit. Some stared at nothing. Others reached through the bars, begging passersby who didn't look.

  Children. Some of them were children.

  Pete's vision narrowed. Sound faded to a dull roar.

  "Pete." Michael's voice, distant. "Keep walking."

  Pete tried. His legs wouldn't move.

  His mind kept turning around the cages, the children and their empty eyes.

  "Pete." Closer now. A hand on his arm. "Come on."

  He couldn't speak or breathe. His throat closed up and the world tilted.

  Michael's hand tightened, pulling him forward. Pete's feet moved, but he wasn't controlling them. Michael was guiding him through the street like a lost child.

  They entered a building. Voices surrounded them. The noise of a crowded room. A bench appeared under Pete.

  "Sit," Michael said quietly.

  Pete sat. Or fell. He wasn't sure which.

  "Just breathe," Michael's voice was calm but concerned. "In and out. That's all you need to do right now."

  But breathing didn't work. Not when the smell of unwashed bodies and fear reminded him of another scene. Another crowd of people. Another moment when he'd failed to save the person who mattered most.

  Everything faded.

  He was back on that street.

  ***

  It was raining. Cold drops mixing with something warm.

  "Please, sir!" A young voice pleaded with him. "Let the paramedics work!"

  Pete fought against the hands holding him. He clawed and struggled. So many hands pulling him back from her.

  "Sarah!" His voice was raw. "SARAH!"

  She was so small on the wet pavement. Her bright pink bicycle, her favorite, was turned into a twisted metal heap a few feet away.

  Her face...

  There was blood. So much blood on her precious face.

  Her eyes were open, but they were empty. The spark he knew so well, the light that made her Sarah was gone.

  Strangers in uniforms surrounded her. Touching her. Moving her.

  She needed him! Not strangers. Him!

  But the hands held him back. Kept pulling him away.

  "I'm sorry," he sobbed, the words tearing out of him. "I'm so sorry, honey. It's my fault. All my fault. I should have been watching. I should have"

  Until a voice cut through the memory.

  "Breathe, Pete."

  Aria's voice. Words she'd spoken when she sent him to this world. Distant but clear, like an echo across time.

  "Sarah loved you. She would want you to live. Make her proud."

  ***

  Pete gasped. Air rushed into his lungs like he'd been suffocated. The world swam back into focus.

  Michael sat beside him on the bench, holding a wooden mug. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes held concern. "You back with me?"

  Pete tried to answer. His throat felt raw, like he'd been screaming. Had he been screaming?

  "Here." Michael pressed the mug into his shaking hands. "Drink this."

  Pete raised it to his lips and drank.

  Then immediately spat it out, coughing. "What the hell is that?"

  Laughter erupted around them. Pete looked up, realizing for the first time that a lot of people were watching. Some faces showed concern. Most showed amusement. A few looked like they'd seen this exact scene play out before with other broken people.

  "Greyport Knock," Michael said. His grin didn't quite hide the worry in his eyes. "Famous for knocking even the strongest adventurers off their feet." He paused, voice dropping quieter. "This place has a way of getting under your skin. Are we good?"

  He didn't wait for an answer. Just squeezed Pete's shoulder once, firmly. The touch said more than words could. I'm here. You're not alone. We'll get through this.

  Pete took a shaky breath. Then another. The panic was fading. It wasn't gone, but manageable. Pushed back into the dark corner of his mind where it usually lived.

  "Yeah," he managed, voice hoarse. "We're good now."

  Stolen story; please report.

  Michael's hand dropped away, but he stayed close. Watching. Making sure.

  Only then did Pete actually look at where they were.

  The Adventurer's Guild of Greyport was a large building near the city center, built like a fortress but smelling like a tavern. The main floor was a busy hall filled with rough-looking men and women examining quest boards, arguing over rewards, and nursing drinks despite the early hour. Behind a long wooden counter, several clerks processed paperwork with the weary efficiency of people who'd seen everything twice.

  The walls were covered with posted notices, wanted posters, quest listings, warnings about monster sightings. Weapons hung everywhere. Not just the decorative kind, but working tools, close at hand in case of trouble.

  This was a place built for violence, trying to pretend it was civilized.

  "Ready?" Michael asked quietly.

  Pete nodded, not trusting his voice yet.

  "Let's go then," Michael said, standing. "And let me do the talking. You just... stand there and try to look less like you're about to collapse."

  They walked to the counter where a woman in her thirties was processing paperwork. She had the efficient, no-nonsense look of someone who'd worked this job too long to be impressed by anything.

  "Lucy," Michael said, approaching the counter. "I need to register my friend here as a new adventurer. And register us as a party."

  Lucy looked up. Her gaze flicked over Michael, then settled on Pete, studying him with the practiced eye of someone who sized up adventurers for a living.

  "You are partying up." Her tone suggested this was the most interesting thing that had happened all week. "Every A-rank party in the Borderlands has tried to recruit you, Michael Cordovan. And you've turned them all down. Now you're telling me you're forming a party with..." She looked at Pete again. "A complete newcomer who looks old enough to retire?"

  She didn't laugh, but her expression suggested she wanted to.

  "He's capable," Michael said simply.

  "Sure he is." Lucy's tone said she'd heard that before. "The guild leader's going to want to hear this personally. Wait here."

  She disappeared into a back room before either of them could respond.

  Pete looked at Michael. "Is that normal?"

  "No idea," Michael admitted. "First time I've ever done this."

  A few minutes later, Lucy returned. "He'll see you now. Office is through that door. And Cordovan?" She looked at Michael with something that might have been concern. "Don't make me regret this."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," Michael said.

  They walked to the indicated door. Michael knocked once, then opened it.

  "Close the door behind you, Mister Cordovan," a deep voice said from within.

  The office was sparse but functional. A large wooden desk dominated the space, covered in neat stacks of paperwork. Behind it sat a man who made the desk look small.

  He was massive. Not fat, but pure muscle and presence. His skin had a faint scaled texture, and his eyes glowed with an inner amber light. When he looked up at them, Pete felt the weight of something ancient and powerful studying him.

  "Sit," the man said, gesturing to two chairs across from his desk.

  They sat.

  "The name's Draegoth, as you might already know." His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder. "Guild master of this particular outpost."

  His gaze fixed on Michael first. "You, I know. Michael Cordovan. B-rank, solo operator. Good fighter, better instincts. You hate slavers." He said it as simple fact, no judgment attached.

  Then those glowing eyes turned to Pete, and Pete felt like he was being examined down to his bones.

  "You, I don't know. But I know what's inside you."

  "What's inside me?" Pete asked, finding his voice.

  "Dragon essence." Draegoth leaned forward slightly. "Something ancient, powerful, and entirely too large to belong in a human body. I am dragonkin. For thousands of years, my people have tracked the great dragons of this world. I know every dragon's essence like a shepherd knows his flock." His eyes narrowed. "What I feel inside you is Malachar."

  The sounds from the guild hall outside continued with laughter, arguments, the clink of mugs. Inside the office, Pete and Michael sat very still.

  "Malachar is dead," Draegoth said. Not as a question, but as a statement waiting to be confirmed.

  "Yes," Pete said.

  "You killed him."

  Pete swallowed. "Yes."

  Draegoth sat back in his chair. He was silent for a stretched out moment. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed something like surprise, or disbelief. Maybe both.

  "I have been waiting for Malachar's essence to go dark for longer than you have been alive," he said finally. "I had given up hope it would happen in my lifetime." He studied Pete with those unsettling amber eyes. "I should be elevating you to S-rank immediately. The kill alone warrants it."

  "Please don't," Pete said quickly.

  Draegoth raised one thick eyebrow. The first sign of genuine surprise he'd shown.

  "I don't want to be famous," Pete explained, the words coming faster now. "Nor do I want people to know what I can do. I just want to live. Quietly. Like a normal person."

  Draegoth studied him for a long moment. Those amber eyes were uncomfortably perceptive, and Pete had the distinct feeling the dragonkin was reading far more than just his expression. Reading his soul, maybe.

  "Tell me your story," Draegoth said finally. "All of it."

  So Pete did.

  He told him everything. His old world and his daughter. The accident that took her. The ten years he'd spent punishing himself, unable to move forward or let go. Aria's offer and her mistake with the divine blessings. How he killed Malachar without understanding what he was doing. The weeks in the wilderness learning not to accidentally destroy everything he touched, with Michael as his guide.

  All of it.

  Michael sat quietly throughout, having already heard most of this. Instead, he watched Draegoth's face, looking for reactions.

  The guild master's expression didn't change much. But his eyes shifted through several emotions. Surprise, understanding, something that might have been pity, and finally, a kind of weary recognition.

  When Pete finished, Draegoth was silent for a long moment.

  "You are a broken man trying to heal," he said finally. "And a goddess made you into something that could end kingdoms without asking your permission and without explaining what she had done to you."

  "That's a fair summary, yes," Pete said quietly.

  "And you don't want to be S-rank."

  "I want to be normal."

  "You will never be normal," Draegoth said plainly. Not cruel. Just honest. "The essence of an ancient dragon lives inside you. That is not something you can hide forever. Not from everyone." He paused. "But I understand what you are asking for."

  He was quiet for another moment, as if weighing something carefully.

  "I will register you as B-rank," he said finally. "High enough to take meaningful work. Low enough to avoid the attention that comes with higher ranks. But I want something in return."

  "What?" both Michael and Pete asked at the same time.

  Draegoth's gaze moved to the window. For the first time since they'd entered, Pete saw something close to emotion cross the dragonkin's face. Something vulnerable beneath the ancient, powerful exterior.

  "My daughter," Draegoth said, turning back to face them.

  Pete blinked. "I don't understand."

  "Excuse me," Michael added, equally confused. "What about your daughter?"

  Draegoth was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer than before.

  "She is A-rank. Dragonkin, like me." He paused, and for the first time something almost human crossed his face. Something tired and worried and undeniably parental. "She is skilled and powerful, as all dragonkin are."

  His eyes gleamed brighter for a moment, then dimmed.

  "She has also spent her entire life in this guild. In this city. She stays because she worries about me. Her mother died years ago, and Diana thinks I need protecting." A faint, sad smile. "I am neither sick nor helpless. But she worries nonetheless."

  He looked at his hands, calloused and ancient.

  "She needs to see the world. She needs companions she can trust." Those amber eyes lifted to meet Pete's. "I have watched you for this past hour, Pete. I do not see a violent man, despite your power. You are not ambitious or cruel." He paused. "You are a father without a child. She is a daughter who needs to leave her father."

  The office was very quiet.

  "You want us to take her with us," Pete said softly.

  "I want you to let her travel with you," Draegoth corrected. "She will earn her place. She is formidable. But more than her fighting ability, she needs..." He struggled for the word. "She needs to live. As you put it."

  Pete thought about it for perhaps three seconds. "What's her name?"

  "Diana."

  "And how would she feel about joining us?"

  Draegoth's smile was beautiful and terrible at once. Pete saw something predatory behind it. The ancient dragon beneath the civilized facade.

  "Let us find out together," Draegoth said.

  ***

  Draegoth stepped out of the office briefly. When he returned, he settled back into his chair with practiced ease.

  "I have sent for her. She will arrive within the hour." He gestured, and moments later a clerk appeared with bread, cheese, and water. "We will eat while we discuss Michael Cordovan."

  Michael tensed.

  Draegoth's amber eyes locked onto him. "The slavers are getting suspicious of you. I have known for a long time that you hunt them. Kill them." He said it as simple fact. "Nothing is lost with you disposing of that filth."

  Michael remained perfectly still. He didn't flinch under the dragonkin's gaze.

  "When my daughter decides to accompany you, I will issue an unofficial quest." Draegoth pulled a piece of paper from a desk drawer, wrote something on it in quick, precise strokes, and slid it across the desk. "It will not pay gold or earn official experience. But it will give Diana time to know you. And it will give you something you have been seeking."

  Michael leaned forward. His eyes went to the paper.

  Then went wide.

  "The Red Hand." His voice was barely a whisper. Then louder, sharper. "How long have you had this information?"

  "Long enough." Draegoth leaned forward slightly. "Sit down, young man."

  Michael had stood without realizing it. For a moment, Pete thought he might refuse. Then, slowly, Michael sank back into his chair.

  "I do not like seeing promising young adventurers die," Draegoth said, settling back. "You would have died if I had given you this location any sooner. The Red Hand is not a handful of bandits in the woods. They are organized. Brutal. Efficient." His gaze moved to Pete. "Now, you are ready."

  "Maybe," Michael said. His voice lacked conviction. His hands shook slightly as he stared at the paper. "I've been looking for them for twelve years. Twelve years, and no one knew anything. No one had seen them. And now you just... hand me their location?"

  He looked at Pete, and Pete saw something breaking in his friend's eyes. "We need to go. Now. Immediately."

  Pete heard the desperation. The weight of twelve years of searching, of failure, of wondering if his mother and sister were still alive or long dead.

  "There are only a few hours of daylight left," Pete said gently. "Let's meet Diana first. Give her the choice to join or not. Then we leave." He held Michael's gaze. "I'm with you. No matter what. But we do this smart."

  Michael opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded, jaw tight.

  A knock at the door interrupted them.

  "Enter," Draegoth called.

  The door opened.

  A young woman stepped inside without waiting for further permission.