The day had moved forward without asking me.
That was the worst part.
I woke up. I washed my face with water that still felt cold even after the sun climbed. I pulled my shirt over my ribs carefully so the fabric wouldn't catch on the bandages underneath. I checked the sling twice, like checking it could make my arm heal faster.
Then I counted my coins.
Nine copper.
Fifty-nine iron.
I counted them again anyway, because numbers stayed still when everything else slid around.
I tucked the little pouch deep into my pocket and walked to the guild.
Azuris was loud in the morning—carts groaning over stone, vendors shouting like the world would end if you didn't buy their fruit right now, the distant clang of hammers from somewhere I couldn't see.
I kept my eyes forward and my shoulders squared the way Ash taught me, even though he wasn't here to scold me for slouching.
When the guild doors came into view, my breathing loosened a fraction.
The place was noisy in the way that meant alive.
Woodsmoke. Metal. Sweat. Stew. Old ale. Warm bread if you were lucky.
I stepped inside, and the sound swallowed me.
The hall was already full. Adults in leather and steel. Some laughing. Some arguing over the quest board. Someone limping past with a fresh bandage around their thigh like it was nothing.
I threaded through them toward the counter.
Nerissa spotted me before I reached it.
Her hair was pinned up the same neat way it always was, like the guild could be falling apart and she'd still find time to keep one thing tidy. Her eyes softened the moment they landed on me.
"Trey," she said, and it didn't sound like a receptionist greeting a trainee. It sounded like someone calling a kid back from the edge of a cliff. "You're early."
"I had class," I said, then immediately hated how thin my voice sounded.
Nerissa's gaze flicked to my sling.
She didn't ask.
Not right away.
Instead she leaned forward slightly, like she was letting the crowd's noise cover us. "What do you need?"
The words what do you need hit harder than they should've.
I swallowed and forced myself to speak before my courage dissolved.
"I—um. Can I take a gathering quest later?" I asked. "After class."
Nerissa blinked once. "A gathering quest?"
"Yes." I tried to make it sound normal. Like it was just a thought. Like I wasn't standing here with nine copper and fifty-nine iron and a stomach that already felt hollow.
Her eyes narrowed—kindly, but not fooled.
"You can," she said. "But not alone."
I stared. "What?"
Nerissa lifted one finger, like she was about to recite rules the way Miss Nanda recited punishments.
"Any quest that leaves the wall," she said, "is restricted for anyone below F-minus."
I stared harder. "Gathering quests too?"
"Yes."
"But…" My thoughts tangled. "It's just gathering plants."
Nerissa's mouth twitched like she'd heard that exact argument from fifty kids and twelve adults who should've known better.
"It's outside," she said simply. "Outside doesn't care what you're there for."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"I thought—" I started, then stopped, because admitting what I thought felt like admitting I was stupid.
Nerissa finished it for me anyway, gentle and merciless.
"You thought because it's not a hunt, it's safe."
I didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
She leaned in a little more. "Trey, the wall rules exist because the wall is the only reason Azuris still has children. If you are below F-minus, you can't step through the gate on guild work unless you're in a party with an F-minus adventurer or higher."
My stomach sank.
"So I need…" I forced the words out. "An F-minus adventurer to go with me."
Nerissa nodded. "To accompany you and take responsibility for the party. To sign the gate log. To keep you alive if something decides you look edible."
My arm ached in its sling like it wanted to remind me I didn't even have two hands right now.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat—wrong and sharp—and I swallowed it down.
"I didn't know," I managed.
"That's why you ask," she said. "That's why I'm here."
Her gaze dropped again, not to the sling this time, but to my pocket.
To where my coin pouch sat like a secret.
"Are you… alright?" she asked carefully.
It wasn't the question. It was the way she said it. Like she already knew the answer and was giving me a chance to lie with dignity.
I lifted my chin. "I'm fine."
Nerissa's eyes stayed on me for another heartbeat. Then she sighed, soft.
"You know," she said, "you can ask the guild for help if you run out—"
"I won't," I said too fast.
Nerissa didn't scold me for the speed. She didn't push.
She just reached under the counter and pulled out a small wooden token—smooth, round, stamped with the guild's mark.
"One meal a day," she said, setting it down between us. "At the tavern. The Guild Master allowed it. Not… forever. But while you're still a child living alone."
The token looked harmless.
It also looked like pity.
My throat tightened anyway.
"I thought he…" I started, then stopped, because I didn't want to say the old promise out loud. The one that had been given and then taken back.
Nerissa's expression shifted, faintly apologetic.
"He revoked the arrangement," she said quietly, like she was talking about weather and not survival. "But this—this is different. He doesn't want you starving. No one does."
The token sat there, waiting.
In my head, another thing sat there too—hotter, sharper.
A vow.
A binding oath that didn't care about kindness or meals or Nerissa's eyes.
If there was ever "a problem," if something snapped the wrong way, I didn't want that problem touching the guild. Touching Nerissa. And everyone that I cared.
I stared at the token, then reached out and picked it up.
The wood was warm from being kept behind the counter.
"Thank you," I said, because that part was true.
Nerissa's shoulders eased a fraction, like she'd been holding her breath.
"And Trey," she added, voice soft but firm. "Don't be proud about hunger. Pride doesn't fill your stomach."
I nodded, because arguing would've made my eyes sting.
Behind Nerissa, at a different counter, I caught a glimpse of someone tall moving through paperwork with quick, efficient hands.
Leona.
She looked up just once, met my eyes for half a second—sharp, assessing—then looked back down like she hadn't noticed me at all.
Still, my skin prickled like I'd been seen.
I tucked the token into my pocket beside my coins.
"Go to class," Nerissa said. "And if you want a gathering quest after, you find someone ranked high enough to take you."
I nodded again, then turned away before my voice did anything embarrassing.
As I walked toward the classroom, the hall noise rolled over me like waves.
I kept my hand in my pocket, fingers curled around the token, and tried not to think about how a single meal a day could feel like both a gift and a leash.
***
The corridor outside the trainee classroom was quieter than the hall.
That always made it worse.
Quiet meant I could hear my own thoughts.
And my thoughts remembered.
The last time I stood in front of this door, my fist hurt.
Arlo's face had been red.
My chest tightened just remembering it.
I'd apologized to Arlo already. I'd done it like Miss Nanda ordered, stiff and awkward and too late to erase anything.
But there was still one more thing sitting in my ribs like a stone.
Mya.
I hadn't apologized to her.
I hadn't even spoken to her since the incident. Not properly.
My fingers flexed against the sling's strap.
Breathe, I told myself.
Ash's voice wasn't here, but his drills were.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
Longer out than in.
I raised my good hand, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
The smell hit first.
Dust and ink.
Not stew. Not sweat.
The classroom was the same as it had been months ago—desks in neat rows, a chalkboard at the front, old books stacked like they'd survived wars no one remembered.
My classmates sat in their places, talking in clusters.
They looked the same age as me.
They looked too young to be learning how not to die.
My eyes flicked automatically to the seats I expected.
Finn's seat—empty.
Arlo's seat—empty too.
The gaps made the room feel lopsided.
My chest tightened, but I forced my feet forward.
Mya was where she always was.
When she saw me, she straightened so fast her chair squeaked.
Her eyes widened—not with fear. With surprise.
"Trey?" she whispered, like she wasn't sure I was real.
Then her gaze dropped to my sling.
"What happened to your arm?"
Her voice wasn't accusing. It was… soft. Concerned.
It made my throat go tight in a different way.
I moved to my seat beside her and sat carefully, keeping my ribs from protesting too loudly.
"I… fell," I said. The lie slid out smoother than it should've. "An accident."
Mya leaned closer, eyes scanning my bandages like she could see through my shirt and find every hidden wrap. "Does it hurt?"
"Not much," I lied again.
Mya's eyebrows pulled together. "That's not how broken arms work."
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead I stared down at the desk, the wood scratched and carved by other kids' boredom and nerves.
My heart thudded once.
Twice.
Now.
I lifted my head.
"Mya," I said quietly.
She blinked. "Yes?"
"I…" My tongue stuck. I forced it free. "I'm sorry."
Mya froze like I'd thrown a bucket of water on her.
"For what?" she asked, genuinely confused.
Heat crawled up my neck.
Because if I explained wrong, it would sound like I was asking for praise.
And I didn't want praise.
I just wanted the weight to stop pressing on my chest.
"I saw you," I said, words careful. "Last week. You were… crying."
Mya's eyes widened again, but this time it wasn't surprise.
It was embarrassment.
"I—"
"And I saw Arlo," I continued quickly before my courage died. "He threw the cookie you made."
Mya's mouth parted.
I exhaled, then said it.
"So I punched him."
Her face went completely still.
Then: "You punched Arlo?"
"Yes," I said, then rushed the rest out like ripping a bandage. "I already apologized to him. Miss Nanda knows. She told me I also had to apologize to you."
Mya stared at me for a long moment.
Then her eyes dropped to her hands.
Her fingers twisted together under the desk.
"I… I didn't know you saw," she said quietly.
My stomach tightened.
She inhaled slowly, then spoke like she was pulling the words up from somewhere deep.
"I made those cookies," she said. "I really tried. I followed the instructions exactly. I… I thought it would be nice."
Her voice wobbled, just a little.
"But when he threw it like it was garbage…" She swallowed. "It hurt."
My chest clenched.
Not because I was guilty.
Because I understood the feeling too well.
Mya blinked fast, then gave a small, embarrassed laugh that didn't sound like laughter.
"And I didn't want him to see me crying," she admitted. "So I ran."
I nodded once. It felt like the only safe movement.
The room buzzed around us, other kids talking and shifting and laughing about nothing important.
Mya glanced toward the door.
"He hasn't talked to me since," she said softly. "I haven't… seen him."
Her shoulders rose like she was bracing for impact.
"I'm a little scared to meet him," she admitted.
I swallowed.
"Did he apologize to you?" I asked.
Mya shook her head.
Then she looked up at me, and her expression warmed, that familiar gentle look she always had.
"Thank you," she said. "For… caring."
Before I could answer, her brows snapped down in the same breath.
"But Trey," she scolded, whisper-hissing so she wouldn't draw attention. "You can't just punch people."
"I know," I said immediately.
"I mean it," she insisted.
"I know," I repeated, then lowered my head. "I'm sorry."
Mya stared at me for a second longer, then her mouth twitched.
A small chuckle slipped out.
It wasn't mocking.
It was the sound of someone relieved that something heavy might finally be moving.
"Okay," she murmured, voice light like she'd finally set something down. "Okay… good."
She ducked her head, cheeks faintly pink. "I was scared you'd… argue. Or get mad again."
Her fingers fidgeted on the edge of her desk, but her shoulders eased. "So… I'm glad you're listening."
I felt my shoulders loosen a fraction.
Then the classroom door opened again.