Chapter 72 – The Pyramid Commission
The morning broke in shades of amber and dust.
Sunlight filtered through the open shutters of the J-Crew mansion, painting slanted bars across the long dining table. Steam rose from mismatched bowls of grain and stew. Ember prowled along the edge of the table, tail twitching dangerously close to Blake's plate.
"Don't," Blake warned.
The little beast blinked once — then swiped a dumpling and vanished under the bench.
Blake groaned. "That's theft! You're raising a criminal, John."
John didn't look up from the reports spread before him. "He's a growing boy."
The laughter that followed settled easily over the room — the kind of comfortable noise that comes only from people who've fought together.
When the plates were mostly empty, John folded the last report and stood. His voice carried over the chatter with its usual quiet authority.
"All right. We're heading to the Mercenary Association today. I want to review contracts and plan our missions for the week."
Tamara looked up immediately, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I'll come. You'll need someone who remembers which requests we've already filled."
Before John could respond, another voice chimed in from the side.
"I'll go too," Lysa said.
The table quieted for a beat. She rarely volunteered for anything that involved crowds.
John arched a brow. "You? You hate the smell of the Mercenary Hall."
Lysa shrugged. "I was planning to head there anyways."
Her expression was light, but there was something in her eyes — a quiet alertness, like a candle waiting for a gust.
John didn't press it. "All right then. Tamara, Lysa — you're with me."
They left before the sun climbed too high.
The City of Sands was already awake — merchants calling out prices, guards pacing the stone streets, banners snapping above the alleys. The smell of spiced oil and hot bread drifted through the air.
John led the way, Ember padding beside him, Tamara and Lysa close behind. The heat shimmered above the rooftops like a living veil.
Tamara adjusted her cloak. "It's hot today."
"Yeah it is." John said.
Lysa walked a few steps behind them, eyes scanning the busy walkways. Her hand rested loosely on the small dagger at her hip, though there was no visible threat.
The Association's hall loomed ahead — four stories of burnished stone and bronze-rimmed glass. The air smelled of iron, parchment, and too many people carrying weapons.
Inside, the noise hit like heat. Adventurers crowded around the job boards, clerks scribbled notes, and runners carried sealed messages through the maze of corridors.
John's presence drew attention — a few nods, a few stares. His face was becoming known here.
A clerk in the Association's green vest spotted him and hurried forward. "Master Caster! Commander Skitterd sends his regards — and a request. He'd like a word, if you have time."
John exchanged a quick glance with Tamara. "Of course."
Tamara nodded. "We'll be here."
Lysa gave a small, unreadable smile. "Don't let him rope you into free labor."
John smirked. "That's your job."
He followed the clerk through the hall's inner corridors, leaving the two women behind amid the press of voices.
The meeting room was quiet and cool — the walls lined with maps, the light filtering through narrow slats to stripe the table in gold and shadow.
Kyle Skitterd stood near the window. He was younger than John expected — early thirties perhaps — but carried himself with the calm of someone who had seen enough battles to stop counting. His uniform bore the silver insignia of a commander; the air around him thrummed faintly, the mark of a step 9 E rank.
When he turned, his eyes were dark steel — sharp, calm, a little too focused.
"John Caster," he said. "It's good to finally meet you."
John inclined his head. "Commander Skitterd."
"Please," Kyle said, gesturing toward a chair. "No titles. Sit."
John did.
Skitterd folded his arms. "You've made an impression these past few months. Your team completes every job on time, minimal casualties, no paperwork disputes. That's a rare combination."
John said nothing, waiting.
Kyle smiled faintly. "I like people who get things done. And I like people who don't ask questions they don't need answered."
"That sounds like a compliment and a warning," John said.
"It is."
For a moment, their gazes held — a quiet test neither man acknowledged aloud. Then Kyle broke it with a small laugh. "Relax. You're not in trouble. I have work — good work. And I need someone I can trust to handle it."
John leaned forward slightly. "I'm listening."
"There's a site north of the city," Kyle began. "An old pyramid — It's a peculiar place, older than anyone can trace. The problem is what's inside. Every few months the seals weaken, and the place fills with undead. We go in and clean it out."
"Standard purge operation?" John asked.
"More or less. Most of the creatures are Step Four, a few Step Five. The air in there eats light and drains essence; you'll need constant flame. It's not glamorous, but it pays well."
He paused, studying John's face. "I'd usually lead it myself, but my attention's divided this month. I want you and your crew to handle it."
"Minimum leader requirement?"
"Step Five." Kyle smiled knowingly. "You just made that, didn't you?"
John nodded once.
"Good. Then it's your trial run as a higher-tier contractor. I'll send you the full details."
They spoke a while longer about logistics — timelines, equipment, hazard ratings. Kyle's tone remained courteous, but there was a cold precision beneath every word, like a man arranging pieces on a board only he could see.
When they finally stood, Kyle extended his hand.
"You've done well to reach this point, Caster. Keep doing what you're doing.
They shook hands. The commander's grip was firm, his eyes unreadable.
"Good luck," Kyle said. "The Pyramid will be waiting."
Elsewhere in the hall, Tamara leaned against a marble pillar, scanning the crowd. Lysa stood beside her, pretending to read the job postings on the nearest wall.
Tamara spoke quietly. "About the other night."
Lysa didn't look up. "You mean when I walked in on you and Blake arguing about secrets you don't want anyone to know?"
Tamara's jaw tightened. "You heard something."
"I heard enough to know it's none of my business."
Tamara stepped closer, lowering her voice further. "Just keep it to yourself."
Lysa finally looked at her. "You don't have to tell me twice."
"Good."
Lysa said evenly. "Your past doesn't change how you fight now. And it doesn't change that you're part of this team. That's all that matters."
Tamara studied her face, searching for a hint of mockery or threat, but found none — only composure.
"Good," Tamara said at last. "Let's leave it buried."
Lysa nodded, turning toward the side corridor that led deeper into the Association.
"I'll be along in a minute. I just want to check something."
Tamara watched her until she disappeared behind the corridor's archway, unease prickling at the back of her mind.
John found Tamara waiting near the front doors. The crowd had thinned; the sound of merchants outside bled faintly through the walls.
She straightened as he approached. "All done?"
He nodded. "Kyle Skitterd wants us to clear a pyramid north of the city. Undead infestation. Apparently it's a recurring problem."
"Routine?"
"Mostly. But it needs a Step Five leader. He said he'll send the formal request within the week."
Tamara's brows knit. "And you agreed?"
"For now. We'll see the details before we commit."
She glanced around. "Where's Lysa?"
John turned, scanning the hall. "She was with you."
"She said she was checking something in the side offices."
John didn't answer. He simply opened the door, letting the sunlight spill across the floor. "Then she knows where to find us."
They stepped out into the street.
The city shimmered under the afternoon sun.
They walked in silence for a while, the steady rhythm of boots on stone blending with the sounds of distant markets. A caravan passed by, its camels draped in blue cloth; merchants called prices for water-stones and charms meant to keep away desert spirits.
John finally spoke. "Kyle Skitterd's not what I expected."
Tamara glanced at him. "How so?"
"He's sharp. Calculating. The kind of man who asks favors like they're opportunities."
Tamara smiled faintly. "That's most commanders."
"Maybe," John said. "But Dokabas told me not to trust the Mercenary Guild completely. Said they've got too many hidden loyalties."
"Do you believe him?"
"I believe what I've seen. The disappearances. The strange sigils. Too many coincidences."
They passed through a quieter district where the wind carried the scent of stone and salt. Tamara's cloak brushed his arm as she walked beside him.
"Then what's your plan?" she asked.
He thought for a moment. "We'll take the mission. But we'll keep our eyes open. If the Guild's hiding something, it'll show itself sooner or later."
Tamara nodded slowly. "And if it's a trap?"
"Then they'll regret setting it."
Her laugh was small, tired, but genuine. "That sounds like you."
By the time they reached the mansion, the sun was bleeding into the horizon. The air cooled, and lanterns flickered to life along the street. Ember bounded ahead, claws clattering on the steps.
From a second-story window, a faint light blinked — Lysa's silhouette crossing the curtains before vanishing again. Neither of them noticed.
Inside, the smell of cooking and the sound of laughter filled the hall once more. Vulgrat was shouting something about "perfect ratios," and Blake was swearing that Ember had stolen the rest of the dumplings.
For a few precious moments, it felt like any other evening.
But beneath the noise, the walls seemed to hum — a low vibration too deep to be sound, too steady to be chance.
John paused at the doorway, hand resting on the frame, and frowned slightly.
"Something wrong?" Tamara asked.
He shook his head. "Just tired."
They stepped inside. The door shut behind them with a soft click.
Outside, the wind carried a whisper that none of them could hear — a pulse rising from the north, where the desert hid an ancient shape half buried in gold.
The pyramid waited.
And the sands were starting to move.