"Come, boy," Ooba said, his gray cloak drawn close. Morning breathed a cool mist into the streets, the air sharp with salt and promise. It felt good to be free of the dawn's heavy haze.
The man from the tavern moved with unhurried confidence, his cane tapping softly against the cobbles. The sound carried easily in the early quiet, steady as a metronome. Aurelian fell in beside him, Fayte trailing close behind, feathers beaded with dew.
The Adventurers Guild in Brineford wasn't much to look at—just a squat stone hall wedged between a chandlery and a fishmonger, its salt-stained sign creaking in the wind. Nets hung over the doorway, drying beside a rack of spears that had seen more barnacles than battle. Inside, the air smelled of wax and wet leather. A single clerk hunched behind a counter stacked with tide charts and contracts, his quill scratching in lazy rhythm. No banners, no cheering crowd—just the tired hum of a coastal outpost doing its duty.
When Ooba pushed open the door, the clerk looked up, blinked at the pair of them, and muttered, "New blood, is it? Paper's on the left."
Ooba nodded and crossed to one of the empty desks. He took a clean registration sheet, dipped a quill in ink, and began filling it out in his neat, deliberate hand.
Aurelian hesitated beside him. "Are you sure about this?" he asked quietly, his gaze flicking toward the clerk behind the counter.
"I am." Ooba didn't look up. His voice carried an even calm, like he was discussing the weather.
"I won't understand," Aurelian murmured.
"You will."
Aurelian exhaled, the sound half sigh, half surrender. "Did you register Eden in the Adventurers and Arcanum guilds too?"
"Yep." Ooba's hand never paused. "They teach responsibility and community—and while we've only just met, your mother tells me you need both."
Heat crept up Aurelian's neck, and his gaze dropped to the floor.
"Hold this." Ooba slid the page toward him and gestured for him to take the edge so the ink could dry.
Aurelian obeyed without argument, fingers careful not to smudge the wet script. "May I ask—what was Eden like when she was my age?"
Ooba let out a soft guffaw, a sound more fond than mocking. "As wild as the wind." He reached for a sheet of parchment tinted a different shade and began filling it in with steady strokes. "She never learned to stay still—didn't like cages, even the golden ones."
He lifted the page, giving it a small shake to dry, then set it beside Aurelian's document. From a pouch on the table, he pinched a bit of fine sand and dusted both sheets. The grains caught the ink's shine as he tilted them, then he blew lightly across the surface, scattering the sand like gold dust in the morning light.
He handed the pages to Aurelian. "Take them to the desk."
Aurelian glanced toward the clerk, then lowered his eyes.
"Go on."
He swallowed and stepped forward, laying the documents on the counter.
The clerk studied him for a long moment, then leaned forward as if to catch a glimpse beneath the hood. Aurelian instinctively drew back, every muscle tightening.
Ooba moved to his side, the soft tap of his cane cutting through the quiet. His stare was enough.
The clerk's gaze dropped to the papers. "Aurelian Darkfall," he read aloud, then rattled off a string of words Aurelian couldn't follow.
Ooba stepped forward, his tone brisk and sure. The only words Aurelian caught were "Sage Ooba Darkfall." The clerk's posture shifted, respectful now, his questions dissolving into hurried nods and stamps.
Aurelian blinked, unsure of what just happened. A Sage? Ooba? The thought lingered unspoken. Whatever the clerk had said, Ooba's answer had ended it.
[System Notice]
Guild Registration Complete.
Name: Aurelian Darkfall
Status: Registered Member of the Adventurer's Guild & Order of the Arcanum
Adventurer's Guild (AP)
Rank: Neophyte
Current AP: 0
Next Rank (Journeyman): 100 AP required
Privileges:
Eligible for local bounties and courier tasks.
Access to shared guild postings within Brineford district.
Order of the Arcanum (AM)
Rank: Initiate
Current AM: 0
Next Rank (Novitiate): 100 AM required
Privileges:
License to study and cast under supervision.
Note: Dual membership recognized. Advancement in one guild may influence reputation in the other.
[System] Welcome to Solaria's registries, Adventurer.
By midmorning, Brineford's mist had burned away, leaving the rooftops shining with salt light. Fayte's feathers caught it in quick flashes as he hopped from post to post, wings half-spread in the breeze. Aurelian followed at an easy pace, the map from Eden's letter hovering faintly in his mind's eye, each turn a line of light pointing toward the coast road.
"We're headed out?" he asked, glancing back toward the harbor.
Ooba adjusted his cloak and tapped his cane once on the cobbles. "Aye—but not that way."
Aurelian blinked. "The road runs east."
"The road does." Ooba turned toward the treeline. "We don't."
He started walking, steady and sure, toward the shadows of Inkwood. Fayte fluttered down to Aurelian's shoulder, eyes bright with curiosity.
They crossed the last strip of grass, and the light fell away. The forest darkened as if someone had tilted the sky.
Trunks stood too close, bark slick and black as poured ink. Moss crawled thickly around their roots and spread over stones like a pelt. Patches of clay showed where his boots pressed through—cold enough to sting, damp enough to hold his tracks and the shape of his worry. Lichen filmed rock in green-gray fur—every rounded shoulder glossed with frost.
Above, honey-pale leaves shivered—thin as parchment, catching the last light and giving nothing back. Breath fogged and vanished. The hush pressed hard: no birds, no insect hum—only the faint tick of frost forming on fallen leaves and the slow groan of cold in wood.
Aurelian glanced around, uneasy at how quickly the light had vanished. "It's… quiet."
"Good," Ooba said. His cane sank a fraction into the moss. "Quiet means we're far enough in."
Aurelian hesitated. "What happens now?"
Ooba looked back once, his expression unreadable beneath the hood. "Now? You walk your path. I'm here to observe—and to teach, when you earn it."
The words landed heavily in the cold air.
"Alone?"
"Not alone," Ooba said, eyes flicking to Fayte. "Just on your own."
Aurelian watched Ooba's cloak fade between the close-grown trunks, the gray swallowed by Inkwood's shadow. The forest seemed to breathe once, then go still. Fayte pressed against his shoulder, feathers tight.
He exhaled, the cold mist of his breath curling in the dim light. "Rajin?"
The answer came from nowhere, soft but resonant, like thunder remembered. "Thou art uneasy."
He blinked. "He said I'm on my own."
"Aye. And so thou art."
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
"Then walk, child of storm. Watch. Listen. The world is a patient tutor to those who err."
Aurelian glanced up through the pale leaves. "That's all you're giving me?"
"For now. The lesson is not in my words, but in thy steps."
The voice faded, leaving only the hush of cold bark and the slow drip of melting frost. Fayte shifted on his shoulder, and Aurelian started forward into the dark.
Aurelian kept his hood low, one hand resting on Fayte's withers. The ardentis scudded at his heel—body low, wings tucked, talons setting soft in the moss. He had never come this far, not without Eden's paths. Each step felt like trespass into a place that kept its own names.
His boot slid on a stone furred with moss. The scrape sounded too loud. He froze, breath tight. Listening.
Clack.
They both stopped.
Clack-clack. Clack.
Not twigs. Not teeth. Beaks.
He slid behind an ink-black trunk, fingers slick with bark sweat. The sound multiplied—left, ahead, above, on a low rise where the clay dull broke into chunks. Fayte's pupils narrowed, crest flattening, head cocked to drink the silence.
"Hold," he breathed—more to himself than to him.
They stepped out of the dim like bad omens given legs—tall as ostriches, corded in slate and shadow. Some were black as midnight rivers, others iron-gray or mottled like ash and smoke. Ragged fans of feathers frilled shoulders and hips—matte charcoal, storm-haze, and here and there the shimmer of metal-sheen vanes that bent the thin leaf-light wrong. Bark-brown one heartbeat, frost-white the next, they made a faint ringing like coins when they shook.
Their heads ended in shoe-billed beaks the size of buckets, rims ridged and heavy. Above each beak, three jointed tendrils waved and tasted the air, reading motion like a script. Their feet—two forward talons and a spurred third—scraped clay and crushed moss to wet pulp, snapping underfoot.
A pane slid across his sight, quick and cold.
[Scan] Inkwood Strider (Adult) — Large avian, pack discipline
Sensing barbels: Air-vibration readers; clack cadence ↑ before strike
Threats: Crushing beak, trampling kick
Weakness: Lateral blind spot; hamstring exposed during stomp
Echo Potential: Reflex +1 DEX, Air Tasting +1 INT
One Strider clacked three times. Others answered. The nearest tendrils swept toward their tree and stiffened.
They had them.
He moved.
He broke into a run before thought could catch him. Breath tore from his chest in ragged bursts. The forest lurched past in streaks of black and gray—roots, clay, moss, shadow.
A snarl rose in his throat, and power answered it. Air thickened around his hands, burning with cords of shadow. Threads of aether crawled up his arms like veins of lightning.
Roots caught his boot. He fell hard, sliding through wet moss and clay, shoulder striking stone.
"Calm thyself, youngling." Rajin's voice threaded through the air—soft thunder beneath the panic.
He pressed a palm into the earth, the echo of power still trembling through him. Each breath steadied; the ground hummed faintly in answer. The forest seemed to breathe again.
The first Strider lunged. Its beak split the trunk where his head had been—a gunshot crack; bark splintered down in sheets. Fayte slammed into its ribs, driving it sideways, and ripped downward with a golden-swirled claw. Hide gave. Hot blood hit cold air and hissed across clay.
"High!" he barked.
Fayte vaulted, wings cracking once. Talons ripped a second bird's haunch. It screamed, barbels flaring, those metal-vaned feathers shivering like glass. It kicked blind—ham exposed exactly as the pane had warned.
"Right ham!"
Fayte struck tendon like a thrown knife. The leg folded. The Strider crashed, beak battering moss as it screamed in panic. Aurelian took the opening and went for the throat—a sonic burst of air exploded from his outstretched palms, tainted with the ink of the abyss.
Eden's voice echoed through memory: Restraint. Control the flows; do not allow them to control you.
He exhaled. The lesson had become muscle memory. He drew the tension humming along his bones into a single point—into the nail of his will—and refused to be its hammer.
Clack—behind.
A beak slammed into his ribs. Air vanished.
He rolled—instincts loud and fast—the taste of iron and moss thick on his tongue. A stomp crushed the ground where he'd been. He caught the joint's motion, drew a breath through the pain, and let the air snap. Tendons popped like bowstrings.
[System] Impact sustained — 32% health reduction.
[System] Mana expenditure: 17%. Aether reserves trending critical.
Aurelian staggered to a knee, lungs burning. The air shimmered faintly with overdraw.
Too much, too fast. The panic made him bleed power. If he didn't start thinking instead of flailing, the next strike would empty him completely.
The third beak swept for his neck. He surged upward, throwing his weight to twist and roll clear.
"Blind him!"
The Strider shrieked, claws skittering on slick stone as Fayte hit. His beak locked around its throat, foreclaws raking across its eyes.
Barbels quivered as the last Strider circled wide—plumage storm-gray, shot with shadow. It clacked slower now, testing. Aurelian froze mid-breath. The tendrils hesitated, uncertain, tasting stillness.
Fayte understood first. He burst low along the right, wings fanning into a swirl. The barbels snapped toward the gust—wrong direction.
"Now."
Aurelian lunged from the opposite side. Claws sank beneath the wing, ripping muscle. The Strider shrieked, beak smashing clay, talons gouging moss. Fayte dragged down until it buckled and collapsed. Feathers drifted through the trees like ash.
Silence took the clearing. Then, as if the wood itself remembered its rule, the dead went soft. Feathers slumped, bone blurred, and the bodies sifted to gray that the wind carried off in a patient breath. What remained clinked softly, like coin.
Soul-gems caught the gust—each wind-bright and cold to the touch—winking in the dim light. One metal-sheen plume refused to vanish: a sliver of dusk, its vanes catching and bending color wrong—bark-brown, frost-white, almost invisible, then back again.
[Notice] Pack neutralized. Echoes have strength you. +1 Dex, +1 Int.
[Gain] Inkwood Strider Soul Gem ×4 (common, wind-aspected)
Total: +525 XP
+600 motes, and an air seed have been earned.
[Level Up] 3 → 4
XP: (67 + 455) − 400 = 47 / 800
Health: 27 → 28 | Mana: 54 → 56 | Stamina: 22 → 23
Strength: 10 → 11 | Dexterity: 11 → 12 | Vitality: 10 → 11 | Intelligence: 14 → 15
Wisdom: 11 → 12 | Charisma: 10 → 11
[Guild Notice]
Adventurers Guild: +80 AP recorded — pack elimination verified.
Order of the Arcanum: +15 AM recorded — elemental manipulation confirmed.
The panes flickered, then dissolved into drifting motes of light. From behind the rustling leaves, where guilds tallied lives and lessons, he could hear faint scratches of quills and distant ledgers.