《The Mornbringer Saga - Book 1 - Almost Heroes》 The Self-Chosen One For a sermon to be so pathetically unremarkable that even the devout Margery Silverwither grew bored was nothing short of incredible. To surrender one¡¯s attention to a man like Pontiff Borm required a brain fit to tolerate ineptitude on a cosmic scale. He was little more than a great oaf, draped in white and gold, the tall and ornate headdress crooked on his block of a head. He intoned from the Holy Writ with a distance that was impressive all on its own, grubby sausages for fingers cracking the old pages, meaty triple-chinned face drenched in sweat, unfocused beads for eyes so noncommittal that Margery had to wonder if his brain had shut off. An absolute disgrace of divine service. Already, Margery was regretting having moved to Gransmede. She looked to the statue of the All-Mother. White marble in the shape of a woman with an intricate urn clutched to her naked breast, her eyes pupilless yet all-seeing. She was tall, mighty, and tempted the thought that She could come to life at any moment and shock the congregation. The twelve Acolytes, draped in white robes, stood at attention at the sides of the statue. Ascended by the Pontiff himself, they were designated as the most faithful preachers of the All-Mother¡¯s great teachings. Some shuffled their feet, others were begrudgingly attentive, and the rest managed to look riveted by the pontiff somehow. Margery was finding the great structure of the church a much more arresting distraction. The pontiff¡¯s soulless voice bounced off the big dark walls of the House of Penta, echoing far into the high ceiling. Margery could almost see the echoes as they ricocheted off the cresting archways, circling the room from high above. Stained glass windows expressed a myriad of colors, dim light peeking through, failing to reveal the painted ceiling no matter how much she squinted. Was it like the one back home, showing the stars, moons, suns, and all else lying beyond the sky? Was it a painting of the All-Mother, arms outstretched as she looked down on Her children with omniscient wisdom? From her seat, the tall stands built on a higher floor of the church, overseeing the podium and benches banked out below, the world below wasn¡¯t as impressive. The smallfolk, all dressed in customary white, filled up the seats. Parents rocked their babies, children tried to scurry off and were scolded to sit still, elderly whispered to one another or listened with rapt attention. Skins of all colors created an assemblage of potential cultures, potential faiths, all abandoned in favor of the All-Mother. In favor of the true God. These people were beings of the flesh, tethered to the sins of self-indulgence, pride, and temptation. To them, the Pontiff was a holy being, a man recognized by God in a way most could only dream of. But those were human standards. There was a reason the seats of the Witches, Margery¡¯s seat, stood higher than even the pontiff. They were the beings closest to God, and appropriately, watched over the feeble and flawed humans. Higher than them. Wiser, stronger, better. That was the simple, unchangeable truth of things. Margery sat upright, adjusted her cowl, as if that might help her focus, and sniffed at the air. Cold and chalky¡ªthe smell of age and history, of a church still standing after three hundred years. She surrendered her remaining willpower to the rest of the sermon, and time proved merciful as Borm finally closed the book with a prayer. ¡°Through our deepest despair and our darkest hours, may The Mother continue to bless us,¡± he garbled. The congregation echoed his last line, followed by a sweep of bowing heads, a chorus of rising bodies, then a shuffling mass toward the exit. Two knights pushed the doors open, groaning and straining against their towering weight. Red and orange light spilling inside. ¡°That was the most pathetic service I¡¯ve ever had the displeasure of sitting through,¡± Margery grumbled as she watched the fat pontiff waddle away like a stuffed penguin, Acolytes trailing after him like lost chicks. ¡°What imbecile appointed this fool?¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t sound too different from home to me,¡± Jessine said, voice high and bubbly like she was in a constant state of excitement. Her big and bright green eyes shined like polished jewels. Margery gave her a flat look. ¡°Don¡¯t pretend you were paying attention.¡± She ignored her scathing hypocrisy. ¡°I do pay attention, normally. What¡¯s your excuse? It''s a mad world indeed when you can¡¯t even pay attention during service.¡± She cupped Margery¡¯s cheeks playfully. ¡°Are you my real sister? Not some fleshwitch who stole these little pink cheeks?¡± Jessine didn¡¯t bother to hide her laughter, ignoring the stares of the other Witches as they scooted out of their seats. Did she have no respect for her position? What would the common folk think when they heard her piggish squealing of a laugh? ¡°Marge, you really don¡¯t need to be so high-strung,¡± Jessine traced folds of Margery¡¯s crown plait with her finger. ¡°You poor thing. You wound your hair so tight that it¡¯s squeezing your brain!¡± ¡°I am using every fiber of my being to not hurt you.¡± Margery swiped the hand away. She should have known it wouldn¡¯t discourage her. ¡°Dear me, Margie, would you harm your poor and fragile sister?¡± ¡°It is under incredible consideration.¡± ¡°Oh, the savagery! What will I tell Mother?¡± Jessine threw her hand across her forehead. ¡°Poor Jessine, heartbroken and under the threat of death, seeks refuge in a faraway land to escape the cruel mistreatment of her family. It¡¯s poetry, Margery. I know, I know, hold your applause. I¡¯m too much, I know it!¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Margery huffed as Jessine continued to make a fool of herself. She was as much of a handful as ever, even after two years apart, but she was the only family nearby for a while. The only family Margery was actually happy to see. ¡°You¡¯re headed to the guild now?¡± Jessine said. ¡°Did you bring your transcripts?¡± ¡°I had a messenger deliver it to the guild before I met my escort,¡± Margery said, nodding toward the church exit, where an armored man in a blue cloak stood at attention. Ser Duncan, if she remembered correctly. ¡°I¡¯ll come see you after I¡¯ve met the master and settled into my house.¡± ¡°Excited?¡± Margery wouldn¡¯t have called it that. Excitement was for children. She was driven, compelled, hungry to carve out her long-awaited destiny. Margery¡¯s gaze strayed to the golden button that held her sister¡¯s cowl closed. A shimmering engraving of a phoenix with its giant wings tucked and chin raised high, its neck festooned with long feathers. The family crest. Their family crest. But when Margery looked at the button of her own cowl, twisted it between thumb and forefinger, she did not see gold or a phoenix. She did not have the family crest. It was the whole reason she was going to join the House of Heroes, despite how completely unsuitable for a woman of her standing. It was a place where warriors were paid to risk their lives on dangerous missions¡ªfighting monsters, stopping criminals¡ªto protect the people. An honorable job in its own right, worth even Margery¡¯s respect. In some ways, she was curious, she¡¯d grown up reading stories of famous and historic faces, but she wasn¡¯t like them and wouldn¡¯t pretend to be. The guild was a means, a stepping stone toward her real future. She was not here to be a hero. She was here to be the hero. ¡°I wish I could say I¡¯m excited for you. Forgive me if I¡¯m not exactly eager to hear that you got yourself eaten by a behemoth,¡± Jessine said. It was a joke, perhaps, or an attempt at one. ¡°But I digress. You¡¯ve been doing your counting?¡± Margery frowned. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°No incidents?¡± ¡°Jessine,¡± Margery stopped her. ¡°This is hardly what I need right now.¡± Jessine was quiet for a moment, and for all the courage it took for Margery to command her older sister, it took considerably more to look her in the eye afterward. Unhappy memories came flooding back, days long past, but the echoes lingered, like they always did. Jessine reached over and wrapped her arms around Margery¡¯s shoulders, giving her a hard squeeze, a gentle rub. ¡°If things get bad, you can always come talk to me. Understand?¡± There¡¯d be no point, is what Margery wanted to say. No amount of weeping and wailing would help anyone, herself least of all, but telling that to Jessine would be akin to tying her feet to stones and pushing her into the sea. ¡°I understand. Go, I need a moment to pray.¡± She watched Jessine leave, all the way until she¡¯d faded out beyond the doors, and Margery was all alone in the church. Only then did Margery rub her forehead. She stayed longer than most at the church, though she wasn¡¯t used to the size of this one. She stared once more at the All-Mother statue, at the urn where her great powers lay, at the inviting hand, palm up, fingers gently curled as if to cradle a butterfly. ¡°Don¡¯t be afraid,¡± She seemed to say, ¡°Come, and I shall lead you to unending prosperity.¡± Margery bowed her head, fingers clasped together as she closed her eyes. If she opened them again, would she find her God materialized before her? She often wondered that, and craved for the day She appeared and told her the truth of her teachings. If only it could be that easy. "All-knowing and all-powerful Mother, please grant me your courage and strength in these trying times,¡± Margery whispered. "To carry out your will is my greatest wish. Please guide me, your humble servant, to the light and your eternal glory.¡± The sun started to vanish over the buildings past the Penta¡¯s doors, the crisp orange light settling in the skyline and peeking through the church¡¯s great windows. The light touched her skin¡ªwarm, but fleeting. Dancing slowly across her flesh. Soon, it would be gone. The sun would vanish and night would arrive. The Darkness would arrive. She could feel it in the air, like impending clouds forewarning the rain. Devils slithering about, licking their lips, whispering lies and curses gone unheard by all but herself. They¡¯d shown her a purpose¡ªGod¡¯s purpose. People could say what they wanted. ¡°The Darkness isn¡¯t coming, you¡¯re an idiot, you¡¯re crazy.¡± She¡¯d let the fools believe that. But they¡¯d see. They¡¯d all see. Margery snatched up her staff which lay on the bench next to her. A winding strongbark staff, knotting itself at the top around a flat wooden head. Just having it felt comforting, safe, even if she knew those very things would become rare from there on. Margery scooted out of the benches, sandals scuffing on the stone steps on her way down. From a seat with God to the land of the imperfect¡ªone might have considered it an insult. Ser Duncan dipped his head as she approached him, the fiery blue plume on top of his bear-head helmet slipping smoothly down, eventide light showering across his gold-and-silver armor. A blue cape was draped over his shoulders, the tail brushing the dark floor. A knight of the King¡¯s Regiment. To send anything less than the best protection would be completely unthinkable and would not go ignored by the Witchwood. She might have requested a carriage, but walking gave her the benefit of getting familiar with the area. She was going to live here now, after all. "My lady, are you ready to go?" Margery nodded at him without so much as a word, waited for him to take the lead, and stayed close. With the towering doors of the church left behind, they returned to the streets of Gransmede, capital city of the Kingdom of Sanse. The City of Gransmede Margery was beginning to learn that the smell of Wall Dorian was of fireplace smoke, Chimneys topping every home puffed out gray plumes, clumping and swirling in the air, becoming more and more faint as they disappeared into the dark skybed. They passed through the district to get to the Penta, but Margery had been in such a hurry that she hadn¡¯t taken anything in. No better time than now. The wide street left a path full of turns, twists, and breaks, like the branches of a tree, congested with the traffic of the city. Ser Duncan gently pulled her aside as a horse-drawn carriage clopped past, spindled wheels creaking and rattling and bumping over the cobbled road. Civilians lounged on their porches and balconies, having drinks or talking in groups. A group of men were throwing dice in a dark alley, cheering and cursing at various results. Lovers and families strolled down the walkway, men in dark clothes hid the contents of their robes and ducked into rotting sidelong passages. The local school was in the distance¡ªbig gray walls, a flat shingle roof, and two windows peering over the inclining road like black eyes. The working people ruled the neighborhoods of Wall Dorian, one of the four major walls surrounding and splitting the city into various districts. The scent of spices stole Margery¡¯s attention as a chain of eateries and shops began to line the street of Eaters¡¯ Walk. One shop with a red roof had a symbol of an apple- stuffed pig with a fork and knife in its trotters drawn into the plaque above the door. A sweaty man standing outside called to the people milling about the area. ¡°Finest pork in the city! You¡¯ll not find a better meal for a better price!¡± Melted butter oozed off baked bread at the next restaurant. Margery¡¯s mouth watered a bit as she watched a little girl bite into it, the butter dripping off her lip. Spiced roast meat was served with sweetcorn and potatoes one table over, and past that a clean-cut fish cooked so perfectly the bone slipped right out. The temptation alone nearly convinced Margery to smile, and it was with regret that she put Eaters¡¯ Walk behind her. The Fountain Plaza was where most of the streets in Wall Dorian connected, at least that¡¯s what Margery had put together so far. She¡¯d visited before, several times actually, but it was never for very long and she didn¡¯t explore much either. Now that she¡¯d be living here, she¡¯d need to get used to the bustling city life. It was a big intersection, the main road connecting to the great circle which then forked out into the four smaller roads. She imagined that most of those paths were interconnected too, not only topside, but underground as well, like a giant spider web. Gransmede was said to be built on top of another city whose name no one knew. Margery followed the brick shaft of a passing building down to the wide plaque with the symbol of a hammer on an anvil¡ªa blacksmith shop. Sure enough, soot-covered men were shuffling about inside the building. Sweat peeled in bullets off bare backs, the windows were left open so air could circulate. Her skin tingled as she heard a long hiss, steam engulfing one man as he dunked a red-hot blade into a water barrel.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. ¡°Spices!¡± Margery turned her head at the sound, spotting a crooked-looking man on the far side of the plaza as he urged people toward his makeshift stand. ¡°Finest spices in the city! Sunpepper straight from Zarazei! Purest salts and sugars!¡± ¡°Dye and polish! Red silks for three pewters! Red silks!¡± announced a woman merchant with a thick accent. She hefted a huge pack off her back as teenage girls began to crowd around, purses in hand. Margery moved to step out into the street to get a better look at the merchandise when she collided with Duncan¡¯s outstretched arm. She¡¯d all but forgotten he was there. She was about to question him for stopping her, but got distracted by the stampede. A boiling crowd of people were filling up the plaza, shoving and snarling at each other, scrambling toward something. Shouts and murmurs of discontent were carried to them on the din, and Margery caught a pensive look on Ser Duncan¡¯s face. He tugged her close as he forced his way through the crowd. The shouts of one man managed to overpower the rest¡ªa man who was pinned to the ground by several others. Pale skin, long and inky black hair, a bony filthy body in patchy clothes¡ªan Ishtarian. Watchmen, the policing force of Gransmede, circled around the man, blue tabards flapping in a stink-carrying breeze. Some held their clubs as they yelled at their captive and held back the swelling crowd. A woman¡¯s scream rang out, an Ishtarian like the one on the ground. A watchman restrained her before she could reach him, and she bit her captor¡¯s hand to get free. The woman scrambled for her friend, tried to shield him from the beating she must have sensed was coming. She was right to. Wood struck bone with a wet crack and the woman fell still in front of her writhing partner. ¡°Apologies, m¡¯lady.¡± Ser Duncan said, as he guided her around the crowd, and down the open lane, away from the disturbance. ¡°Been some problems in the city lately. Protests and such. Nothing you need to be concerned about.¡± ¡°Hm,¡± Margery hummed with disinterest. ¡°Protests?¡± ¡°Its nonsense, m¡¯lady. Just poor men demanding more than they¡¯ve earned. The noise will fade away. It always does.¡± Duncan didn¡¯t sound like he believed that. ¡°Come, Main Street is up this way.¡± Margery couldn¡¯t help but look back. The Ishtarian man had broken free of his captors. Weapons were drawn, sharper ones this time, and they all belonged to the watchmen. Margery turned away as the Ishtarian man fought anyway¡ªscreams and shouts faded into the distance. She wiped her mind clean of it. The House of Heroes Her steps began to quicken. A wall twice as tall as her stretched down the road now, slick with unmanaged moss and overgrowth. Margery couldn¡¯t hold back a bit of childish wonder as the building at the end of the path came closer and closer. It had always seemed like a fairy tale back home, a fantasy, but there was no mistaking it. That was the House of Heroes. A smidge transparent of a title, but there was a simple charm to it. A coat of honesty that couldn¡¯t be replicated with another name. A place for warriors of all kinds to band together under a great code of honor, to protect not only Gransmede, but the entire kingdom. Direct servants of the people, untethered by the government that financed them. A Witch does not belong in a place like that, her father had said many times before, all of which Margery gladly ignored. It was a different kind of prestige than she needed if she was to become the head of her family, but that would go to her oldest brother, Victor. What then was left for her? To fade into obscurity as another member of the family? To cling to that shameful label as the albino of the household? Not if she could help it. As the road came to a bend, the wall connected to a building slightly taller than it. Margery and Duncan stepped into its overbearing shadow, fading sunlight putting a shine to the brick foundation and stone body that made up the bulk of the guild. A tilted plaque hung right above the door¡ªa timeless carving of a blue and white kiteshield, and a double-bladed golden sword: the symbol of Heroes. Greatness lied beyond, Margery could sense it. The most powerful, most honorable, and most revered warriors in the land gathered here. Margery took in breath, released it, then followed Ser Duncan as he pushed the doors open. Today was the beginning of a new future, a mark in history, a modern legend. Today she started on the path of destiny. Margery took her first step inside. And welcomed the little devil called regret. The smell hit her like a punch to the nose¡ªrotting wood, dirt, feet. The taste of alcohol muddied the air. It was a large hall for certain, with a magnificent round table that had a good third of it missing like a Behemoth had taken a bite out of it. The flooring outside of the table was elevated, making room for several old tables, chairs, and couches decorated with stains. To her right, cloaks and capes preferred the floor to the hangers on the walls. Margery gaped as she took a step back. Back toward home while she still had the chance. The job board was built into the back wall next to what she assumed was the mission desk, likely where Heroes went to take on new assignments. The board was old and dirty, with stacks of papers pinned atop one another like books without spines. The desk itself was clean, which was the only reason it stood out. A woman sat behind it, with paintings of warriors, stacks of documents, and clearly unfinished work resting on the tables behind her. There were people in the guild, as one might expect. But there were very few and didn¡¯t quite embody the heroism Margery envisioned. One dark-skinned man was passed out in his seat, a liquor bottle held loosely in his hand as it emptied onto the floor. A woman on the other side of the room was at least awake, wearing a chainmail dress and leather armor, bare feet propped on the table. She wore a sneer of incredible boredom, and picked her teeth with a dagger to combat it. But all that could all be ignored. Unruly, but not the worst she¡¯d ever seen. How often would she spend time here, anyway? Margery made the quick and executive decision that this would not deter her, and approached the entrance desk to ask where the Guildmaster was. He looked a kindly, sensible man: thick brown mustache and beard, equally brown curly hair and an age to his face that surely carried wisdom in the wrinkles. He dressed nicely enough too, a prim black coat with gray trimmings and the symbol of the guild sewn into the chest. Surely this man was her savior. The man who would right the wrongs which had been done to this guild. Wait, why was he biting his toenails? ¡°What in the world is going on here?¡± Margery screamed with mounting fury. The drunkard shouting in shocked retaliation, ¡°I didn¡¯t do it!¡± as he woke up. His bottle clattered on the floor and rolled off. "The Heroes¡¯ Guild, my lady.¡± Duncan stated. Margery resisted the urge to slap him. ¡°It can¡¯t be! This is the furthest thing from it!¡± Margery faced the man at the registry, ¡°Excuse me, I¡ªoh by the Mother.¡± She reeled, covering her nose as the pungent odor got a clean hit. Red eyes looked up from under thick brows, the man putting down his feet and straightening his coat with a sharp yank before offering his hand to her. ¡°You must be new. I¡¯m Caxton, welcome!¡± ¡°Welcome?¡± Margery squawked. ¡°Er, not welcome?¡± ¡°This is not welcoming at all! What kind of establishment are you running?¡± ¡°A heroes¡¯ guild, my lady.¡± Two for two. Now Margery was certain Duncan and this Caxton were morons. ¡°Summon your guildmaster.¡± she ordered. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°For questioning! I demand to know¡ª¡± ¡°Is this the bitchy niece you¡¯re always complaining about?¡± Caxton looked at Duncan. ¡°I beg your pardon?¡± Margery¡¯s fingers itched to choke him. Did this fool realize who he was talking to? "Hey, hey, what¡¯s going on?¡± someone cut in from behind her. The drunkard sauntered toward her, black boots dragging, hunched over like he had an anvil hanging off his neck. A red cape hung off his shoulder, a half-open quilted jacket exposing his chest. Dark skin and even darker hair¡ªa Redman. He had a smirk so lax, so lazily arrogant, so insultingly coy that Margery instantly despised him. The drunkard stretched out his arms above his head, shirt lifting to expose a small, hairy gut as he let out a yawn. ¡°Whole lotta yelling over here. I was having the nicest nap, too.¡± He looked around, squinting at things as if he couldn¡¯t even recognize them. He clapped Ser Duncan¡¯s shoulders with both hands, nodding wordlessly, then decided to sniff him. ¡°You smell nice, Dunc. What¡¯s for dinner?¡± ¡°Sobriety,¡± Duncan¡¯s nose crinkled as he eased his admirer off. ¡°Not the best first impression to make, Maz.¡± The drunkard looked at Margery then, still squinting. ¡°Oh yes, that¡¯s right. You must be Margaret Silverspooner.¡± "Margery Silverwither! Are you the guildmaster?¡± Margery scoffed then, ¡°No, of course you¡¯re not. Retrieve him. I demand to know why the House of Heroes has been reduced to this¡­ this embarrassment!¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Remarkably, the man managed to wake up a bit. A devilish smirk appeared, pronounced his scruffy chin and dark eyes. ¡°Calm down there, your highness. Now it¡¯s true I ain¡¯t the guildmaster, but I¡¯m the next best thing. Name¡¯s Mazrur.¡± Mazrur? The modern legend known by his moniker of the ¡°Bloodhound?¡± He had to be lying. ¡°You?¡± shrieked Margery. "You bet!¡± he said with a dramatic point of his finger inches from her nose. ¡°I got your transcripts today. Most witches this far inland want to work at the Penta." Margery had only acknowledged his existence for two minutes and was already sick of him. Duncan stood by, unfazed by it all, and if the gnashing of teeth she heard behind her was any indication, then Caxton had gone right back to chewing his toenails. ¡°You¡¯ll call me Captain or something like that from now on, got it? Blah, blah, lovely to meet you. Shall we get started?¡± Mazrur didn¡¯t wait before pushing Margery into a chair, then dragged up one for himself. ¡°So your reason for coming here is?" Margery scowled. "Experience.¡± ¡°Would¡¯ve been smarter to stay home if you want to become a magister.¡± Her scowl deepened. ¡°The House of Heroes is invaluable for the work I¡¯m pursuing.¡± Or it was supposed to be. ¡°And what work would that be, hm? Fighting Sabercats and wildfolk? That¡¯s us humans¡¯ job.¡± True enough, humans and witches like Margery might look similar, but she was a completely different species. She commanded nature itself, magic, and while some humans could too, it wasn¡¯t even comparable to a witch. ¡°It is not illegal for me to join ¡ª I paid the fee.¡± A more generous donation than the place deserved apparently. ¡°Sure, and conveniently skipped three years of training required to get a license. Which, your highness, is illegal.¡± Margery rolled her eyes. One couldn¡¯t join the House of Heroes outright. There was a three year training school to learn the basics. She¡¯d gone in knowing that, but it wasn''t something to worry about. It was a poor man¡¯s crime at best, and compared to her duties as a Witch, negligible. People would laugh at whoever was stupid enough to put her before a court. ¡°But let¡¯s skip that part,¡± Mazrur showed some papers, files that had been filled out, stamped, and as she now saw, approved. ¡°Guild¡¯s been outta shape for years and the upkeep are too busy to get to us right now. Place usually doesn¡¯t have that many people since everyone is always working, so everyone¡¯s free to relax as long as they aren¡¯t being obscene or hurting anyone.¡± Margery gestured to Caxton, who continued to bite his toenails. ¡°Consider yourself blessed. He used to shave his fruits back there.¡± She pointed at the woman picking her teeth. ¡°No health benefits. Whitternash ain¡¯t cheap!¡± Margery breathed through her nose. ¡°Fine. Can we get back to business?¡± ¡°I live to please.¡± Mazrur tapped some blank spaces on the paper. ¡°Fill out the rest of these here.¡± Ten minutes, five quippy remarks, and a near backhand later, Margery slid her documents back to Mazrur. ¡°Is that all?¡± ¡°Slow down there, Sweetness. You¡¯re staying in Gransmede, right?¡± ¡°No, I¡¯ll be regularly escorted from the Witchwood and back. What do you think, fool?¡± ¡°Touchy. You¡¯ll fit right in.¡± Mazrur chuckled as he pushed back his seat and stood, Margery lamenting having to look up at him. ¡°Your combat test is in three days. That¡¯s when Master Sato should be back. Completing that will decide your starting rank.¡± Margery gaped. ¡°My father promised me Journeyman rank at minimum! That was the arrangement!¡± ¡°Aww, daddy pwomised?¡± Mazrur pouted mockingly, ¡°Well, I¡¯d hate to disappoint him, wouldn¡¯t I? Let¡¯s take a look at this then, shall we?¡± He flapped out one of the sheets of her transcripts. ¡°He said, and I quote, ¡®Requesting for Journeyman-level status on entry, should her skills live up to the standards of the guild.¡¯¡± Margery wanted to tell him he was wrong. That her father would never say such things. That it had simply been misread. A silly mistake tagged onto her documents. But who was she kidding? The one time she asked her father for a favor and he couldn¡¯t deliver on it. Or refused to. Margery sank into her seat, utterly shattered. ¡°I cannot believe this.¡± ¡°Believe it, Sweetness.¡± Mazrur gave a smirking bow, before shooting back up to throw his arms out wide ¡°Welcome to Gransmede! Where no one gives a shit about who you are or what you want. Everyone is the same and no one is special. Best get used to it.¡± Margery glared at him. She wanted to smack that stupid smirk off his stupid face. She chose against it, for now, and stood. ¡°We¡¯ll see about that. Warn whoever it is I¡¯m facing for my test. Give them my apologies in advance.¡± Mazrur jabbed both his thumbs into his chest. ¡°If you kill me, will you sign my gravestone? It¡¯d be a huge honor.¡± So it was him, then. The All-Mother was smiling down on her this day. Margery turned on her heel and yelled at Duncan to follow. The knight called out, but she was already storming through the dark streets as a fire brimmed to life in her chest. This was not the way things were supposed to go. All the training, all the hard work, only to be disrespected? Why was nothing going the way she wanted? ¡°It is coming, friends!¡± Margery stopped. A scraggly man in tattered clothes stood on a crate in front of the local tavern, a man no one bothered to spare their attention. He had what looked like a year''s worth of dirt smudged on his face and caked under his fingernails. Through the holes in his tattered shirt, she could see his ribs protruding from his skin, impressively malnourished. A man with no life ahead of him, but it didn¡¯t discourage him from his speech. He continued, however pathetically, to disrupt the quiet street. ¡°Heed my words, the Darkness will return! It will come and plunge our land into eternal night. Bloody winters will storm us and freeze our lands. Devils will rise from the shadows, and steal the souls of our children. Say your prayers now. The end is near!¡± He raised a fist, punched the air like he was ready to fight the world. Some stopped to look, but they were the rare few. ¡°But all is not lost. For where there is a great shadow, a light must be there to cast it. The Morn is Promised. Our hero is among us!¡± The fire in her chest blazed at his words. The legend still lived, even if some didn¡¯t think so. The Mornbringer only appeared when the world was in danger of being consumed by The Darkness, and if there was no danger, he may as well not exist. Sure, people knew the Mornbringer was real, that he or she was only born when the Darkness began to seep into the world. But the world didn¡¯t seem like it was in danger, so why would anyone believe Margery when she told them she was the Mornbringer? Margery doubted she¡¯d believe anyone who told her that, either. But that didn¡¯t mean it wasn¡¯t the truth. They didn¡¯t believe her now, not her people, not her father, but she¡¯d make them believe. She¡¯d prove them wrong. ¡°Prove what wrong?¡± Margery whipped around at the voice. A few civilians were walking by, but none who were looking at her. Then, a shadow. A brief thing, barely noticeable as it swam in the dark corners of distant alleyways. Dozens of them in unnamable, unknowable shapes and forms, whispering coldly. ¡°Believe what? Darkness. All pointless. What are you proving? The Darkness, it comes.¡± Margery fought not to clutch her head, a pounding headache was forming, and her brain felt swollen. She thought to count, but chose against it until she was able to get to her house. Gransmede was home until her destiny was fulfilled. Then she¡¯d return to the Witchwood a hero¡ªhonored, praised, respected. Her father would see. Her whole country would see. The voices she heard couldn¡¯t be detected by anyone else. The voices couldn¡¯t harm anyone nor be harmed by them. Not yet. Some would say they weren¡¯t real, but they were. These agents of the Darkness, these devils from hell. They¡¯d invaded her mind to torture her, to make her suffer, to keep her from awakening the powers she needed to destroy them. The power to save the world. ¡°Rejoice!¡± The fanatic raised his arms to the sky, sputtering out mad laughter. ¡°The Mornbringer is here!¡± Indeed she was. And in three days, she¡¯d have that guild captain on his knees. The Wannabe Hero If she kept her eyes shut, would the sunlight be able to fry them through her eyelids like a freshly cracked egg? Zunuha scrunched her nose as she considered the question, eyes still squeezed shut in the vain hope the sun would promptly piss off. A moment later, she surrendered. ¡°Fucker,¡± Zunuha growled, her voice hoarse. She turned back over in bed, slinging a blanket over her head. Five minutes¡ªno, ten. Ten more minutes and she¡¯d be ready. Of course, now she couldn¡¯t get back to sleep. That¡¯d make for a shitty morning, indeed. Sometimes, Zunuha was glad to be an early bird¡ªshe could feed the goats and chickens, get the water, and all her other chores done before anyone woke up. She could train all day then. Panting, sweating, and cursing her way through stances and drills from the baking summers to the mild winters. But this was not one of those days where she was glad to be an early bird. With a grunt, she pushed back her blanket and sat upright, scratching her chest. Through spotty vision, she stared balefully at her apartment. Not much more than a big wooden crate, really. Her closet door hung open, clothes spilling out of it like puke. Nothing fancy; that¡¯d require more money than she¡¯d earn in a lifetime. If her mother saw that closet, she¡¯d have the fit of the century. Cool air carried in the smells of the street , and Zunuha caught the murmur of people shambling past her window; The morning flush. Her toes curled as they touched the cold floor, and she adjusted her wrinkled underwear as she ambled over to her desk. She took the letter waiting there, but found her attention on the leather sheath hanging on the wall. Worn from repeated use, covered in slashes. You couldn¡¯t always draw the blade fast enough when a fight began, and so the scabbard had taken some wounds over time. It was a sturdy bastard though, if not a bit ugly, and while people had offered her newer and better ones, there was an inherent beauty to the wear and tear, to the chips and chinks. Old weapons had history. Experience. Hers, Telmaria, had stood the test of time for over three hundred years. At least that''s what her father told her. Speaking of: Hey, little cub, the note began. Rozsa misses you¡ªwell, everyone does, but her most of all. She packed up her clothes, toys, a pot, and the dog, in the wagon and planned to drag it all the way to the capital. Your mother was laughing for hours. Rosza was kicking and screaming when I had to carry her back. Hells, I can only imagine how wild her plans will get when she¡¯s your age. God have mercy on her. And me. I hope you¡¯re making the best of the guild, even if it doesn¡¯t live up to the stories. Knights make a lot of money, you know. More prestige, could even get your own piece of land once you''re up the ranks. They¡¯d carve your name in the books. Imagine: Master-Commander Zunuha of the Redfolk. The Heroes stopped mattering long ago. Honestly, I can¡¯t tell the difference between them and the sellswords. Glorified mercenaries, both of them. Come see your mother and sisters, they all miss you. So do I. We can¡¯t agree on some things¡ªGod knows, a lot of things¡ªbut you are still my little cub. Even if you aren¡¯t so little anymore. With endless love, Daddy. The paper fell back onto the desk, drifting in the air until it landed on her inkwell. Part of her wanted to smile, but the other wanted to crush the paper into a ball. Her daddy was frustratingly good at making it hard to choose. A question nagged at her: Did she respond this time or not? This letter was a damn sight better than a lot of his previous letters. Those had shown less concern and more anger. Much more anger. And he wondered where her supposed temper came from. Zunuha opened her window, pulling up the shutters to reveal the alley. People were passing, some she recognized, but she ignored them in favor of taking down clothes hanging on a rack above. The last one was a dress, and since she didn¡¯t feel like sorting through her closet, she put that one on for the day. White bell sleeves ended above her elbows, the shirt itself a part of the dark brown vest she fastened around her waist. The laces of the vest snapped when Zunuha tried to tie them and she tossed them to the floor in a huff. Now she needed a new one; more money to spend that she didn¡¯t have. She patted down the skirt of her dress, a dyed brown cotton that ended at her ankles. A red lock of hair fell in her face. Instinctively, she ran her hands through her curls, tipping at her shoulders like a lion¡¯s mane.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. "Up early there, girl?" Robert greeted from the window of her crappy little shack. He was a big man, a full head taller than her. A gut hung out of his stained shirt, over his belt, and he was unknotting the laces of an even filthier apron. His thick mustache and beard hid the entire lower half of his face, obscuring his lips. Hardly mattered¡ªyou could hear the man bellowing all the way from the back of his restaurant. Rough old bastard, but he could warm when he tried. Zunuha rested her arms on the sill and yawned. ¡°Wish I wasn¡¯t.¡± Robert gave a snort. "You¡¯re a real machine. I thought you''d sleep in with how late ya left last night. You didn¡¯t need to stay.¡± Zunuha waved a dismissive hand. "And leave you to clean the kitchen yourself? You¡¯d just give me shit about it later." "I won¡¯t deny it. Which reminds me, you¡¯re off for the week." She knew this would be coming, damn it. She worked in the kitchen in Robert¡¯s restaurant alongside apprenticeship in the Heroes¡¯ Guild. But work at the latter could be inconsistent, and she needed a stable income. "Can¡¯t. Rent doesn¡¯t pay itself." "I¡¯ve made up my mind,¡± Robert got the last of the knots untied, and started tying it around his belly. ¡°You¡¯re a good worker. But you¡¯d drive yourself into the grave if I let you have your way.¡± "I¡¯m fine.¡± She was exhausted really, but her landlord was either born a tyrant, or was related to one. That grubby bitch robbed her at every opportunity. "And I didn''t ask your permission. Pout all ya want, but you won¡¯t be doing so in the kitchen." Robert pinched her cheek, and Zunuha glared at him. "Get a little sun while you''re at it." Zunuha swatted his hand away. "I''m dark enough. More sun''ll turn me into charcoal." "It''s good for more than just your skin." Zunuha sighed. "Well, if I get some missions soon, then I''ll be getting all the sun and rain and wind I could ever ask for. You should go. You''ll be late." Robert touched her face more gently this time. Zunuha had to admit it felt nice, felt like her mother''s. "Rest, you hear? I swear, girl, last night you looked like you might fall into the pot." ¡°You make it sound like I wouldn¡¯t taste good!¡± Zunuha feigned offense, ¡°Redwoman Stew¡ªyou¡¯d have every fleshwitch in World East here in a heartbeat.¡± Robert laughed her off, then strode away, disappeared into the city traffic. Zunuha pressed her back to the windowsill, legs giving way so that she slid onto her ass. Her bed called for her to return, the decrepit old shit. Bits of straw and chaff poked through the sheets, and her skin itched just looking at it. She needed new stuffing, and a new bedstead before long. The legs were old and it was showing, the wood had darkened months ago and it was a miracle they hadn¡¯t yet snapped. And rent needed paying, and food needed buying, as for what was left over, well, there wasn¡¯t often much. What the hell was she going to do with herself for the week? Zunuha mulled it over for a moment. She hadn¡¯t visited the guild in a while. That had been why she came to Gransmede. A mix of wanting to escape home and making herself into the hero she¡¯d always seen herself becoming. No tale more tired, that one. The wide-eyed country girl comes to the big city in search of a dream. Adventure, discovery, and heroism lying beyond a star speckled horizon. That was the ideal, that was the fantasy, but it wasn¡¯t quite the reality¡ªtwo years in the capital had shown her that. Captain Mazrur and Toothless were probably around, and while it would be nice to see them, something kept her rooted to the floor. Why go back? There wouldn''t be anything for her to do. Or rather, there wouldn''t be anything important she could do. Assignments were either grossly unfit for a hero-in-training or disappointingly nonexistent. Less fighting bandits and monsters, more finding pets and carpentry assistance. A toad croaked in her belly. The bakery wasn''t far and the guild was around the corner from there. No, there wasn¡¯t a point. Zunuha closed her shutters and jumped back into bed. Robert said to get rest anyway and she could eat later. She most definitely would not visit the guild today. And she kept telling herself that even as she hopped out of bed and grabbed her boots. What is a Hero? The guild smelled of old wood and ale. Some things never changed: familiar faces paid Zunuha a wave or shout; Drachma, wearing her heavy armor, toted a goblet of sloshing ale, laughing alongside her friends as they pounded on their table. Oscar stood atop the captain¡¯s worktable, pasty skin turned beet red thanks to one too many drinks. His thick beard was soaked, and only got worse as he downed another mug, letting it spill all over his coat. He trotted around as he recounted a grand tale to a mass audience of no one. Clanking armor, scrambling feet, and incoherent conversation mixed together to make a sea of familiarity that Zunuha hadn¡¯t realized she missed. Her chest warmed as she absorbed it all, recalling the anxious steps she¡¯d taken into the guild when she first joined, expectations high, and very quickly humbled. Kept her hopes though, sure that something would change her mind. You have to have hope to make it in the world, or whatever the fuck. Caxton''s waving hand drew her attention and Zunuha made her way over. "Been a month, Z." he chirped, using his other hand to pick at the soles of his callused feet. It had been a while since she¡¯d heard that nickname. "Finally get fed up with kitchen work?" "I¡¯m not allowed to work for a week." "Tragic. For what it''s worth, I pity you apprentices. Working your way up is always the hardest.¡± "Pity won¡¯t pay my rent." Zunuha stepped aside as a party entered the guild hall. Tan cloaks with the guild sigil embedded in on the back of the capes were discolored by dirt, grime, and dried blood. Exhausted eyes carried sagging dark circles amongst them all, their feet dragged as if weights had been chained to them. The accompanying cold left a damper in the air as they tracked mud across the floor. One of the receptionists at the mission desk greeted them, and the world carried on as if they''d never even been there. As if it was normal. Zunuha recognized the leader of the party. A tall man, muscled, skin dark as tree bark. Sandy hair was cut unevenly in one place¡ªan unfriendly blade had come close, she guessed. He looked painfully exhausted, and while he stood the strongest of the group, it wasn¡¯t by much. "That¡¯s Gladis. Didn''t he say his team would be gone for a few months?" Caxton scratched the side of his face, looking the group up and down as if unsurprised by their current states. "I''d take them returning early as a good sign. Coulda took care of our Night Order problem." Did they? Was Caxton seeing something Zunuha wasn''t? She didn''t see victory in their eyes. She didn¡¯t see anything in them at all. There was nothingness, a barren wasteland where hope and confidence had once been. A handful of Gladis''s party found seats, shedding their cloaks to reveal injuries of a harsh variety. One member¡¯s lip curled as she touched the side of her face, where a long pink scar cut from her missing ear up to her bandaged eye. Another was massaging his hand, particularly the crusty dry stubs where his ring and middle fingers used to be. Hardly a new thing, such injuries; part of the job was taking the horror with the honor. Still, this was one of the guild¡¯s better teams. They¡¯d fought behemoths, crushed an entire tribe of wildfolk beyond the border, and even turned around a pack of wild sabertooths that came too far inland. Right now, they didn¡¯t look like they could so much as fight a toddler armed with a toy sword. She knew the Night Order was powerful, a group of Ishtarian warriors banded together under a woman who called herself the Night Queen, and declared war on the kingdom. Zunuha didn¡¯t know much beyond that, though she had a guess it had to do with the previous war almost eighty years back. Looking at Gladis¡¯s team certainly made her curious. And eager. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience."Don''t get your hopes up," Caxton advised with a snap of his fingers. He¡¯d probably seen her staring at them. "You''re still an apprentice.¡± "I know that," though Zunuha¡¯s gaze still hadn''t left broken, exhausted warriors. One was rubbing the hand of her friend, and put up a thin smile. If she was trying to comfort him, it didn¡¯t look like it was working. "But if they need people..." "Then they need ones that can do the job,¡± Caxton folded his arms on the desk, inclining his big head toward her, then nodding at Gladis¡¯s team. ¡°That is not a job you want." Zunuha gave him a deadpanned look. "Alright, let me rephrase that: It¡¯s not a job you''re ready for." Excuses. That¡¯s all she ever got, and to such an extent now that it instantly pissed her off. But without more missions under her belt, there wasn''t much leeway to get what she wanted. Guildmaster Sato was nothing if not a hardass for the rules. Caxton nodded her toward the hallway. ¡°Since you¡¯re here, Mazrur wanted to talk to you. He¡¯s in the back now." Her captain? What for? Zunuha was about to question him, but Caxton shooed her away before she could. Zunuha would see him around town from time to time, stop to catch up, but there wasn''t much to say beyond that since they were both equally busy, albeit for different reasons. The heroes¡¯ hall was a wide corridor connecting the foyer and meeting room. Sunlight washed over the railing, hot and bright, spraying the brown walls on the right side of the hall. An expanse of grass and chains of woodland out the opposite. Paintings and plaques of past heroes defended the walls. She¡¯d seen them all, knew them all, could count them off in order with her eyes closed. But Zunuha could never keep herself from looking at them whenever she passed through. Miron the Tall came first, a big man covered in white bear furs over leather armor from the Towers region, a man who¡¯d slain demons during the Age of Conquests. Azra Vincent, the dashing rogue from the west whose skills with a cutlass were so great that he needed ten opponents for a fair fight. Ynissa Thorne, the gallant witch with skin as blue as the sea and a control to match. She rode the waves on the backs of haired drakes, warred against the nomadic ronin in the wilds of the Forbidden West. Faces and histories came and went as Zunuha passed, the stories growing grander with every step. Some weren''t even convinced these people existed, weren''t sure if the wild tales spun by those that came before were real or fantasy, but Zunuha knew there was one who had to be real. Silvery-blue eyes stared at her, convinced her to stop and meet them. Samwin Heel, the Morning''s Knight. Not an attractive man if his broken nose, crooked teeth, and blotchy skin were anything to go by. His chestnut hair was cut dangerously short, a bent and battered plate shielded his chest, with a chipped longsword and kiteshield as his only companions. How many stories had she heard of him? How often did she and her friends as little kids fight over who got to play Samwin Heel in their playground battles? Zunuha recalled her granddad telling her about the Battle at the High Hills, where Samwin Heel defeated a hundred Vikes on his own, at fifteen years old. Four years younger than herself. Who was that powerful at that age? Zunuha jumped as cheers and shouts came from behind her. Zunuha was sure she started to see chairs, knives and tableware flying around in the main hall. She shook her head and smiled. Heroes saved people, they did the right thing, and they lived honorably and were bound by duty. They didn¡¯t pursue selfish material things, like money or revenge. That was how it was. How it was supposed to be. Zunuha''s eyes fell, no longer able to look at the eyes of Samwin Heel. Her hero. The ideal which she''d once been so sure everyone aspired to follow. And only then did she get her legs moving again. She tried to convince herself that her captain would have more for her to do than escorts and helping out on the farms. She was here to fight. To save people. Working in a kitchen wouldn¡¯t save innocents from bandits and wildfolk. Working in a kitchen would not stop the Night Order. The New Teammate ¡°The state of your guild is completely disgraceful!¡± A bat-like shriek hit Zunuha like a harsh wind in winter. Jerked her out of her thoughts. The guild captains¡ªminus her own, naturally¡ªand the Guildmaster sat at their row of decorated chairs at the front of the room. Master Sato in the center with the most august seat, the king of their humble province, and the captains beside him. A girl stood before them, screeching and hissing like a spoiled rich child got her toys taken away. Zunuha had to wonder if the girl realized the men in front of her were the ones in charge, but she didn¡¯t wonder for long. ¡°Is this how I¡¯m to be greeted? Are these the standards of the revered House of Heroes? I am shocked at the depravity you have allowed this establishment to sink to!¡± Master Sato¡¯s wrinkled face twisted with a deep frown as the girl took a moment to breathe, and for a second that was all that was heard. Sato cleared his breath, flipped through a stack of papers before settling on one, and read aloud in his gentle, but no less stony tone. ¡°It says here you¡¯re learned in potioncraft? An example would¡ª¡± ¡°I need to prove what my documents say now? What would you like? A tonic? A hallucinogen? Is that what it will take in order for you to take me seriously?¡± Zunuha was glad she could only see the back of the girl¡¯s head. ¡°I am baffled at the unholy disrespect I have received since my arrival! I demand¡ª¡± It was a shit storm which none of the captains, nor the master, were remotely prepared for. The latter, in particular, struggled to restrain a twitching red eye, kneading at the grip of his cane as he waited for the girl to stop. Zunuha had just walked into the room and her self-important whinging was grating at her nerves like two rocks scraping together. In the benches rowed out in front of the captains¡¯ chairs, she found her own captain watching the proceeds, saying something she couldn¡¯t hear to his only companion and her teammate, Toothless. Zunuha slung her legs over the backrest and dropped next to her captain in one smooth motion. Nodded toward the tirading girl. ¡°Who¡¯s she? Upkeep?¡± ¡°If she was, we¡¯d be closed,¡± Mazrur said, eyes glazing over the interview like it was a play he¡¯d grown bored of. ¡°Ain¡¯t you supposed to be scrubbing pots right about now, Buttercup?¡± ¡°Something like that,¡± Zunuha then turned to Toothless, who sat on the captain¡¯s right, rubbing his cloth-wrapped throat with his middle finger. ¡°Taking care of our captain?¡± Toothless levelled both his hands like he was holding a pole, making a motion as though cracking reins. ¡°Trying,¡± he signed. ¡°Don¡¯t get him started.¡± The captain said, ¡°He¡¯s been chattering all morning. All morning!¡± Zunuha punched him in the arm. ¡°Toothless, don¡¯t let him pick on you.¡± The boy shrugged, drew a leg up to his chest, propping a leather boot onto his seat. It made the black he wore much more apparent, leaving very little visible skin, besides his pale face and fingers. His only armor was a thin chestplate good only for glancing cuts, but in his case, the less armor the better. Zunuha always noticed his hair first. Long and black, fashioned up in a tangled bird¡¯s nest like he¡¯d rolled out of bed only a moment ago. His face was a chopping block of scars. Across his pointed nose, over his dark eyes, scraping his dry lips. Those scars twisted when he smiled at her, taunted her curiosity, tarnished what might have been a more handsome face. Not to say he looked bad. Didn¡¯t look bad at all, really. It took her a moment to work out what he signed next, but figured it out quickly enough. ¡°Besides poisoning him, I don¡¯t see another way to shut him up.¡± He let out a soundless laugh as the captain snatched him in a headlock. "Do it, you little shit. It''ll finally get me outta babysitting you two. Well, three now." Zunuha blinked at the girl, who¡¯d finally taken a long enough break for Master Sato to speak. "She¡¯s our third?" "Yep, that''s why you''re here.¡± Mazrur gave the most unenthusiastic fist pump known to man. ¡°Her royal sweetness, Margery Silverwither will complete our little litter. Hoo-fucking-rah." Silverwither. The witch family? Zunuha was not sure she liked the idea of working with a high-class brat like her. All too often their type shoved their weight around and had bigger egos than their heads had space for. It was possible Margery wasn¡¯t having a good day. Zunuha had less-than-mature outbursts here and there. Give everyone a fair swing, her father told her once. Zunuha brightened as she looked up at her captain. ¡°Does that mean we finally have some work?¡± ¡°I need help emptying my shitter.¡± ¡°Captain!¡± Mazrur held up his empty palms defensively. ¡°Alright, yes I may have something for us to do. But we drew the short steel with Banshee over there, so try to get along with her.¡± The last witch that joined the guild was one of her captain¡¯s old teammates, and he¡¯d been kicked out twenty years ago. So, why was this Margery here? What did she want that she could only get here? Zunuha pursed her lips in thought, running through a list of possibilities as she considered the girl. Fame? She was a member of the most illustrious witch family, regaled more even than the royal lineage. Money? She likely had enough of it, and the job didn¡¯t pay nearly as well as people thought. It wasn¡¯t shit pay, but you wouldn¡¯t be getting rich and that was a fact. Every theory Zunuha posed did not hold up to a moment of scrutiny. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. "Anyway, I wanted to let you two know,¡± said Captain Mazrur. ¡°Make sure you introduce yourselves. She has her practical right after this.¡± Toothless mirrored Zunuha¡¯s confusion. ¡°I thought she was already on our team. Didn¡¯t she pass already?¡± "She doesn''t have to, she¡¯s a witch ¡ª and you don¡¯t see many of them on the battlefield. Her practical is only to test her skills and combat experience. Which, I¡¯ll wager, is very little. Maybe she¡¯ll surprise us, but even if she doesn¡¯t, she was accepted the moment we got her transcripts. Her folks were persuasive.¡± Mazrur rubbed his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger together. Zunuha grimaced. "So that¡¯s how we do things now?¡± "It¡¯s not like this happens for everyone. Witches don''t even answer to the king. Keep that in mind." He nodded them toward Margery when the captains concluded the interview, leaving Margery to stew with haughty discontent all by her lonesome. ¡°There¡¯s your chance. Don¡¯t fuck up.¡± "Fine, I''ll be nice. Come on, Toothless." It wasn¡¯t often that she was nervous approaching people, but couldn¡¯t deny that Margery scared her a little. She wore a long blue cloak over matching robes, the fabric flowing smoothly over her shoulders like she took meticulous care to iron out every wrinkle. Pink, unblemished skin, almost pearly. Her hair was done up in a braid shaped like it was supposed to be a crown¡ªwhich said everything you needed to know about her on a first impression. Zunuha didn¡¯t get to call out to her before she turned to them, glaring with a mean frown and mean eyes like their very existence was beneath her acknowledgement. I have not smiled even once in my entire life, that was the feeling she emanated. Zunuha put a smile up anyway as she stopped before her, unclenched her balled fist, and handed it out to her. ¡°I¡¯m Zunuha.¡± Margery gave no response, just stood there, arms crossed. ¡°Guess we¡¯re teammates now.¡± No response. ¡°Can¡¯t say we get a lot of witches in the guild. Got one back home. All he does is help clean the river when the mudflows come in, never gave us his name so we call him Mudflaps. The mayor pays him in wine, funny enough. Wouldn¡¯t be surprised if he and the captain knew each other. Bet you can do a lot more than Mudflaps though, eh?¡± No response. Nothing but a cold, disapproving glare as if Zunuha had insulted her grandmother. Zunuha glanced at Toothless, who offered a shrug, which in his case was fair enough. At this point, it was best to pass the baton and move on. ¡°This is Toothless. He doesn¡¯t talk much, and not just because he¡¯s mute. He knows some magic too, I¡¯ve seen¡ª¡± Margery¡¯s voice came out sharp and decisive. ¡°Why is there a corpse in the House of Heroes?¡± Zunuha hadn¡¯t realized she¡¯d kept her smile up the entire time, because it dropped harder than the guilty at a hanging. There was no mistaking what she heard, Margery scowling with visible distaste, Toothless lowering his head and looking away like he was sorry for being in her presence. ¡°Margery, I¡¯d appreciate it if you didn¡¯t call him that. Toothless is really sweet and¡ª¡± ¡°Did you not hear me? Must I repeat myself? Why is there a corpse in the guild?¡± Because it wasn¡¯t illegal for him to be. But Zunuha didn¡¯t want to say anything that could start a problem. You had to give everyone a fair swing, and she¡¯d promised the captain to be nice. ¡°Listen, we¡ª¡± ¡°No, you listen.¡± Margery spoke like Zunuha was a child, broke the distance between them, and stabbed a finger in the middle of her chest. There was a sharp pulse in her head, as though a corner of her brain had burst. Then it got worse. Became a violent migraine beating at her skull. ¡°I will not have some face-stealing mongrel and insipid ape like you even within my vicinity, let alone on my team!¡± Zunuha was trying so hard not to do anything, not to say anything. She made ready to take Toothless and back off, but he apparently had other ideas. He tried to gently move Margery¡¯s hand away, and there was a loud crack as her palm struck him right across the face, the sound like a whipping wet cloth. ¡°Keep your filthy paws off me, you animal!¡± Zunuha had given her a fair swing, now she had to kill her. She¡¯d winded back her arm, but when it came time to commit said murder, she found her captain had grabbed her. She snarled and clawed at his arms as Margery backed away, her head threatening to explode. ¡°I¡¯ll rip your fucking tongue out! Come here! ¡± Margery seemed unbothered by her threat, though she did maintain her distance. She pointed a delicate, very breakable-looking finger at Toothless. ¡°I demand to know why I¡¯m working with a white!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± The captain said in Zunuha¡¯s ear. ¡°She¡¯s not Attuned. You hit her, you might break her. Can¡¯t go on missions if you¡¯re in prison. Calm down.¡± Calm down? How could he say that after what Margery did to his apprentice? If not her, then he should do something. And he did, just not what she expected. ¡°You got some complaints, Sweetness? Take it up with the Rep on your own time. Let¡¯s get on with your practical. Buttercup, go on and show your new best friend to the field.¡± Zunuha snatched out of his grip, saw Margery flinch, but found little satisfaction in it. Her fist quivered with the need to hurt her. To do something. Instead, she took Toothless by the hand and stormed off with him to the training field. If Margery was on their team, that meant Captain Mazrur was testing her. Good. This would be a slaughter to remember.