Part I : Talismans and Tomes

  The Guild's vast storage room was in a state of catastrophic disarray. Dust motes danced in the few shafts of light, illuminating a floor littered with discarded relics, boxes of rare pelts, and forgotten artifacts.

  "Not this one," Lyra muttered, tossing a jewel-encrusted goblet over her shoulder. "Too gaudy. Gods, why do we keep this junk?"

  Thorgar edged into the room, wincing as he stepped over a roll of what looked like wyvern leather. "Boss? Everything... alright?"

  "No, it's not alright!" Lyra snapped, her voice echoing from halfway up a towering shelf.

  She was perched precariously on a three-legged stool, rummaging through a heavy chest. "We're going to a high-noble ceremony. I can't just show up with a sack of monster parts. I need a gift."

  The stool wobbled.

  Lyra pitched backward, a curse already on her lips, but Thorgar’s hand, large as a platter, was suddenly there to steady her.

  "Need my help?" Thorgar asked innocently.

  Lyra finally looked down at him, a weary, fond smile breaking through her frustration. "I doubt you'd know what to pick."

  She hopped down, landing lightly, and clapped him on the shoulder. "After all," she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we're cut from the same cloth."

  Thorgar's brow furrowed. He wanted to prove her wrong. "Well... what about this?"

  He walked over to his own dusty footlocker in the corner, unlatched it, and pulled out a simple wooden box. He handed it to her.

  Lyra opened it. Resting on a bed of worn velvet was a necklace—not of gold or silver, but of polished, razor-sharp talons, each one the deep, smoky black of a Cinderclaw Bear. It was savage, beautiful, and crafted with surprising delicacy.

  "Thorgar... this is..." she breathed, genuinely impressed.

  "It isn't jewellery, not really," he said, scratching his head, "but I spent days on it. Would this work?"

  Lyra looked from the necklace to his earnest, hopeful face, and her smile turned wicked. She draped her arms over his massive shoulders, rubbing against him with a playful, mocking purr.

  "Oh, Thorgar," she teased. "Who's the lucky gal?"

  The warrior's face went from a healthy tan to a shade of crimson that nearly matched Lyra's hair. "It's... well... for Lilia," he choked out, his shyness making his voice a high-pitched rumble.

  Lyra's laugh was a warm, booming sound that filled the room. "It's beautiful, you big oaf. And you are not giving it to the Greyoaks." She pressed the box back into his hands. "You give this to the one it was meant for"

  She turned back to the mess, her good mood restored. "Ah, to hell with it."

  She strode to a wine rack, pulled out a bottle so coated in dust it was almost grey, and wiped a small patch clean. "Old Elven 'Fire-Wine'. "Alistair will appreciate this more than some dusty relic, anyway."

  Her eyes then scanned the room and fell on a small, padded box on a high shelf. "Ah. That's what I was looking for."

  She retrieved it, opened it, and smiled. Inside, three small, uncut gems pulsed with a faint, inner blue light.

  "That'll do," she said, pocketing them. She turned to Thorgar, who was now digging through a separate stack of crates.

  "What brought you here, anyway?"

  "Maps," he grunted, pulling a heavy roll of parchment free. "Of the sewers".

  "The shapeshifter?"

  "Yes, Boss," he said, patting the dust from his tunic. "I already have Emethriel helping me track it. With this, it'll be a piece of cake".

  "Be careful," Lyra advised, her tone shifting back to the commander. "It's fatal to underestimate an opponent"

  Part II : Prowler's Blue Eyes

  Lyra found Aeris in her room.

  The elf was not alone. Ingrid sat cross-legged on the floor opposite her, a look of intense, frustrated concentration on her face as she tried to pronounce a series of flowing, melodic syllables.

  "No," Aeris said, her voice patient but firm. "You are speaking the word. You are not feeling its Aethel—its breath. Try again."

  Lyra walked in, intrigued. "Elven lessons?"

  "Ingrid asked to learn the language," Aeris replied, not looking up from the ancient tome in her lap. "She has a good ear, but a human tongue".

  "You needed something?" Aeris asked.

  Lyra tossed the small cloth bag onto the table. The three blue gems rolled out, pulsing softly. "Can you turn these into jewelry? Brimor's... busy".

  Ingrid's eyes were drawn to the gems. "What are they?

  "Prowler's Eyes," Lyra answered. "B-rank beast. These have lost their tracking magic, so they're just pretty rocks now".

  Aeris picked one up, inspecting it against the light. "It won't have a dwarf's soul, but I can bind them". She retrieved three small, plain gold settings from a satchel. "What do you want?"

  "Two rings," Lyra said, "and a simple necklace. For her". She nodded at Ingrid, who looked up, startled.

  Aeris placed the items on the desk, her hands moving in a precise, esoteric pattern, drawing an alchemical circle in the air with a mote of green light.

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  She whispered a single, long word. The light flashed, and the metal and gems floated, melded, and settled back onto the desk, now perfected.

  "The binding is simple," Aeris stated. "It will hold".

  Lyra picked up the necklace. It was a single, luminous blue eye on a delicate gold chain. She walked over to Ingrid and, without asking, fastened it around her neck.

  "It matches your eyes," Lyra said, her voice softer than usual.

  Ingrid's hand rose, her fingers closing over the gem. It was still warm from the magic.

  She looked at Lyra, her impassive mask cracking with a rare, vulnerable confusion. She had been given a B-rank artifact—a gift of immense, casual value—as if she were... family.

  A knot tightened in her throat, a complex tangle of gratitude, unworthiness, and a strange, fierce loyalty.

  "Thank you," she whispered, the words feeling small and inadequate

  Part III : The Wheels of Progress

  "On three. One... two... three!"

  With a shared grunt, Faelan and Elwin hoisted the heavy rear axle of the dilapidated carriage. Edwin slid under it, wrenching the final bolt into place on the fourth wheel.

  "Alright, easy!" he called out.

  They lowered the carriage with a groan of old wood. Elwin wiped a sleeve across his sweating forehead. "Three done, one to go," he panted.

  Arthur walked over from the training field, his curiosity piqued by the commotion. "What are you doing?".

  "Getting your chariot ready, Your Highness," Faelan said, not looking up. He took a long drink from a water jug Lilia had left for them. "One more wheel, a new coat of paint, and... voila".

  "I can help," Arthur stated. It wasn't a question.

  Edwin, grabbing the jug from Faelan, looked him over. "Your earth magic any good yet, kid?".

  Arthur didn't answer. He took his position, closed his eyes for a single second of focus, and placed his hands on the carriage's frame. Two small, dense pillars of earth rose smoothly, lifting the entire back end off the ground.

  "Well, that makes it simple," Elwin exclaimed, genuinely impressed. The twins immediately got to work on the last wheel.

  Faelan clapped a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Good focus," he said, his voice low. "You're learning to control the flow. Ingrid's a good teacher".

  "She is," Arthur agreed, watching the twins.

  "Come on," Faelan said, grabbing a can of dark red paint. "Let's make this thing look less like a refugee cart and more like something a Greyoak champion would ride in. Grab a brush".

  For hours, they worked. Arthur painted the wide panels, Faelan meticulously detailed the edges in black. When they were done, Faelan stood back, appraising their work.

  "Now that," he said with satisfaction, "is a proper carriage".

  Elwin emerged from the Guild's back door, his face grim. "Problem. I just got back from the Glimmerdew Market. There's not a single horse for sale. Everything's been bought up for the ceremony"

  Edwin threw his wrench to the ground. "I told you this was a waste of time!" he snapped at Faelan. "We should have just rented one!".

  "And I told you I'm not paying fifty coppers for a one-way trip," Faelan retorted calmly. He turned to Edwin. "Take Arthur. Head past the city walls toward the plains. You'll find a wild herd".

  Edwin looked dismayed. "Me and him? He doesn't know the first thing about breaking a horse!".

  "Then he'll learn," Faelan said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He looked at Arthur. "You've faced down Thorgar. You can handle a horse. Go"

  Arthur, surprised but pleased by the sudden show of trust, simply nodded and followed Edwin.

  As they left, Faelan turned to Elwin. "Go find Ingrid for me, will you? We need to get this paint dry before nightfall".

  A few minutes later, Ingrid appeared. "You asked for me?".

  "If you don't mind," Faelan said, gesturing to the carriage. "A little hot wind, maybe? I'd let it sun-dry, but we're running out of time".

  Ingrid nodded. She raised her palm, and a steady, dry heat flowed from it. She moved with a slow, methodical grace, bathing every inch of the carriage in the magical wind, her control absolute.

  Faelan watched, impressed, as he began sorting through a box of nails and leather straps for the interior.

  After half an hour, she was done. Faelan ran a hand over the smooth, perfectly dry surface. "Good job," he said, giving her shoulder a brief, appreciative squeeze.

  Ingrid flinched, pulling away from the casual, paternal touch. Faelan, noticing her discomfort, simply went back to his work, a small, knowing smile on his face.

  A quiet moment passed.

  "Thank you," Ingrid said, her voice so soft he almost missed it.

  "What for?" Faelan asked, hammering a loose nail. "You're the one who did the work".

  Ingrid’s gaze was fixed on the ground, her face flushed. "For the earrings," she mumbled.

  Faelan stopped hammering. He chuckled. "No need, Besides Arthur was the one to pick them i just bought it"

  He got back to work, fixing the interior benches. Ingrid, instead of leaving, stayed, handing him nails and holding the leather strips in place.

  "You heard about the Beastfolk," she said, her voice flat. It wasn't a question.

  "I did," Faelan replied, his focus on his work.

  "Do you think... they'll be at the ceremony?" Her voice was tight with a worry she couldn't hide.

  Faelan stopped and looked at her. "Probably. But don't worry about it. There's no guarantee they're the same ones". He went back to his work. "And even if they are... you just point them out to me".

  He continued, his voice hardening. "Although ,We can't do anything tomorrow. Any scandal would reflect badly on the Greyoaks, and they've been kind to us. I won't repay that by starting a blood feud on their lawn".

  He pulled a leather strap taut, his voice dropping to a low, ominous promise.

  "But once that tournament is over... if there's someone you recognize, he'll be dealt with".

  When the interior was finally finished, Faelan stood back, wiping his hands. "Now that's a proper beauty".

  "It only has four seats," Ingrid noted. "I thought Maeve and Lord Tybalt were coming".

  "They are. Separately," Faelan replied. "We don't want to draw too many eyes"

  He looked at Ingrid, truly looked at her.

  She was wringing her hands, her stoic mask cracking with a visible, nervous energy. He noticed the blue gem at her throat. "That's a beautiful necklace".

  Ingrid’s hand instinctively went to the stone. "Lyra gave it to me". She took a shaky breath. "Can... can I ask you something?".

  Faelan’s expression softened. "Go ahead".

  "Tomorrow," she started, the words tumbling out in an awkward rush. "How... how am I supposed to act?".

  Faelan was quiet for a second, surprised by the raw vulnerability. Then he let out a soft laugh. "Just be yourself," he said.

  "That's not helpful," she snapped, her embarrassment turning to irritation.

  "Alright, alright," he said, holding up his hands. "Here's the truth: Your patrons will introduce you. The other young nobles will probably avoid you because of your common birth. A few of the old lords might be intrigued by your power and try to poach you. The rich merchants will try to hire you for after you graduate"

  He paused, a shadow crossing his face. "And... given that you are a beautiful young woman, a lot of their sons will try to... sway you".

  Ingrid flinched at the remark.

  Faelan’s mind went somewhere else, his eyes glazing over with anger. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

  "I know you're of that age," he said, his voice suddenly thick with a fierce, paternal emotion. "But be careful. Most of those noble boys are poison".

  Ingrid, unnerved by his intensity, simply nodded and began to walk away.

  Just then, Elwin returned, his arms full of ornamental tassels. "Found them!" he shouted.

  He skidded to a halt as he saw Faelan, who was still staring after Ingrid, his face a mask of dark, protective fury.

  "Uh... Fae? What's wrong?" Elwin asked.

  Faelan turned, grabbing the front of Elwin's tunic in his fist, his eyes blazing. "I'll kill them," he growled.

  "Kill who?" Elwin yelped, terrified.

  "Anyone," Faelan snarled, his voice a low, dangerous promise. "Anyone who dares"