Chapter 11: Guild

The carriage creaked to a stop, wheels groaning like they'd had enough of this damn road. Aaron leaned out, elbows braced on the frame, the wind snagging his white hair and tossing it wild. There it was—finally—after days of rattling past villages that blurred into mud and thatch, towns too small to hold a secret. The city shimmered on the horizon, a beast of stone and sea, its tall walls clawing up from the coastline like they could wrestle the tides. Ships bobbed at its edge, sails snapping, crates swinging—imports, exports, the heartbeat of a place that didn't sleep. A castle perched to the side, humble in footprint but stretching high, its spires stabbing the bruised sky, a marvel of magecraft that only genius could dream up. Not some gaudy sprawl, no—this was strategy, sharp and lean, built by hands that knew magic could bend steel and lift dreams.

He couldn't help it—a grin cracked his face, crooked and real. "Look at that," he muttered, half to himself, half to the wind. "Still standing tall, you bastard."

Amelia poked her head out beside him, pigtails whipping like they were mad at the world. "What's so special?" she asked, squinting, voice sharp with that edge she got when she smelled a story he wasn't telling.

"Everything," he said, and it wasn't a lie. This city—Kaelthara, they called it now—was a jewel he'd never cracked. Before the regression, when he'd worn the Demon King's crown, he'd thrown armies at those walls, spells that could melt stone, curses that turned rivers black. Nothing stuck. The mages here—those lunatic engineers—had woven magic into every brick, every beam, pushing it past war chants and into something new: gears that hummed, lights that pulsed, a guild of magic tech that was laughed at back then. He'd laughed too, until their contraptions shredded his vanguard and sent him limping off with a bloody nose. Now? The new lord had seen the spark, poured gold into their mad tinkering, and the city thrummed with it—rich, alive, untouchable.

"Never took it," he said, quieter now, the words slipping out like a confession he hadn't meant to make. His fingers flexed, ember flickering low in his chest, a memory of ash and failure.

Amelia's eyes narrowed, glinting like coins in the sun. "Took it? What're you on about?"

He waved her off, grin fading to a smirk. "Nothin'. Old tales. C'mon, let's roll."

Inside, the carriage rattled back to life, pots clanking, Seraphina muttering something sharp under her breath as a sack slid into her lap. She shoved it off, silk rustling, her glare a blade aimed at no one in particular. Amelia slumped back beside Aaron, closer than she needed to be, her shoulder brushing his like a claim she wouldn't name. The burnt-toast smell clung to the air, stubborn as Ma's hum, a tether to a home they'd left behind.

Aaron's mind wasn't on them, though—not really. It was on *her*. The woman who'd stopped him every damn time—Elyra, her name was then, a mage with ink-stained hands and a laugh that cut deeper than her spells. She'd stood on those walls, hair whipping in the wind, hurling gadgets and glyphs that turned his siege into a scrap heap. He'd hated her—God, how he'd hated her—but there'd been a night, late in the war, when they'd met under a truce flag. She'd poured him wine, smirked over the rim, and asked why he kept coming back to lose. He'd laughed—first time in months—and left her city alone after that, a friend carved out of a foe. Dead now, he'd thought, until the regression spun him back. Was she here? Same soul, different skin? He needed to know—needed her steel at his side for what was coming.

The city grew closer, walls looming like a dare, the castle's spires glinting sharp. The carriage hit the cobbled outskirts, jolting them hard, and Seraphina swore—low, venomous, her hand rubbing that slave mark like she could claw it off. Amelia snorted, a quick, mean laugh, and Aaron's head tilted, catching the tension but not the why.

"Problem?" he asked, voice rough, eyes still on the city.

"Always," Seraphina shot back, clipped and cold, her demon eyes glinting like she'd love to set something on fire.

"Keep it together," he said, not looking at her. "We're here."

The gates loomed—iron and rune-etched, buzzing with faint magic—and the guards waved them through, barely glancing at the junk-laden carriage. Inside, Kaelthara roared to life: streets clogged with carts, voices shouting over the clang of hammers, steam hissing from pipes snaking up buildings. A kid darted past, clutching a glowing orb that whirred—some mage-tech toy—and Aaron's grin crept back. This place was alive, a beast of progress he'd never tamed, and it thrilled him, sharp and electric.

He leaned back, boots scuffing the floor, and murmured, "Elyra'd love this." It slipped out—soft, unguarded—and Amelia's head snapped around, fast as a whip.

"Who's Elyra?" she demanded, voice a blade, jealousy flickering like a spark in dry grass.

He froze, caught, then laughed—a jagged, deflecting bark. "Just a name, 'Melia. Old ghost."

Her eyes didn't budge, boring into him, but he turned away, staring out as the city swallowed them whole. The castle loomed ahead, a quiet giant watching the chaos, and somewhere in this tangle of stone and steam, she was waiting—his match, his mirror, the one who'd stopped him when no one else could. He'd find her, or her echo, and drag her into this fight—dragon, queen, whatever came. The past was here, breathing, and it wasn't letting him go.

The city's hum hit like a fist—sharp, relentless—rattling through the cobblestones as Seraphina stumbled, boots catching on the edge of a rune-etched gate. A vibration clawed up her spine, a spell woven into the walls, buzzing like a swarm of pissed-off hornets. It hated her—knew her kind, monsters and worse—and dug into her skull, sharp and cold. Her nose burned, a wet trickle spilling out, blood dripping onto her silk glove, staining it dark. She hissed, swiping it fast, a weaker demon would've been ash by now—skull split, soul gone—but she wasn't weak. Just bleeding.

"Move it," Aaron growled, not looking, his voice a rough shove as he strode ahead.

She glared, demon eyes flashing, but lurched forward, blood crusting her lip. At the gate, she thrust out her merchant card—hand steady, smile a thin lie. "Lady Seraphina, trader. These're my helpers." She flicked a nod at Aaron and Amelia, pressed tight, her arm brushing his like she'd fight the air to keep him close.

The guard squinted, shrugged, waved them through—too busy eyeing a cart of fish to care. Kaelthara swallowed them whole—streets thick with shouts, steam hissing from pipes snaking up walls, a kid darting past with a glowing orb that whined like a trapped wind. Seraphina's head pounded, the spell's hum sinking claws deeper, and she turned to Aaron, voice low, edged with grit. "This friend you're chasing—I hope she's not engineering guild. Vibrations hit worse there, guild house and palace. Could shred me."

He didn't answer—just patted her head, quick and rough, like she'd fetched a bone. "Good work," he said, flat, done. "No more needed. Earn." He shoved a crumpled list into her hand—ether dust, rune coils, spark gears—and her eyes bulged, popping like they'd bolt. Prices that'd gut her purse and leave it gasping.

"You're insane," she rasped, fingers trembling around the paper.

"Get it," he said, smirk sharp, then grabbed Amelia's wrist—gentle, sure—and pulled her forward, leaving Seraphina in the dust, blood drying, pride a cracked cup spilling over.

Amelia shot a glance back—half smug, half fire—and pressed closer to Aaron, her heat a quiet claim. "She's gonna snap," she muttered, loud enough to sting.

"Let her," Aaron said, shrugging, eyes cutting through the chaos—hammers banging, voices overlapping, the burnt-toast smell clinging like Ma's shadow. His mind wasn't on them. It was on this. Kaelthara. A city he'd never broken, not with armies, not with the Demon King's wrath. Back then, he'd needed papers—proof he wasn't a ghost with a blade. Adventuring guild would've been easy—quick name, quick coin. But no. He'd bled Seraphina's stash half-dry, and he wasn't here to scrape.

He veered sharp, boots slicing a path, Amelia trailing tight, her fingers brushing his arm like she'd anchor him. Merchant guild glittered left—silk and gold, soft promises—engineering guild buzzed right, spitting sparks and heat. He ignored them. Ahead loomed a tower—black stone, jagged as a snapped rib, no banners, just weight. The Slayer Guild. Pinnacle of the pinnacle—where nobles groveled, royals whispered, and one in a million walked out whole. God's avatars, they called them, half-prayer, half-dread. He wasn't here to kneel.

Amelia's breath caught, sharp as a snapped twig. "Aron, you can't—"

"Can," he cut in, grin wild, ember flaring hot in his chest.

She grabbed his sleeve, nails digging—fear now, raw and real. "That place Destroys. You won't—"

"Watch me," he said, shaking her off, gentle but firm, and strode on.