Whispers in the Capital

The Adventurer's Guild in Eldoria was nothing like Leon expected.

For one, it was huge—spanning an entire block in the upper district, its architecture a blend of regal stonework and rugged practicality. Banners of past guild champions lined the great hall, and the polished floors echoed with heavy boots, laughter, and the occasional clash of weapons from the training yard in back.

Leon stood at the centre of it all, flanked by Sylva and the Crimson Vow. People stared. Whispers rippled through the air like static.

"That's the summoned hero?"

"He looks… normal."

"Is the girl beside him a slave?"

"No way he survived the frontlines. Not without help."

Leon kept his expression still. He'd gotten good at pretending things didn't get to him.

They approached the main desk, where a bored-looking receptionist raised an eyebrow. "State your name and reason for visit."

Before Leon could open his mouth, Iris stepped forward. "This is Leon. The hero. We're here to register him under the Crimson Vow's banner."

The room shifted.

The receptionist straightened quickly. "Ah. Of course. The king sent word, but we weren't expecting you this early. One moment while I—"

"Hold on." A smooth, sneering voice cut through the murmurs.

Leon turned toward the voice.

A young man in ornate adventuring gear—gold accents, polished armour that had clearly never seen real battle—stepped forward with a group of equally well-dressed lackeys. He had a smirk that screamed entitlement.

"I don't recall the guild accepting cowards and mascots."

Lyra's hand went to her blade, but Leon stopped her with a glance. "Let him speak."

The noble brat continued. "You're the so-called hero, aren't you? The one who got handed everything on a silver plate while we trained, bled, and earned our ranks the hard way?"

Leon gave a soft sigh. "Do you have a point, or are you just bored?"

Gasps echoed. The noble's face flushed. "I challenge you to a duel. Right here. Right now. If you want to call yourself an adventurer, prove you're not just a figurehead."

Leon tilted his head. "And what happens if I win?"

"You'll have the respect of this guild… and me," the noble said with a cocky grin. "Lose, and you crawl back to your castle and stay there."

The receptionist tried to speak up, but it was too late. A crowd had already formed, the guild buzzing with excitement.

Leon stepped forward. "Alright. I accept."

The duel took place in the guild's open training courtyard, a large circular arena surrounded by stone seating. Guild members crowded around, placing bets, murmuring.

Leon removed his cloak and stepped into the ring, his blade resting in his palm. He wasn't worried—but not because he thought this noble was weak.

He was used to being underestimated. And he was used to fighting with his life on the line.

The noble drew his polished longsword and made a show of spinning it before saluting with mock formality. "Try not to cry when I cut that pretty face."

Leon didn't respond.

The moment the duel began, the noble lunged.

He was fast. Precise. But showy. Predictable.

Leon dodged the first strike with a step to the side and parried the second with ease. He didn't attack yet. He waited—watched—learned. Every movement told a story. The noble was trained, but he had no real experience. No weight behind his strikes. No desperation.

Leon found an opening and moved.

A twist of the wrist. A step forward. A quick sweep of his blade—and the noble's weapon went flying from his hands.

Leon stood behind him, blade resting on the back of his neck.

Silence fell.

The noble's face drained of colour. "You… you cheated—!"

"I didn't," Leon said, lowering his blade. "You just thought you could win because I looked weak."

He walked away without waiting for applause.

And back inside, the receptionist had his paperwork ready. "Congratulations, Hero Leon. Welcome to the Adventurer's Guild. You're officially registered."

Leon took the badge and turned to see Sylva watching him. She said nothing, but there was a faint curl to her lips.

Approval. Maybe even pride.

He tucked the badge into his pocket.

"Let's go," he said.

They had a world to see.

*

*

*

The capital of Eldoria was always beautiful in the morning.

Sunlight spilled through towering stained-glass windows, casting fractured colours across marble halls. The palace gardens below bloomed with carefully tended flowers, noble families strolled through the upper streets in gold-trimmed robes, and the world looked—at a glance—perfect.

But Iris knew better.

She sat at a long balcony table, sipping from a porcelain teacup while her eyes scanned the latest noble correspondence.

To most, these letters were harmless. Invitations. Trade deals. Gossip about marriages and inheritance.

But Iris had grown up with masks. She knew how to read between the lines.

A certain baron's letter had strange phrasing about "replacing a figurehead before it's too late." Another marquess mentioned the hero as "a passing flame soon to be doused." And most chilling of all, a sealed message from a high-ranking military advisor hinted at a "plan already in motion."

They were subtle. Purposefully so. But to Iris, they weren't coincidences.

Someone—or multiple someone's—were talking about Leon.

And not in admiration.

Later that day, Iris strolled through the Noble Quarter with Lyra and Velis, keeping her tone light as she exchanged pleasantries with familiar faces. Behind the politeness, however, she was watching.

Listening.

A noblewoman with too many rings on her fingers whispered hurriedly to a masked man in the shadows of a jewellery stall.

Two royal knights, off-duty, passed by her carriage and muttered about "delays to the plan" and "King Edric playing favourites."

Even in the Adventurer's Guild, Iris caught wind of mercenaries being hired with vague, strange contracts—no names, just objectives. "Escort" missions that led nowhere. "Elimination" jobs with no clear targets.

It was a web.

And someone was tightening it.

 Iris returned to her private quarters in the palace.

She locked the door.

Unclasped her necklace—an enchanted piece Lyra had gifted her long ago—and pressed it to her lips. "Scry: Network."

The mirror before her rippled, glowing faintly, revealing the blurred silhouette of a cloaked contact in a far-off port city.

"Lady Iris," the voice crackled through the mirror. "It's as you feared. A bounty's been issued in secret. Not gold, but favours. Someone wants the hero dead without making it look like treason."

Iris's grip on the mirror tightened.

"Do you know who?" she asked quietly.

"No name. Just a sigil." The figure held up a parchment—three intertwined roses, bleeding from their thorns.

The mark of the Thorned Court.

An ancient noble faction that thrived on manipulation, blackmail, and assassinations in the shadows of kingdoms. Thought to be extinct.

Apparently not.

"I need time," Iris said. "Keep watching. And don't contact me again unless absolutely necessary."

The mirror dimmed.

Iris turned and leaned against the dresser, her mind racing.

Leon had no idea how dangerous things were becoming—not just on the battlefield, but within the walls of his supposed allies.

She thought of his calm eyes in the training yard. The way he had handled that noble brat's duel with grace, not ego.

He was growing.

He didn't deserve this.

She would protect him.

Not because he was the hero.

But because he was hers.

Her friend. Her responsibility. Her heart.

And if the Thorned Court wanted to play in shadows?

Iris would meet them there.