The Price of Entry

Away from the cave—where the air still reeked of blood and ancient hunger—the world above remained untouched.

Nestled between frost-kissed pines and the winding path of the River Dren, the village of Velgrad stood quiet but alive. It was neither large nor rich, but it held weight in the region as a key outpost for the Adventurer's Guild. Hunters, mercenaries, and hopeful fools passed through its gates daily, drawn by the promise of coin, contracts, or a quick death.

Built from dark timber and stone, Velgrad wore the cold well. Smoke curled from the chimneys like whispers, and worn boots pressed into snow-packed earth outside the guildhall. In the square, children with red cheeks and loud laughter played beneath a crooked wooden statue of some long-forgotten hero.

For now, life was calm. But deep beneath the soil… that was starting to change.

"Kid… hey, kid… Earth to you."

The voice snapped like a whip, cutting through the low murmur of the guildhall. Quills scratched, mugs clinked, and outside the frosted windows, snow flurries danced lazily past. The scent of spiced meat and old ale hung in the air. Somewhere near the back, a lute strummed lazily under half-hearted applause.

Radomir blinked, pulling himself out of his thoughts. He was lean, with windswept dark brown hair that fell just past his ears, and eyes the color of damp soil—earnest, but unsure. His coat looked a size too big, patched at the elbows, and dusted with snow from the walk in.

"Huh—oh, crap. Sorry. I kinda spaced out there for a second." He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

The receptionist didn't return the smile. She was in her late twenties, maybe older—it was hard to tell with the exhaustion carved so deeply into her face. Her dark hair was tied back in a messy braid, and a faded scar ran down her left cheek, just under her eye. She tapped the edge of her quill against the desk with faint irritation, her half-lidded eyes heavy with exhaustion. The name "Yelka" was stitched in fading thread across the shoulder of her uniform shirt—just above a faint ink smudge that never quite washed out.

"Ugh, whatever, kid." Yelka sighed, flipping through the pages on her clipboard. "You don't even look old enough to be an adventurer… Where are your parents?"

Radomir blinked at the sudden shift in tone.

"Huh? I mean, you only have to be eighteen, right? I just turned that, actually." He shrugged, eyes drifting to the floor for a second. "As for my parents… I dunno. Out of the picture."

Yelka raised a brow but didn't press. She just muttered something under her breath and reached for the next form.

She sighed again—long and tired, like she was already regretting asking.

"Give me your full name, please. Date of birth. And state any magic you possess, if any." Her quill hovered over the parchment, already tapping impatiently.

"Oh, yes!" Radomir straightened, suddenly eager. "Radomir Vetranov! I was born in the year 6879 of the Eighth Calendar!" He paused, scratching his cheek a little sheepishly. "As for magic... nothing special. Just some basic spells. Light, mostly."

"Eighth Calendar, kid… of course you are. You're not some stinking old elf clocking in at six thousand years."

She jerked her chin toward the corner of the guildhall, where a tall, silver-haired figure sat silently nursing a mug. His ears were slightly longer and more jagged than an elf's, and his skin had a faint, ashen hue that shimmered subtly in the firelight—close enough to be mistaken for elven, but not quite right. There was something older, rougher, about him.

"Unlike our resident elf over there. Doesn't say much. Just shows up, takes the hardest contracts, and vanishes like smoke. Creepy bastard."

She looked back at Radomir, eyes narrowing slightly.

"You sure light magic's all you've got?"

Before Radomir could answer, a gravelly voice erupted from across the hall.

"HEY, HAG!"

Several heads turned. Yelka didn't even flinch.

"I TOLD YE, I AIN'T NO SNOBBY-ASS ELF! I'M A VELKORRIN—AND I JUST HAD MY EIGHT-HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOURTH BIRTHDAY, FUCK YOU VERY MUCH!"

A tankard slammed down on the far table, sloshing ale across the wood. Thalrek—broad-shouldered, silver-haired, and very much not sober—grumbled something else under his breath and went back to drinking.

Yelka rolled her eyes.

"See what I mean?"

Radomir stared at the older man for a second, lips parted slightly.

"Is… is he always like that?" he asked, lowering his voice.

Yelka snorted. "That was him in a good mood."

She slid the form aside and held out her hand.

"Alright, rookie. That'll be ten silver for registration. Try not to die before it's worth the paperwork."

Radomir fumbled at the pouch on his belt, counting out the coins with slightly shaky fingers.

"Right. Uh… here. Ten silver."

The coins clinked into her palm.

Yelka barely looked at them before dropping them into a small lockbox beneath the desk.

"Congratulations, Radomir Vetranov. You're now officially part of the guild. Ashen rank, of course. Everyone starts there. Means you're allowed to take the lowest tier of contracts, usually the kind that stink of goblins or wet cave mold."

She reached into a drawer beneath the desk and pulled out a thin leather cord with a dark, iron-colored tag shaped like a fang.

"Wear this around your neck. It's your guild ID—lets others know your rank. Lose it, and you'll be paying double to get another."

She leaned back in her chair, giving him a once-over.

"The ranks go Ashen, Ironbrand, Stoneveil, Emberglass, Stormborn, and—if you live long enough to matter—Wyrmblood. But don't worry about that just yet. One step at a time. Try not to embarrass us."

Before he could think of a reply, a voice called out from across the guildhall:

"Oi! Radomir!"

He turned toward one of the long wooden tables near the hearth. Darian sat there with his boots up and a mug in hand, his tousled blond hair lit gold in the firelight and a lazy confidence stretched across his sharp features. He had a lean build, taller than Radomir, with that rough charm that made him look like he belonged in trouble. He was grinning like he'd just watched the whole thing.

"Took you long enough! What, were you trying to flirt with her or just forgetting how to write your name again?"

Radomir made his way over, flopping down into the seat across from Darian with an exhale that was half relief, half nerves.

"Finally official," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Gods, Yelka is terrifying."

Darian chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "She's just mad her job involves talking to idiots like us all day." He took a sip from his mug. "Still, congrats, man. First step on the road to glory, fame, and a long, bloody death."

"Thanks for the pep talk," Radomir muttered.

"Anytime." Darian smirked, then lowered his voice. "So, you wanna check the board in a bit? Maybe take something light to start with—wolves, goblins, something with fewer teeth than us?"

Radomir opened his mouth to reply—but stopped when a sudden laugh barked out from the table behind them.

"Did you hear what they found near the river path?" one voice said, sharp with excitement. "Swear on my blade, it wasn't natural. Even the trees were wrong."

Darian's gaze slid toward the sound, his smile fading.

"You catch that?" he murmured, voice low.

Radomir gave a small nod, already leaning back in his seat to listen.

"—saying the Krovenians were just chasing raiders, but they crossed the line by over three miles. Armed. In formation."

"That's not a mistake. That's a probe," another voice muttered. "They wanted to see if Drakovar would flinch."

"And we did."

There was a pause, followed by the hard clink of a mug hitting wood.

"The king's response was too soft. They'll do it again—next time with more than scouts."

"You think they're pushing for war?"

"They don't have to push. They just need us to blink one more time. Half the southern villages are already prepping like it's coming."

Darian glanced at Radomir, tension visible in the set of his jaw.

"Guess we picked a great time to sign up, huh?"

Another voice chimed in, quieter, but laced with unease.

"—and worse, one of the squads had a Varkenveth with them."

"No shit? You're sure?"

"Saw it myself. Armor like black glass, red across the shoulders. Carried one of those long Krovenian pikes—the ones with the spine runes. You don't send them for bandits."

A beat of silence.

"Gods..." the adventurer finally muttered, the word dragged out like it burned his tongue. "If the Varkenveth are moving, this isn't a border patrol. It's a message."

Their talk died out, quickly shifting to the newest barmaid and just how badly one of them wanted to—

Radomir coughed, loudly, cutting off the rest before it got any more uncomfortable.

"Well, that's for the kingdom to figure out, I guess... at least unless they drag the Adventurer's Guild into it."

Darian smirked, clearly amused but playing along.

"Yeah... though I've heard the guild tries to stay neutral in kingdom disputes. Doesn't always work out that way."

Darian leaned back in his chair, giving Radomir a sideways glance.

"You sure you want to do this whole adventuring thing?" he asked, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. "There are easier ways to make money, y'know. Safer ways too. Especially with your sister to look after."

Radomir shrugged, but there was a flicker of something thoughtful in his expression.

"She's tougher than I am, honestly. She's probably out by the bakery right now, trying to talk someone into giving her free sweets again."

Darian chuckled. "She's got the charm for it. You, though? You're doomed to monster guts and bad pay."

"Yeah, well…" Radomir smiled faintly. "At least I'll earn the sweets."

They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the guildhall filling the space between them—mugs clinking, fire crackling, boots stomping near the hearth, and laughter echoing from the dice tables. Someone somewhere belched loud enough to earn a cheer.

Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and slow.

"First real job tomorrow?" Darian asked, raising an eyebrow.

Radomir nodded. "Yeah. Nothing big. Just something to get started."

Darian lifted his mug. "To not dying horribly."

Radomir smirked and clinked his cup against his.

"To earning the sweets."