The summons came the following morning. It didn't arrive with a shout in the training yard or a horn blast, but with a quiet, polite chime that echoed through our common room, waking Faelar from what sounded like a coma-induced snore.

  The Game Master was waiting for us in a formal briefing chamber, a stark, circular room where the only furniture was a large, obsidian table that seemed to drink the light.

  The playful energy from our successful field test—the high of the "Flood and Mud" maneuver—evaporated the moment the heavy doors sealed behind us.

  “Your performance yesterday was… unorthodox,” the Game Master said, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked tired. Not just physically tired, but spiritually exhausted, like a man who had spent a lifetime herding cats and had just been handed a team of tigers on methamphetamines.

  “However,” he continued, “it was successful. The objective was taken. Casualties were… surprisingly minimal, considering the structural damage. The time for practice is over. Your deployment to Xylos is imminent.”

  He waved a hand, and the holographic map of Xylos floated above the table. It was beautiful and terrifying. Violet veins of corruption pulsed slowly across its surface, beating like a sickened heart.

  “This is the reality,” he said. He provided us with the specific intelligence from the Citadel’s scryers. The suspected portal location in the Sunken Temple. The known demonic signatures in the region.

  An image of a man appeared—pale, gaunt, dressed in flowing robes that looked like they were woven from shadows.

  “Malkor,” the Game Master said. “Leader of the Obsidian Hand. Last known position: The Spire of Whispers.”

  “He has a flair for the dramatic, doesn’t he?” Liam murmured, leaning against the wall and eyeing the hologram critically. “All black robes and brooding. A bit cliché, if you ask me. I bet he monologues. I bet he has a special ‘evil speech’ podium.”

  “Are the demons the smashable kind, or the sneaky, magic-using kind?” Faelar asked, rubbing his chin. “It’s an important distinction for my strategic planning. Smashable requires the axe. Sneaky requires… well, also the axe, but applied with more prejudice.”

  The Game Master’s gaze flickered to Faelar for a fraction of a second. He ignored the question and looked at me. From within his robe, he produced a small, smooth, grey stone.

  He handed it to me. It was cool to the touch, utterly featureless, and heavy.

  “This is your link to me,” he explained. “It will allow for one-way communication. I can send you guidance or warnings if the situation changes drastically. Do not expect a conversation. It is a lifeline, not a leash. Use it only when you are truly lost.”

  I closed my hand around the stone. It felt cold, a solid burden in my palm.

  The Game Master’s gaze swept across all of us then. His expression shifted. The bureaucratic mask slipped, revealing a deep, profound seriousness.

  “Do not underestimate Malkor,” he warned. His voice dropped an octave. “He is not just a cultist; he is a student of forbidden histories. He is intelligent, ruthless, and he understands the forces he is dealing with. And do not trust what you see on Xylos. The world itself is… impressionable. Raw magic has a way of shaping reality to reflect the observer’s expectations. Or their fears.”

  He paused, letting the silence hang heavy in the room.

  “Be prepared for anything. Now, go see the Quartermaster. Draw what you need. And for the love of the gods, try to look like a professional military unit.”

  The Celestial Guard’s main armory was less of a room and more of a cathedral dedicated to the art of killing things.

  Vaulted ceilings disappeared into shadow. Racks of gleaming swords, axes, and polearms stretched for miles. The air smelled of whetstone, oil, and cold iron.

  Behind a long wooden counter stood Quartermaster Greydon. He was a man whose face looked like it had been carved from a block of granite by a sculptor who gave up halfway through. He looked at us with the enthusiasm of a man facing a firing squad.

  “Name and rank,” Greydon droned.

  “Faelar Stonefist, Demolition Expert and Chief of Beverage Security!” Faelar announced.

  The dwarf’s eyes lit up like a child in a candy store. He completely ignored the racks of perfectly balanced, standard-issue battle-axes. He stomped past the "Restricted" sign towards a dusty corner where a collection of oversized, ceremonial weapons were displayed.

  His eyes fixed on a double-headed axe that was almost as tall as he was. Its blades were shaped like snarling beasts, and the haft was thick as a tree trunk.

  “I’ll be taking that one,” Faelar announced, pointing a calloused finger.

  Greydon didn’t even look up from his ledger. “No.”

  “What do you mean, ‘no’?” Faelar sputtered. “Look at her! She’s singing to me!”

  “That is the ‘Foe-Render,’ a ceremonial piece from the Giant Wars,” Greydon said in a monotone. “It is not standard issue. It weighs eighty pounds. It is for display only.”

  “Display?” Faelar marched over and grabbed the handle. With a grunt that sounded like a tectonic plate shifting, he heaved the massive weapon onto his shoulder. “My old axe was a toothpick! I was tickling walls with it! You saw the report—I need mass! I need leverage! I need… Bessie.”

  “Bessie?” Greydon looked up, his eye twitching.

  “Aye. Bessie. She’s beautiful.” Faelar patted the cold steel blade affectionately. “We’re going to make beautiful ruin together.”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Greydon stared at the dwarf, then at the massive axe that was clearly violating several safety regulations. He sighed, a sound like air escaping a tire.

  “Fine. Sign the damage waiver. In triplicate. If you drop it on your foot, we are not liable for the amputation.”

  While Greydon was distracted by Faelar’s paperwork, Liam had drifted over to a case of throwing knives.

  He looked traumatized. He was touching his empty belt pouches like a man checking for a missing wallet.

  “Never again,” I heard him whisper. “Never again will I throw a horseshoe at a door.”

  With movements so swift they blurred, he began grabbing handfuls of knives. He filled his belt. He filled his boot sheaths. He filled pockets I didn’t know he had.

  “Soldier,” Greydon called out, not looking away from Faelar. “Standard issue is six knives.”

  “Supply chain issues,” Liam replied smoothly, slipping a seventh knife into his sleeve. “I’m anticipating high turnover. Also, I’m terrible at retrieving them. I leave them everywhere. It’s practically littering.”

  His eyes then fell upon a jeweled dagger on a velvet display stand. Rubies encrusted the hilt. It was worth more than my entire village.

  For a moment, I saw a genuine, internal struggle play out on Liam’s face. His hand twitched. He bit his lip.

  “Unprofessional temptations,” he muttered, forcing himself to turn away. “Focus on volume, Liam. Volume.”

  Willow, meanwhile, had politely declined the offer of a mace, a crossbow, or a flail. She approached the counter timidly, looking very small against the high wood.

  “Excuse me, Master Greydon?” she chirped. “I don’t suppose you have any rare mosses? Or perhaps some Night-Blooming Whispervine seed pods? Oh, and a special canteen for carrying enchanted spring water would be lovely.”

  Greydon stared at her. “This is an armory, little one. We stock things for making holes in people, not for gardening. You want a plant, go find a forest.”

  Willow’s face fell. But then she noticed a sad, drooping potted fern in the dusty corner behind the counter.

  “Oh!” She drifted over to it. “Hello there. You look thirsty.”

  She began to whisper to the fern. To Greydon’s horror, the fern rustled. It seemed to lean in. Willow nodded gravely.

  “Is that so?” she whispered. “Under the floorboards? By the crate? Oh, you’re very observant.”

  She turned back to Greydon, beaming. “The fern tells me you keep the confiscated contraband in a box under the third floorboard. He says there’s a pouch of Druidic Root Powder in there that was taken from a smuggler last week.”

  Greydon’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked at the fern with deep suspicion.

  “Take it,” he whispered. “Just… stop talking to the furniture.”

  Before the bewildered Quartermaster could recover, Elmsworth slapped a long, rolled-up piece of parchment on the counter. Dust flew into the air.

  “My requisition form,” he announced grandly.

  Greydon unrolled it. It kept unrolling. It hit the floor. He read for a moment, his stony expression morphing into one of pure, unadulterated disbelief.

  “Powdered moon rock?” Greydon read. “A vial of solidified echoes? Three grams of… crystallized regret?” He looked up. “Are you joking?”

  “I never joke about arcane components,” Elmsworth said, affronted. “The crystallized regret is essential for a tertiary warding matrix I’m developing. It provides a significant emotional deterrent to sentient spells. Do you have any idea how hard it is to make a fireball feel guilty?”

  “We do not stock crystallized regret,” Greydon said through gritted teeth. “It is not a physical object.”

  “And the salamander?” Elmsworth pressed, tapping the list. “My list clearly specifies one live, healthily-dispositioned salamander. Essential for fire-proofing. I prefer the orange ones; they have a zestier aura.”

  As they argued, Nugget took flight from Elmsworth’s shoulder. She soared gracefully across the room and landed in a large, open bin marked “VOLATILE: DRAGON SCALE DUST.” She immediately began scratching a nest into the highly explosive powder.

  I stepped forward. The chaos was peaking. Faelar was swinging a giant axe. Liam was hoarding cutlery. Willow was interrogating plants. Elmsworth was demanding regret.

  “I need a whetstone,” I said loudly, cutting through the noise. “A new strap for my shield. And a flask of weapon oil.”

  Greydon looked at me. A flicker of profound relief washed over his tired eyes. He looked like he wanted to hug me.

  “Finally,” he grumbled, turning to fetch the items. “A soldier.”

  That evening, the common room was different.

  The boisterous energy of the "Flood" victory was gone, replaced by a quiet, heavy anticipation. The new gear was laid out.

  Faelar wasn’t drinking. He sat by the fire, the monstrous head of the Foe-Render—Bessie—in his lap. The rhythmic shiiiing, shiiiing of his whetstone against the massive blade was a grim, steady heartbeat in the quiet room.

  Liam sat cross-legged on a rug. He wasn't juggling. He was methodically checking the balance of each of his forty-two new knives, slipping them into loops and sheaths with precise, economical movements. He looked less like a thief and more like a surgeon preparing for an operation.

  Elmsworth was staring into the flames, lost in thought. Nugget was asleep on his lap, her feathers a calm, slate-grey color, rising and falling with her breath.

  Willow was the only one who seemed unchanged. She sat on a cushion, humming softly as she wove a small, intricate charm out of dried twigs and a strand of her own hair.

  I was doing a final check of the leather straps on my armor. The routine was a comfort. Pull. Buckle. Check. Repeat.

  The silence stretched. It was Willow who finally broke it.

  “Are you scared, Kaelen?” she asked. Her voice was soft, barely louder than the popping fire.

  I paused. My hands stilled on the buckle. I looked at her, then at the others.

  Liam’s hands didn’t stop their work, but I saw his shoulders tense. Faelar the sharpening stopped for a beat, then continued.

  “I am focused on the mission,” I replied automatically. The textbook answer.

  “That’s not what I asked,” she said gently.

  I looked at the map in my mind. The violet veins. The gaunt face of Malkor. The warnings.

  “Yes,” I admitted. The word felt heavy, like a stone dropping into a well. “I am.”

  Faelar stopped his sharpening. He held the massive axe up to the light, inspecting the edge.

  “Scared? Nah. Eager.” His voice was a low rumble. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper fight. A real one. The Citadel… it’s too clean. Too safe.”

  He looked down at his axe, but I saw the truth in his eyes. He was terrified of rusting. Of being useless.

  “I’m not scared of the demons,” Liam chimed in, not looking up. He slid a knife into his boot. “I’m scared of his cooking when we run out of rations.”

  He nodded at Faelar. A small smile touched the dwarf’s lips.

  “And I’m scared of whatever the hell is going on with that chicken,” Liam added. “That thing isn’t right. It watched me sleep last night. Unblinking.”

  We fell silent again. But the silence was different now. It was shared. We were no longer five strangers forced into a room. We were five people standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into the same abyss.

  A low, resonant hum began to fill the room. It wasn't a sound you heard with your ears; it was a vibration you felt in your teeth.

  I looked down at my belt. The smooth, grey stone in the pouch was glowing with a soft, pulsing light.

  The Game Master’s voice entered my mind. It was clear, cold, and present inside all of our heads at once.

  “The portal is open. It is time.”

  The quiet moment shattered.

  Faelar rose to his feet. He hoisted Bessie onto his shoulder effortlessly. In the firelight, the dwarf looked like a mountain of iron.

  Liam swept his remaining knives into a pile and vanished them into his gear. He stood up, his movements sharp and purposeful.

  Willow tucked her charm into her pouch and stood. Her small face was set with a fierce determination.

  Elmsworth gently placed the sleeping Nugget on his shoulder. The chicken woke up, blinked, and turned a soft, anxious yellow. He gripped his gnarled staff.

  I stood. My hand closed around the familiar shaft of my spear.

  We looked at each other. A silent acknowledgment passed between us. The training was over. The waiting was done. The game was about to begin.

  “Well,” Faelar grunted, heading for the door. “Let’s go break something.”

  Together, we walked out of the common room and towards the portal chamber.