The meeting room, modest by royal standards, felt more like a well-kept storeroom than a place for important decisions. Simple stone walls, illuminated by a couple of earnest but unremarkable chandeliers, held no shimmering enchantments. Just a tapestry depicting surprisingly cheerful woodland creatures and the bare necessities. Privacy, Tara had learned, was a far more valuable commodity than a gilded extravagance.

  Her adjoining lodging, concealed behind a carefully hung tapestry, was her sanctuary. A private bath and a blessedly decent mattress were luxuries she willingly paid rent for – a small price for peace of mind. The Imperial Tower, with its endless parade of courtiers and their pointed whispers, could keep its silk-draped suites. Tara preferred the quiet hum of the Adventurer's Guild district, where your level and the size of your last haul spoke louder than your lineage. Though, admittedly, a well-placed coin could still grease the wheels when it came to covertly snag the juiciest quests, which she most certainly wasn’t going to complain about.

  Her lodging, conveniently connected to the meeting room, also let her stay close to Lyra, who had an adjacent room with all the comforts. Gregor, however, still split his time between the guild residence and the Imperial Tower, occasionally grumbling about the “silly” nature of their arrangement and suggesting they join the mercenary guild instead like the proper royalty that they were.

  Hah! As if she’d trade her peace for the constant political games of the court.

  Here, she could actually breathe, the weight of royal expectation upon her momentarily lifted. She idly swirled the lukewarm tea in her cup, her mind still sifting through the less-than-stellar candidates from earlier.

  Five months until the Grand Trial. Five months, and now a mage-shaped hole in their meticulously planned party. Blast Elara and her overzealous fireball practice!

  The Grand Trial never had a fixed date. It waited on the whim of the stars—specifically when the constellation of Kymar decided to shine bright enough to be seen without squinting. Usually, that meant the Month of the Dragon, but occasionally it drifted into the Month of the Snake. Celestial timing made everything feel more important, she supposed. Or at least harder to argue with.

  She’d kept her distance from imperial politics, but that didn’t mean she’d gone blind. Whispers reached her through well-placed ears: the Temple of the Metal Saint and the Temple of Ruan were putting up high-grade artifacts as prizes this year. These weren’t just normal relics but were ones that could even trigger class evolutions, especially useful to a ‘Cleric’ like her. Bait, clearly. But effective bait. Strong talents were drawn to such things, and the temples had long been in the business of collecting promising disciples.

  Of course, as a princess, she didn’t need to scrap for scraps. Relics and artifacts came easily. But walking out of the Trial with a temple prize in hand? That would be another matter entirely. A public show of strength, achieved on merit, with no direct imperial ties—just the kind of power she could use. It would make her inconvenient to interfere with. And that, in court circles, was the finest kind of armor.

  Of course, had she not been born into the imperial house, the whole thing would have been laughable—trading one leash for another. The trick, really, was to hold both ends of the leash and smile like it was a sash.

  Looking up, she found Gregor and Lyra waiting, their expressions a study in contrast. Gregor stood ramrod straight, arms crossed so tightly his knuckles were white, his scarred brow a permanent thundercloud of disapproval.

  "We need someone competent, Princess," he grumbled, as though the mere idea of recruiting someone by word of mouth had personally offended him.

  The third member of their party, Lyra twirled a dagger between her fingers with effortless precision. She had the uncanny ability to wield any weapon as if born with it. "Relax, Gregor. We’re not recruiting for your father’s garrison."

  Tara bit back a smile. Lyra’s knack for skewering Gregor’s rigid sensibilities was a constant source of amusement. He was clearly picturing a recruit in gleaming armor, probably with a noble pedigree and a letter of recommendation from his father, Commander Steelborn himself. The mercenary guild, with its predictable hierarchy and readily available soldiers from various noble houses, was still his preferred option. Honestly, the drama there was worse than court!

  That was when the door opened without ceremony. Remy strolled in, followed by…

  Him.

  The vagrant from the guild hall. The one whose filthy sheath had made her recoil the day before. It wasn’t even the grime itself that bothered her—it was what it implied. He likely had one of those shadowy, assassination-oriented classes, the kind that kept their blades poisoned and deliberately unclean to stack afflictions and spread plague-based effects. A walking antithesis to her cleric path, which centered on healing and bolstering allies. Definitely not the kind of person she had in mind for a crewmate. What in the world was Remy thinking?

  The only reason she’d ever encouraged Remy in the first place was because of the quests he brought in, some of which had proven quite useful for her leveling. Not every quest made it onto the guild board, some circulated through hushed whispers and backroom deals. Word-of-mouth exclusives. Remy had a knack for sniffing them out.

  "Your Highness," Remy declared with such theatrical flair that it wouldn’t have felt out of place even in her father’s imperial court—either completely oblivious to Tara’s rising irritation or pretending not to notice. "May I present—"

  "Vaan of Wragford," the young man cut in, scratching the back of his neck. He blinked, recognition sparking in his eyes. Then, to her surprise, he smirked.

  “Hey, weren’t you the one who looked like she’d swallowed a lemon back at the guild hall?" he blurted out, his gaze direct and utterly lacking in proper deference.

  Gregor’s gauntlet creaked ominously, a warning just seconds before violence. "You will address Her Imperial Highness, the Seventh Princess of—"

  "Seventh?" Vaan blinked. "Oh, thanks to the saints! For a second, I thought you were the actual queen with how this one’s groveling. Gregor wasn’t it…" He jerked a thumb at Gregor. Tara didn’t know whether to be offended or laugh because he sure looked genuinely relieved and utterly sincere when he said that.

  Lyra’s laughter burst forth, a bright, unrestrained sound that echoed off the stone walls. Gregor, meanwhile, stiffened like a man who’d just seen a pig frolicking in the palace fountain.

  Taking pity on him and possibly preventing murder because Gregor can be pushed only too far, Tara feigned a smile because she was the princess here. "Indeed, we have met, Vaan of Wragford," she said calmly. "I am Tara. I see that you have met Gregor, and this is Lyra Veyne, our Master of Arms."

  "So, Vaan of Wragford, huh?" Lyra asked, already shooting a flirtatious wink at the newcomer. Sure, the man was somewhat decent looking, if you were generous enough to overlook the crime that was his attire. And dear saints, was she really seeing that filthy sheath? "So, you think you've got what it takes to win us over?" she drawled with a playful grin. "You know... to be a suitable temporary addition to our party. Our mage... had an unfortunate and explosive surge of power and reached the awakening milestone a little prematurely."

  “Awakening?” Vaan tilted his head, his genuine curiosity a stark contrast to the simmering hostility in the room.

  “Level twenty-five,” Lyra explained, her smile softening. “It changes things. Like hitting puberty for adventurers, only instead of awkward voice cracks, you get fancy new powers. The Grand Trial is only for initiates, those below that threshold. And the prizes… well, they’re best suited for those who haven’t yet awakened.”

  Okay, Lyra was just toying with him, Tara decided. It had been awfully boring today; the only four other prospective members who attended didn’t make the cut.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Tara's gaze returned to Vaan, a careful assessment in her eyes. Their current predicament demanded prudence. All three of them hovered at level twenty, a precarious proximity to the unpredictable awakening. As their cleric, the responsibility of finding a solution rested with Tara. Her deliberate choice to remain unaligned with a specific Saint's spark before the Grand Trial granted her unique access to research across various temples. The archives of the Temple of Ruan offered little, but the Temple of the Metal Saint, eager for imperial favor, proved more fruitful, granting her discreet access to restricted texts. There, she discovered the divine siphoning talisman – a rare and expensive relic capable of diverting accumulated potential into skill mastery, a safer alternative to class-level progression. However, the rerouting wasn't absolute, necessitating their continued caution: sticking to lower-tier missions and avoiding any quests that might trigger an unwelcome surge of power.

  “So, boom, no more mage?” Vaan summarized, a hint of a grin playing on his lips. “Bummer for her. Good for me, maybe?”

  "Oh my! Can we adopt him, Tara?" Lyra asked with a laugh, her eyes twinkling at Vaan. But Tara’s gaze lingered on the almost imperceptible tension around Vaan’s mouth before his grin returned. Interesting, she thought. The confident facade couldn’t quite mask it. He was desperate for a party. Tara felt a pang of sympathy, now that she knew she’d have to reject him.

  Suddenly, a voice dripped with condescension from the doorway. "Unusual indeed. A nobody from the street dares to walk in and fancies himself worthy of speaking amongst the betters." Sylas Whitaker sauntered into the room, his oily hair gleaming under the lamplight, his polished rapier catching the light with a flourish. She saw Lyra resisting the urge to groan.

  Sylas of the Whitaker house cast a disdainful glance at Vaan and then stopped, doubling back slightly. "How did you— you were level 5 yesterday. How are you level 7 now?"

  Tara raised an eyebrow, intrigued. That was certainly interesting. She shot a curious look at Vaan.

  "I did a quest," Vaan said quietly, though he left the details unsaid.

  "And the lies begin," Sylas sneered. "Two levels in a single day?”

  Gregor scoffed. “Just because it took you the better part of a year to crawl your way to level ten doesn’t mean everyone else is a slowpoke.” He shot a glare at Vaan. “The first ten levels are low-hanging fruit. Most of us cleared that in a week or two, so it’s not that impressive.” He turned back to Sylas, his voice laced with contempt.

  Sylas shrugged. “I merely suggested this one might suspect a mercenary spy. Wouldn’t be the first time. But what do I know?”

  Gregor narrowed his eyes at Vaan. Tara knew he had no issue with the mercenary guild given he himself wanted to dump their current guild and join there. But spies? That was a different matter. According to Remy, who had informed them before the rendezvous, Vaan was a fresh initiate and had gotten his class only days ago. That was even more suspicious.

  “Come on now boys”, Remy suavely stepped in before things escalated. “Perhaps we should leave it to the princess to judge for herself”, he offered, looking at her. Strange. Looks like he was hinting at using her ‘Inspect’.

  Her Inspect skill wasn’t like the others. As a Cleric, her class had even allowed her to evolve the general skill ‘Inspect’ into ‘Scry’, a difficult feat. She had achieved this evolution thanks to the legacy skill scroll from the imperial vault back in SilverBell, acquired long before her birth. Unlike Inspect, Scry consumed mana and couldn’t be used readily. For common inspections, she relied on Lyra. However, when used, it was a far more potent ability, allowing her to perceive deeper truths beyond falsehoods and paltry veiling tricks.

  Nevertheless, Remy’s pointed look, coupled with the unsettling mystery of Vaan’s quick level ups for a fresh initiate, prompted her. Discreetly, she focused her will, the familiar warmth spreading behind her eyes as she activated [Scry].

  Vaan Redbones, Orderly Blade, Lvl 7

  The realization struck her with the force of a physical blow. A vassal lineage so rare it had passed into legend, whispered of only in the fading footnotes of Saint War chronicles. A class that supposedly thrived on a flair as ancient as balance itself—Order. Lyra must have known, which explained her toying with him. But she doubted even Lyra understood what it truly implied. Remy from the guild might have had a hunch but no more than that. News of the class was extremely rare, even among the noble houses, templars, and royals.

  Then her eyes fell to the sheath at his side… and her heart lurched.

  Wrong. Utterly wrong.

  The thing clung to him like a parasite—vile, slick, and too still, as though it breathed beneath the surface. Yet beneath that grotesque shell, hidden as if behind a mask, was a sword. Soulbound. Not merely enchanted, not borrowed, or gifted.

  Soulbound!

  That sealed it. It was even more impressive than his class, or perhaps it was the class that made it soulbound in the first place. She recoiled, the implications sending a tremor through her.

  A shiver, cold and unsettling, traced a path down her spine. Had he somehow known what she'd seen? No, his current naive expression held nothing of guile and his brash demeanor seemed genuine, if a little… naive… of someone still growing into his skin... Unpolished.

  A wave of relief washed over her. Thank the stars he hadn’t fallen in with the mercenary guilds. Someone would have noticed, if not right away then soon enough. The wolves there would have sunk their teeth into a talent like his, twisting it to serve their own dark political games. That grotesque sheath, for all its ugliness, might have been the only thing keeping him hidden.

  She caught the gaze of Vaan, Gregor, Lyra with her inscrutable smile, Remy with his cunning look, and even Sylas, his expression unreadable. It hit her then, the weight of the moment, how closely they were watching her.

  “I see no signs of deceit,” she said smoothly, smiling like a woman who most definitely wasn’t hiding a revelation large enough to reroute imperial politics. “Considering Remy’s recommendation, coupled with my own… assessment, he should be sufficient for a temporary party member”.

  “Assessment?” Sylas sputtered. “What assessment? You barely looked at him! He’s from Wragford! That place barely teaches people to read road signs.”

  Tara inwardly sighed. Sylas could have easily joined a mercenary guild, as most nobles did. There was a political advantage to that. Noble houses were deeply entwined with imperial politics and mercenary guilds, while powerful, were national assets, serving the interests of the empire that ruled them, even though they outwardly presented themselves as global. In contrast, adventure guilds were truly global or at least aspired to be. The only reason the noble duelist had chosen to tag along was because she was here. He had hoped to level up and eventually join her party, a dream that had long since shattered, as all four of them had surged into their twenties at an astonishing rate, with Elara even surpassing them and Awakening.

  Elara’s temporary departure had left a rare opening for someone who hadn’t yet Awakened, a chance Sylas had clung to like a lifeline. Now, a supposed newcomer from nowhere had taken it from him.

  Tara couldn’t have cared less, but she also preferred to avoid making enemies when it wasn’t necessary.

  “We understand your reservations, Whitaker, and we appreciate you coming here and offering to join our party,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “However, given the temporary nature of the fourth slot, wouldn’t you be better served seeking another group? A noble of your means, after all. Once we Awaken following the Grand Trial, Elara will return, and we hadn’t planned to expand beyond four members, I’m sure you understand.”

  Sylas gave a tight bow, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely restrained anger.

  “As you wish, Your Highness. I would never question your judgment.”

  He cast a wary glance at Gregor, then fixed Vaan with a look full of venom.

  “But I do hope—for your sake—that your newest recruit proves worth the gamble. Not all blades strike true when it matters.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and strode out, spine stiff with wounded pride.

  Vaan watched Sylas leave, confusion knitting his brow.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, glancing around. “My friends leveled up just as fast as I did. We were more or less even before I set out for Darven’s Roost. What’s the big deal with all the shock about my level? Am I the only fresh initiate here?”

  He shrugged, tone caught between curiosity and growing frustration.

  Lyra leaned back with a lazy grin. “Wragford, huh? Sounds interesting,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “We should certainly stop by sometime. If your friends are half as fun as you, we won’t have any trouble finding some good company, Tara and me. Saints know, we could both use a change. Right now, we’re stuck with this grouchy knight.”

  Gregor replied flatly, without looking up.

  “Flattery won’t make me leave, Lyra.”

  Tara cut in before Lyra could retort. “The adventurer guilds don’t usually take in fresh initiates, Vaan. Not unless someone ranked four or higher vouches for them and they’re already level five or more.”

  Gregor added, arms crossed. “Unless you’re exceptionally talented. All four of us joined right after getting our classes. No shortcuts.”

  Remy, who had remained mostly quiet, finally stretched and stood.

  “Well, that was all very interesting,” he said, patting Vaan lightly on the shoulder. “Good luck, kid.”

  He glanced at Tara with a grin.

  “And Your Highness, do remember to settle my party brokerage fees with the guild clerk. You did say you'd take care of my debts.”

  He gave her a wink. “No takebacks now.”

  “Of course,” Tara nodded. How deep could a single man’s debt possibly be? She was a princess!

  Still, an uneasy feeling lingered as she watched Remy wave and stroll off, his boots tapping with an unusually light, almost bouncy rhythm.

  *****