A cunning lie.

Steven staggered to his feet, the cold pebbles of the Mistveil Shores biting into his bare soles. The guards’ spears glinted menacingly in the fog, and a flush of embarrassment burned his cheeks as he realized his nakedness was on full display. Thinking fast, he clutched his arms across his chest and stammered, “I—I was on a transport ship. Pirates hit us hard—sank the whole damn thing. I barely made it out alive, washed up here with nothing.” His voice trembled with a mix of feigned desperation and genuine nerves, but he prayed the tale held enough saltwater-soaked grit to sway them.

The grizzled guard with the scarred brow squinted at him, his spear still poised, but after a tense moment, he grunted. “Pirates, eh? Scum’ve been prowling these waters lately. Lucky you didn’t end up fish food.” His tone softened—just enough—and the other two guards lowered their weapons, exchanging glances. “Right, then. Can’t leave you here to freeze your bits off. Come with us.”

Steven exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders as the lie slipped past their scrutiny with surprising ease. The guards turned, motioning him to follow, and he stumbled after them through the swirling mist. The Soulcatcher’s Band felt cool against his finger, a silent anchor as they trudged toward a squat, weathered outpost perched atop a low cliff overlooking the beach. Its stone walls were streaked with salt and moss, a lone lantern flickering above the door.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood and stale ale. The guards rummaged through a battered chest in the corner—lost and found, by the look of it—and tossed him a bundle of clothes. “Best we’ve got,” the scarred one muttered. Steven unfolded a white short-sleeved shirt, its fabric worn but clean, and a pair of black slacks with a drawstring belt that sagged loosely around his waist. The sandals they handed him flopped awkwardly on his feet, a size too large, but they matched the rugged, utilitarian style of the Mistveil Shores—a far cry from his old world’s comforts. He dressed quickly, the baggy fit oddly grounding him in this strange new reality.

The scarred guard crossed his arms, eyeing Steven up and down. “You’ve got no papers, no gear—nothing to prove who you are. Washed up like this, you’re nobody in the eyes of the Crown. Military or government ID’s out of the question—you’re no citizen of the Dominion. But there’s a way forward. Register with the Adventurers’ Guild in town. They’ll slap an ID on you, give you a start. Otherwise, you’re just a vagrant, and we don’t take kindly to those lingering about.”

Steven nodded, the logic clicking into place. “Adventurers’ Guild, huh? Sounds like my kind of place. I’ll do it.” The guards grunted in approval, and the tallest clapped him on the shoulder—harder than necessary—before leading him out. They escorted him inland, the fog thinning as the beach gave way to a winding dirt path flanked by gnarled trees and the distant crash of waves.

After a short trek, they reached a ramshackle settlement hugged by the mist—a cluster of timber-and-stone buildings with steeply pitched roofs. At its heart stood the Adventurers’ Guild, a broad, weathered hall with a sign bearing a crossed sword and quill. The guards shoved the door open and ushered Steven inside. The interior buzzed with life: grizzled mercenaries bartered over contracts, a bard strummed a lute in the corner, and a stern woman with a ledger glared from behind a counter.

“New blood,” the scarred guard announced, nudging Steven forward. “Washed up on the shore. Needs an ID.” The woman arched a brow, sizing him up, then slid a parchment across the counter. “Name, skills, and a mark here,” she said curtly. “Welcome to the Mistveil, stranger. Don’t die too quick.”

Steven gripped the quill, the Soulcatcher’s Band glinting faintly as he poised to write. His new life in Vyrthralis was taking shape—one scribbled line at a time.