The Crucible of the Guild

The copper coin struck the counter with a dull, heavy clack.

Inside the bustling, smoke-filled hall of the Regional Mercenary Guild at River Crossing, Raymond Silverstein stood before the chief registrar’s desk. He was sixteen years old, but the bitter months since his fall at Dead Man’s Pass had carved away every trace of the freezing peasant boy who had once carried timber through the mud of Oakhaven. He wore a tailored leather brigandine over a sturdy wool tunic, an iron-pommeled broadsword sheathed at his hip, and boots wiped clean of road dirt.

The registrar, Person, a balding man with ink-stained fingers, raised an eyebrow as he scribbled Raymond Silverstein onto an official parchment ledger.

"Congratulations, lad," the clerk grunted, sliding an iron-rimmed wooden token across the desk. "You are officially a Novice Blade of the Northern Frontier. Clear bandits, escort trade wagons, don't get killed, and the Guild takes ten percent of every contract."

Beside him, Captain Kaelen of the Iron Hounds gave Raymond’s shoulder a heavy, approving slap. "You've got your badge, boy. Now the real work starts. The band leaves for the eastern border at dawn."