The guild hall sat in Iron's Seventh Ward, a hulking six-story block of stone. Kael pushed inside.
Quiet. Most mercs were already out on jobs—or drinking off the ones they'd failed. A few lounged near the message boards.
Kael strode past…and shoulder-checked a burly sellsword walking backward.
"Oi, watch it, you—"
The man spun, curses halfway out, and froze—black armor—Helm like a coffin mask.—The oppressive presence of a Dread Sentinel.
"H-hey, why's a Sentinel here?"
Kael stared down. "Finish the line."
"Wh-what?"
"'ooking for a beating.' Finish it."
The merc's face drained. He slapped himself—once, twice, thrice—howling that only pain could fix his rudeness. Kael moved on. Behind him, the man exhaled in shaky relief.
Even with their newfound status, mercenaries were still mercenaries—rough souls who respected whatever stood higher on the food chain.
Every gaze in the atrium tracked Kael until he halted at the reception counter. Three clerks sat there, praying he'd pick someone else. He chose the calmest.
"W-welcome to Iron Branch," she faltered. "How…may I assist you?"
"I'd like to register as a mercenary."
A Sentinel asking to sign up—unusual. Real knights, fallen or not, rarely stooped to guild work.
The clerk forced herself into protocol. "Do…you have identification?"
"No, but I have a guarantor. Lira—novice priestess of the Church."
Unfamiliar name, implausible reference…but the man before her radiated the menace that chews through hesitation.
"M-may I have your name?"
"Kael."
She launched into the plate-rank lecture—Copper, Iron, Bronze, Silver, Gold—anything to steady her voice. Kael listened, expression unreadable, until she finished.
"So I start at Copper," he said. "Issue me one."
"There's…a problem. All entrants must pass a reliability test—herb gathering, sewer clearing, that sort of thing."
"Clients won't like a Sentinel handling their errands, you mean."
She flinched.
Kael leaned in, voice dropping to iron filings. "Then skip the test and issue the plate."
"Th-that isn't—"
WHAM. His gauntlet cracked the counter. The clerk recoiled, eyes brimming.
"Engrave my name," he said softly.
Trembling, she reached for a blank copper badge.
A deep voice sounded behind them. "Let the lady breathe, friend."
Kael turned. A broad-shouldered veteran with a sword scar down one cheek offered a wry smile.
"Garland," Kael said—the name of the guild master, holder of a Gold Plate.
"You know me?"
"Chance reading."
Garland waved the clerk away and took her seat. "You want in? We'd like the muscle. The problem is trust. Clients panic at the sight of dusk-forged armor."
Kael's gauntleted fingers tapped once. "Solution?"
"I received a report from Thorne, who said you escorted refugees here alive. That earns my ear." Garland slid a folder across the desk. "Village two days north, near Dunhollow. Something the locals call a Mawbear drifted in and settled. First team—Bronze lead, five Iron—never came back."
Kael's visor tilted. "And?"
"Forming a new squad, but I'd sleep better if a Sentinel anchored it. Retrieve any fallen plates. Bring the creature down. Do that, and a Copper badge is yours—no test."
Dangerous hunt, guaranteed fight. Perfect.
"I'll take it."
Garland's pen scratched. "One more thing—sketch for the records." Kael removed his helm; white hair spilled free. Garland chuckled. "If you'd shown that face first, the clerk would've swooned."
Kael said nothing, helm sliding back in place as he stalked toward his first official contract.