The Phoenix Hall

The heavy doors swing shut behind you, and the roar of the hall hits you all at once: a swell of voices, the clatter of mugs, the crackle of logs in the hearth. It smells of wet wool, wax, and charred meat. The Hall is alive with its evening rhythm.

To the left, a quest board stands three men high. The papers are color-coded by rank: grey for G, blue for C, red for higher. There is only one red sheet today instead of two; where the second should have been, only a nail head remains with a scrap of paper clinging beneath it.

To the right, near the stairs, is a smaller board—the one where they pin the tokens of those who never returned. There is almost no empty space left on it.

Behind the counter, Irma Veld closes her ledger and looks up before anyone can even approach. The Hall's Senior Registrar watches with a calm gaze, as if she had been waiting all evening.

— Your map is still listed as active. — Her voice is steady, devoid of any unnecessary inflection. — If you are here for the Eastern Track, you are late. By fifteen minutes.

She nods toward the board where the sheet is missing.

— A boy. Rank G, registered three days ago, Dan from the Ravines. I refused him three times. On the fourth, he took the sheet himself and walked out.

By the hearth, someone snorts into a mug. A massive, bald mercenary turns on his bench and grins with a gap-toothed mouth.

— Oh, lay off him, Veld. Let the kid go. I’ll bet silver he won't even make it to the second bridge.

Without looking at him.
— The sheet was taken from the board, but it wasn't processed in the ledger. That means he isn't traveling on behalf of the Guild. Which means if he doesn't return, there will be no token on that board. And there will be no record of him in the papers, either.

At the far table by the window, a grey-haired swordsman with a useless left hand slowly sets down his mug. He isn't looking at Irma—he is staring at the edge of a wet cloak, tracing the dense, dark embroidery. His lips move silently, counting, and then he falters.

She pulls a second red sheet from beneath the counter—the one that remains—and places it before you. She does not pull her hand away.
— The second one is also for the Eastern Track. The same sector, the same road, half the pay.

A pause. Outside the windows, the cobblestones of the square glisten in the wet: it has been raining for three hours, and by morning, the track will be nothing but mud.

— Four squads, not a single body, not a single line in the reports. Someone verified and signed off on the legality of the contract, and my signature could not have been in the Hall that day.

— I can have you registered in half a minute. But there must be a reason entered in the ledger, and I will not invent one for you.

She opens the ledger and removes the lid from the inkwell.

— State your number and tell me what to write. After that, the road is yours: the boy left fifteen minutes ago, on foot, taking that very same path.