Chapter 01 - Ashbourne

The snow crunched under my boots as I trudged through the streets of Ashbourne. Bertha, my trusty mule, plodded along beside me, her breath visible in the biting air. I pulled my cloak tighter. The wind howled, nipping at my face and making my cheeks sting. I flipped the hood up, but it didn't do much to keep the cold out.

"Come on, girl," I muttered to Bertha, giving her a pat on the neck. She let out a soft bray, probably complaining about the weather. I couldn't blame her. Ashbourne in the winter was no joke. The buildings loomed overhead, and the snow-covered cobblestones made footing treacherous under the pale sun.

The cold seeped through the fabric, and I could feel it in my bones.

For a second, I wasn't there.

I was back in the rainforest, the air thick and warm. There he was. Aeolin.

His emerald feathers glistened in the sunlight, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. I could almost feel the warmth of his body pressed against mine, the way his hands moved with a confidence that made me both nervous and excited. The way he tasted... sweet, like honey and mangoes.

I blinked, and the memory snapped like a twig. I was back in Ashbourne, the cold slapping me in the face like an angry ex.

"Shit," I muttered, shaking my head. The last thing I needed was to get lost in daydreams about a harpy who was halfway across the world. But damn, the memories lingered, warm and golden, like a fire in my chest.

Bertha nudged me with her soft muzzle, telling me to get moving. I sighed, tugging my gloves tighter. The city wasn't going to explore itself, and I had a guild to find.

"Alright, let's get this over with," I said, giving Bertha a nudge forward. The streets were alive with merchants hawking their goods, the clang of blacksmiths, and the occasional bark of a guard. The smell of roasting meat and mulled wine filled the air, making my stomach growl.

The smell of roasting meat hit me like a punch to the gut, and my stomach growled loud enough to make Bertha flick an ear back.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I said, digging a coin out of my pocket and tossing it to a street vendor. He handed me a skewer of meat, and I took a bite, the fat dripping down my chin. It was good, but it wasn't Aeolin. Nothing was.

The thought made me pause, the meat halfway to my mouth. I could almost hear his laugh, sharp and wild, the way he'd tease me about being clumsy.

"Fuck," I said, tossing the skewer into a snowbank. I didn't need this. I needed to focus on the guild, on getting better, on not being the guy who got himself killed because he was too busy daydreaming about a harpy.

*

The letter of introduction was crumpled in my hand, the wax seal cracked from being squeezed one too many times. I couldn't help but fidget with it as I walked, the parchment crumbling slightly at the edges. Guildmaster Harlow hadn't exactly been thrilled about writing it. I remembered him sighing, his quill scratching across the page like it was a chore. "Fine, you want to go gallivanting off to Ashbourne? Here's your letter. Don't embarrass us." He'd muttered something about me needing to "grow up" and "stop getting distracted by every feathered ass that crossed my path."

"Ain't feathered asses," I'd muttered under my breath, but he'd already been done with me. How the hell had he found out anyways? Probably Maya, what a bitch. She must have sneaked into my house and read my journal.

The streets of Ashbourne were narrower here, the buildings looming overhead. People shoved past me, their faces buried in scarves and hoods, no one giving a damn about the lanky rogue trying to get his bearings.

The Adventurer's Guild came into view, its sign swinging in the wind—a painted sword and shield, the wood creaking. My stomach twisted into a knot. I wanted this. I needed this. But what if I wasn't good enough? What if I messed up?

"Fuck it," I said under my breath, stuffing the letter into my pocket. I'd come too far to turn back now. Ashbourne wasn't Willowbrook. This was the real deal. And I was about to find out if I was cut out for it.

I stopped in front of the guild, the heavy oak doors looming. I pulled my cloak tighter and leaned against Bertha, who let out a soft bray of impatience.

"Alright, girl," I muttered, patting her and tying her to the post next to the larger horses. The wind bit at my face, sharp enough to make my eyes water.

I thought about my mom back in Willowbrook, her hands raw from the garden, her eyes tired but hopeful. She'd always believed in me, even when I didn't believe in myself.

"Okay," I said to no one, my voice lost in the wind. "Let's do this." I took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy doors.

The warmth hit me like a slap in the face. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the sudden light after the dim, snowy afternoon outside. The guild was everything I'd hoped for and more. A massive hearth dominated one wall, the fire roaring, its light dancing across the room in flickering shadows. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, their golden light spilling over the space, and the air smelled like woodsmoke, leather, and something sweet, maybe the mulled wine I'd caught a whiff of earlier.

I stood there for a moment, soaking it in. The room was cozy in a way that made me feel like I could finally breathe again. Plush couches were scattered around, some occupied by adventurers who looked like they'd crawled out of a tavern. Others sat at tables, poring over maps and arguing in hushed tones.

I pulled my hood back, letting the heat wash over me, and felt a strange sense of calm settle in. This was it. This was where I was supposed to be.

I spotted the secretary's desk through the crowd, a sturdy oak thing with piles of parchment and inkwells. Behind it sat an older woman with silver hair tied up in a neat bun and eyes that looked like they'd seen everything. She was scribbling something and didn't look up when I approached, which I guess was her way of saying, "I know you're there, but I'm busy."

"Uh, hi," I said, clearing my throat. "Samuel Thornwood. I've got a letter from my guild master in Willowbrook." I held it out like it was some kind of magic ticket, which I guess it was.

She finally looked up, her expression soft but with a sharpness in her eyes that made me feel like she could see right through me. "Alright, honey," she said, looking at the letter before handing it back "Go wait, and I'll call you when Blackthorne is ready." Her voice was warm, like a blanket, but there was no messing around in it either. This was a woman who didn't tolerate bullshit.

I nodded, feeling a little out of my depth. "Sure thing. Thanks."

*

The letter was supposed to get me proper rogue training, but I couldn't help wondering if they'd even want me here. My skills were "lacking and non existent," according to my guild master, and I wasn't exactly overflowing with confidence. Still, I'd made it this far, and that had to count for something.

The bar was a small thing, a polished slab of wood with a few stools tucked under it. Behind it stood a gruff-looking barkeep with arms like tree trunks, his face a map of scars and stubble. The sign above the bar read The Adventurer's Rest, and the smell of beer and cider hit me like a warm hug. My stomach growled at the thought of something hot finally touching my insides.

"Hey," I said, sliding onto a stool. "Mulled cider, please."

The barkeep raised an eyebrow, his expression a perfect blend of disinterest and mild annoyance. "Cider, or cider with a side of complaining?"

"Uh, the cider's fine," I said, flushing a little.

He grunted and turned away, grabbing a mug from a rack above the bar. The cider was already steaming in a cauldron over a small flame, its spices—cinnamon, nutmeg, something sweet—filling the air. He ladled some into a mug and slid it over to me.

I wrapped my hands around it, feeling the heat seep into my palms. The first sip was like liquid gold, the spices burning on my tongue. It reminded me of Aeolin—his mouth, his warmth, the way he had tasted sweet and addictive. I closed my eyes for a second, letting the memory wash over me.

Focus, Sam, I told myself, opening my eyes again. The barkeep was watching me with a knowing glint in his eye, like he could see exactly what I was thinking. I looked away fast, taking another sip of my cider.

The guild was bustling, people coming in out of the winter storm. Someone spilled a drink near the fire, and a half-elf archer-looking type jumped out of the way. A dwarf in full plate clanked past, his laughter booming. No one paid much attention to me, which was fine. I wasn't here to make friends. I was here to get better.

I leaned back against the bar, cradling my mug in my hands. The warmth of the cider was spreading through me now, chasing away the chill of the streets. I wasn't here to dwell on the past. I was here to figure out the future.

"Samuel Thornwood?" a voice called out across the room.

My head snapped up. The secretary was standing at the entrance of a corridor behind her desk. She jerked her head toward the hallway.

"Guess that's me," I muttered to the barkeep, setting my mug down.

He grunted. "You need anything else, you yell."

I nodded and stood up, smoothing out my cloak. My heart was doing that thing where it felt like it was trying to punch its way out of my chest. I took a deep breath, grabbed my letter, and started toward the corridor.

The guild master's office was at the end of the hall, the door closed. I could feel the weight of the letter in my hand, like it was a ticket to something bigger. Something important.

I raised my hand to knock.

This was it. Ashbourne, here I fucking came.

The room was suffocating, smelling of old leather and stale pipe smoke, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes long after you left. Guild Master Marcus Blackthorn stood behind his desk, a mountain of a man with silver threading through his black hair. His desk was a mess of parchment, quills, and little trinkets that probably meant more than they looked. I could tell he was the kind of guy who didn't tolerate bullshit, not even on his best days.

I stepped forward, my boots creaking on the wooden floor. My hand trembled enough to notice, but I damn well wasn't gonna let it stop me. I held out the letter, sealed with wax and everything, and hoped to hell it wasn't about to get me killed. His eyes flicked up, those sharp, calculating eyes that made you feel like he could see right through your lies. He raised an eyebrow, and I swear the room got colder.

"Guild Master," I said, trying to sound steady. My voice came out more like a pubescent squirrel, but hey, it was a start.

He took the letter, his movements slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the moment. His eyes scanned the paper, and I watched as his expression went from mild curiosity to something else, something I couldn't quite place. He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and looked at me like I was some kind of puzzle he was trying to solve. I felt like a rat in a cage under that gaze.

The silence stretched out so long I started to think he'd forgotten I was there. Then, without a word, he reached for his pipe, packed it with tobacco, and lit it with a taper from the fire. The first puff of smoke curled up, and he finally spoke.

"So, you're the one they've been talking about."

I swallowed hard. "Talking about, sir?"

He smirked, a small, knowing tilt of his lips. "The boy with more balls than sense. You've got a reputation, Samuel Thornwood."

I shifted my weight, trying to play it cool. "Can't say I've heard that one before."

He chuckled, low and smooth, like a man who knew a secret I didn't. "No, I suppose you wouldn't." He set the pipe down and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the cluttered desk. "So, you want to join the Guild."

"It's more like I want to be useful," I said, trying to sound sincere. "I've got skills, Guild Master. Skills I think could be an asset."

He raised an eyebrow again, clearly unimpressed. "Skills, you say? And what, pray tell, makes you think you're ready for this?"

I took a deep breath and let it all spill out—every heist, every close call, every time I'd talked my way out of trouble. By the time I finished, my mouth was dry, and my heart was pounding like a blacksmith's hammer. He listened through it all, his expression unreadable, puffing on that damn pipe like he was considering the meaning of life.

When I finally ran out of steam, he leaned back again and steepled his fingers. "You've certainly had an eventful life, Mr. Thornwood."

"And?" I prompted, my impatience getting the better of me.

He smirked again, that infuriating, knowing smirk. "And you've got potential. But potential's a dangerous thing. It can get you killed as quick as it can make you rich."

He stood, his movements slow, and reached for a quill and parchment. His hand moved with practiced precision, scribbling out something in sharp, angular script. I watched, fascinated, as he sealed it with a stamp of black wax, his signet ring glinting in the firelight.

He handed me the note, and I took it with a shaky hand. "A recommendation," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Mistress Ashara's compound isn't for the faint of heart. But if you're half as resourceful as you say you are..." He shrugged. "You might survive."