The road to Mireholt was not a quiet one.
Winds howled through the trees as if mourning something ancient. Birds scattered at the approach of Emberjaw's heavy steps. The trees here grew tall and knotted, their bark streaked with old scorch marks—remnants of wars fought long before Marcel's time. The party traveled mostly in silence, each footstep falling into the rhythm of a journey that was more than just distance. It was a threshold, a crossing.
Marcel kept his hood drawn low, eyes flicking to every shifting shadow. His senses, attuned more than ever since the dungeon, warned him in pulses. Like a storm gathering just beyond sight. Lira rode beside the wagon, her gaze fixed on the crooked path ahead. Tarin occasionally muttered to himself, mentally rehearsing spells, while Veyla kept her hand near the hilt of her weapon. Emberjaw padded just behind them, silent but ever-watchful.
They passed wandering merchants, cloaked nobles in lacquered caravans, and wandering hunters boasting trophies of small beasts. A band of young hunters—five in total—trailed behind for a while, clearly intrigued by the group's strange makeup.
"New to the city?" one of them asked with a half-smile, resting a blade on his shoulder.
Tarin nodded. "Heading to the hall."
"You'll want to be fast. Herd of scaled stags moved through the east ridge. Plenty of rookies are claiming hunting rights."
"And the herbs," another chimed in. "Stormvine's blooming early. Worth a small guild-share if you can harvest without losing a finger."
Marcel offered a curt nod, and they moved on. But his mind lingered. Even now, people hunted for coin, for power, for prestige. And here they were—barely enough coin to their name, bearing secrets heavier than armor.
By midday, Mireholt appeared like a crown nestled into stone. The city was carved into rising hills, each level tiered and walled. Streets wound like veins around vast guild towers and luminous spires. Stone roads were scrubbed clean. Lanterns floated midair, casting warm blue glows over merchants, children, and beasts of burden alike.
Lira gasped. "It's beautiful."
And it was. The city carried elegance in its structure. Rows of white-stone buildings interlaced with obsidian tiles, sloped gardens rising between stairwells. Gold-and-indigo banners of the Elder's crest fluttered in the wind. Women in silk coats and men in runed armor strolled with casual grace. Everything seemed alive, but controlled. Vibrant, yet tempered.
"It's... not what I expected," Veyla murmured, her eyes darting from polished guardsmen to mage-run stalls.
Marcel's gaze lingered on a fountain near the gate. It held a statue of a chained figure—half-masked, eyes bound in runes. He looked away quickly.
Inside the city gates, the guards scanned them briefly, checking traveler tags and asking for Guild intentions.
"Evaluation," Tarin replied.
"Gate three," the guard said. "Artifact Hall's open till nightbell."
They made their way through, heads turning as Emberjaw padded behind them like a moving wall of obsidian. Children pointed. A few muttered.
Near the Guild square, dozens of adventurers gathered. Some lounged by the quest boards; others compared gear. A tall woman in gray armor boasted of her kill—a venom-tusk boar, its head still dripping ichor. A group of younger recruits laughed and debated which missions earned faster rank climbs.
Marcel felt eyes on him. Not hostile, just curious. He didn't blame them. Their group didn't exactly blend.
The Artifact Hall stood at the plaza's heart—arched with obsidian doors etched in gold. Runes flickered faintly across its pillars. An aura of old power hung around it.
Before they entered, Marcel turned to the others. "We do this together. No matter what."
They nodded. Even Veyla, who rarely agreed to anything aloud, gave a small tilt of her head.
He felt the shard pulse once more, heat rising beneath his skin.
As they stepped through the archway, the light dimmed behind them. And the future—rank, power, danger—waited just ahead.
But at least this time, they walked into it together.
----
Mireholt shimmered under the morning sun. White stone towers crowned with copper caps gleamed above bustling streets, and narrow waterways split the city into winding sectors. The air smelled of lavender incense, scorched iron, and sea salt drifting in from the southern cliffs. Marcel stood just inside the city's main gate, awestruck.
The people of Mireholt moved with a sense of purpose—hunters in polished armor, scholars in robes marked with domain sigils, merchants haggling in four dialects. Market stalls overflowed with mana-bound herbs, glittering ores, and enchanted tools. Street performers balanced flame and ice with elemental flair while children tossed pebbles enchanted with low-grade spells.
Marcel's heart pounded—not from fear, but from awe. He'd expected a fortress, not a living city.
Veyla walked ahead of them, her presence drawing brief stares. Emberjaw's bulk and molten eyes didn't help their anonymity. Yet even among other beast-bonded, she walked like someone born to command.
Tarin moved with ease, nodding to fellow travelers and flaring his aura slightly—just enough to establish strength. Lira, quieter, stayed close to Marcel. She was observant, not shy. Calculating.
Marcel noted it clearly now: Tarin was stronger than Lira, but Veyla outpaced them both. It wasn't just her power—it was how she held it. Like someone who'd tasted the edge of death and learned to make it a home.
The road to the city had been tense. A hunter patrol had passed them near dusk the day before, demanding to know if they carried any unlicensed relics or classified items. When Veyla stepped forward and offered her hunter's badge from a different domain, they backed off—but not without suspicion. One even lingered to study Marcel's mark.
That encounter had left him uneasy. He could feel something stirring in the city. A subtle tension. Hunters preparing not just for danger—but perhaps for war.
At the registration hall near the center of Mireholt, the scent of chalk dust and warding ink filled the air. A towering board named the week's rankings: beast captures, relic finds, combat wins. Each name glowed faintly.
One of the officers, a woman with obsidian hair tied in a high tail, leaned forward as Marcel approached. Her nameplate read: Captain Veine Rosh.
"You the one carrying a shard?" she asked, eyes flicking to his palm.
"I am," Marcel said.
Her gaze was sharp, but not surprised. "You're not the first in this domain to be chosen. But you'll find it's still rare. And being chosen doesn't mean being ready."
Around them, others began to watch. Not with fear—but with interest. Whispered bets started before he could even respond. A few hunters eyed him like a puzzle they might one day have to break.
"They want to see what you'll do," Captain Veine said quietly.
As if summoned by her words, an announcement echoed through the open court: "The Trial of Steel commences tomorrow at dawn! Newbloods and independents may enter the proving ring to test their skill. Rank assessments and arena postings will follow."
Marcel looked to Tarin and Lira. "We're joining."
Lira nodded without hesitation. Tarin grinned. "Finally."
Veyla crossed her arms. "About time you stopped hiding behind that shard."
He smirked, but her words struck deep. He'd been relying on the shard's whispers. He needed to fight. To bleed. To learn who he was without it.
Just then, a loud argument broke out near the inner hall. Two hunter groups had clashed over a contract involving a rare evolved herb near the Mireholt cliffs. Voices rose, magic flared. For a moment, a fight seemed imminent—until guild enforcers swept in, dousing the aggression with coldlight chains and sigil locks.
Marcel watched closely. That would be him, soon. Fighting not just for survival—but for strength. For a place.
They moved to the inn that evening, the sun melting into gold over Mireholt's spires. Marcel sat by the window, staring down at the streets. He saw them clearly now: not just a city, but a challenge.
And the arena awaited.
The shard pulsed faintly, but he ignored it. Tomorrow, he would fight on his own.
And win.