The fire in the hearth snapped and hissed, casting restless, distorted shadows that clawed their way up the stone walls of the guild hall. Outside, the night was thick with fog, a cold, damp curtain that swallowed the world whole. Inside, the hall was still, save for the occasional murmur of voices in a dimly lit corner.

The day’s noise had long since died—a distant memory of boots clattering against stone and the grating clash of armor. Now, the silence carried a weight of its own, a heaviness that hung over the few who lingered in the room.

“They say she took down the Stonebeast without lifting a finger.” The words came out rough, gritty, scraping the air like sandpaper. The man who spoke leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his broad chest, his eyes fixed on the fire. Shadows flickered across his scarred face, his gaze hard, skeptical. “But I don’t buy it. Doesn’t sit right.”

His companions shifted slightly in their seats, their faces half-hidden in the flickering firelight, but their silence spoke volumes. Beneath the table, one of them drummed his fingers lazily on his belt, just beside the hilt of a dagger, the rhythm slow and methodical.

“You actually believe that?” Another voice, sharper, more precise, cut through the thick air. He sat forward, elbows resting on the table, his eyes narrowing. Every word he spoke seemed calculated, deliberate. “A dungeon beast brought down by a girl who hasn’t even dirtied her hands in front of us? It’s a joke.”

The man beside him, broader, rougher, coiled like a spring about to snap, grunted in agreement. “Guild’s too damn eager for heroes,” he muttered, his voice rough like stone grinding against metal. “They’re blind to everything else now. We’re invisible.” His fingers splayed on the table, testing the grain of the wood as though it were the edge of a blade. His knuckles were bruised and swollen, the hands of someone who’d fought hard and often, yet here he was—fading into the shadows while the talk of the guild circled around her.

More nods followed, slow and reluctant, the mood darkening by the second. These men were not the type to celebrate legends. Not like the fools who raised their cups to Ellie Liddell in taverns, drunk on tall tales and fantasies. These were fighters, men forged in the blood and iron of countless battles, their names whispered in the darker corners of the city. And now, a girl—no scars, no proof—was casting a long, suspicious shadow over everything they had earned.

“Hargrave’s a fool if he’s placing his bets on her,” the sharp voice continued, his words smoother now, but no less venomous. “He’s got his sights set on something bigger, and she’s his ticket. A fresh face to rally the guild around. But I’ve seen it before—ambition blinds men. Makes them miss what’s right under their noses.”

The fire flared, sending a shower of sparks into the air, as if the flames themselves reacted to the bitterness in his words.

“So, what’s the truth then?” The rough man’s patience was wearing thin, his frustration palpable as he shifted in his chair. His hand clenched into a fist, the veins on his forearm bulging beneath the firelight. “Is she a fraud? Or something worse?”

The question hung in the air, thick and oppressive. The man who had been drumming his fingers stopped, his gaze hardening as he stared into the fire. “If she’s as strong as they say,” he said slowly, his voice low, controlled, “why hasn’t anyone seen it? No one’s witnessed her fight up close. Not a single soul. Just... stories.”

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“She doesn’t deny them,” the sharp voice interjected, now cold with disdain. He leaned back, the firelight catching the edge of his sneer. “You notice that? Modesty, they say. But modesty’s a cloak for liars and cowards.”

The room grew quieter, the fire the only sound now as it snapped and sputtered, casting erratic shadows over their faces. Eyes shifted, glances darted around the table, but no one spoke. It was the kind of silence that weighed heavy, each man too careful, too cautious to be the one to break it.

Then, from the farthest end of the table, a hesitant voice spoke, softer than the others. “Maybe it’s not just luck,” he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. “Maybe there’s... something else. Something... unnatural. A power none of us understands.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. His words, as timid as they were, struck a chord. The idea hung in the air, twisting and growing, like smoke from the dying fire. Glances flicked across the table—uncertain, wary—each man weighing the thought in his own mind. Was it possible? Could she be something more than just a fraud? Something... worse?

The man farthest back, who had been silent until now, leaned forward, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade unsheathed. “If she’s hiding something,” he said, his tone calm but with an edge that cut deep, “it’ll show. People like her—they can’t keep their secrets forever. Sooner or later, they slip up. And when it happens, the guild will see her for what she is.”

“And if it doesn’t?” The sharp voice asked, skepticism dripping from every word. His eyes gleamed coldly in the firelight, challenging the man across from him.

The silent man leaned in further, his face obscured in shadow, the flames behind him flaring as if they reacted to his words. “Then we make it surface. Push her. Test her. No one can hide that kind of power forever.”

The fire cracked louder, sending a cascade of sparks into the air, and this time, no one spoke. An understanding passed between them, unspoken but clear. No names needed to be said. A decision had already been made, solidified in the flicker of firelight and shadow.

One by one, they rose, their cloaks pulling them into the darkness of the hall as they moved with silent, predatory grace. The last of them lingered behind, adjusting his hood, his eyes fixed on the dwindling embers in the hearth. His hand drifted absently to the hilt of his dagger, fingers tracing the worn leather grip with practiced familiarity.

Then a sound of movement at the far end of the hall stopped him cold. He stiffened, his hand tightening around the hilt of the blade, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes flicked toward the doorway where the fog curled, thick and impenetrable, just beyond the threshold.

“Who’s there?” His voice came out as a growl, low and dangerous.

Nothing. The fog pressed against the open doorway like it was alive, breathing, waiting.

His hand gripped the dagger tighter as he stepped toward the threshold, his muscles coiled with tension. “I know someone’s there,” he muttered, louder this time. “Show yourself.”

Still nothing. Only the fog, curling and twisting at the edges of the firelight, swallowing the darkness beyond. He reached the doorway, heart pounding against his ribs, the cold air of the night spilling into the hall. The shadow—whatever it had been—was gone. Vanished, as though it had never existed.

He let out a slow, tense breath, his mind racing. “Nothing. No one,” he whispered to himself, but the doubt still gnawed at him, sharp as the dagger in his grip.

Ellie.

The thought of her crept into his mind, unbidden, but insistent. His eyes narrowed as he looked out into the fog-drenched streets. He glanced over his shoulder, back toward the dim glow of the fire, the weight of unseen eyes pressing against him.

“She’s always there... in the shadows,” he muttered, his voice barely a breath. His grip tightened on the dagger until his knuckles turned white. “Damn you, Liddell. Always watching.”

And as he stepped out into the fog, the weight of her presence—real or imagined—clung to him like a shadow, following him into the darkness, lingering just out of sight.