The cell door creaked open, the sound grating against my ears. The same guard from before stepped inside, his armor clanking with every movement.

"Out," he barked, his voice sharp and cold.

I hesitated for a moment, instinctively clutching my injured hand, but his glare made it clear there was no room for argument. Slowly, I stepped out of the cell, my legs stiff from sitting too long on the stone floor.

"Follow me," he ordered, turning on his heel.

I did as I was told, trailing behind him down the dimly lit corridor. The walls felt like they were closing in, every step echoing ominously in the narrow space. My heart pounded in my chest, my mind racing with questions. Where are we going? What do they want from me?

We emerged into a large chamber that was starkly different from the damp, claustrophobic cell. The room was bright, lit by flickering sconces and a massive chandelier overhead. At its center was a raised podium, and behind it sat an old man in a powdered white wig, the kind you’d expect in a historical drama. His robes were deep crimson, lined with gold trim, and his piercing eyes studied me as though he could see every thought in my head.

Guards flanked the room, at least six of them in full plate, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. A hush fell over the room as I entered. The air felt heavy, expectant.

The guard led me to a table off to the side, the defendant’s seat. I glanced at it nervously, half-expecting someone to join me. A lawyer, maybe? Someone who would speak on my behalf? But there was no one. Just me.

The judge’s gaze bore into me, unblinking. The guard beside me stood at attention, waiting.

I cleared my throat and stood awkwardly, my voice small in the grand chamber. “Not guilty?” I offered, half unsure of what else to do.

The judge raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of irritation and bemusement. “Young man,” he said, his voice smooth but tinged with authority, “when you address my court, you will take the stand.” He gestured to a podium at the center of the room, something I had somehow overlooked.

I nodded hastily, my heart thudding faster as I shuffled to the podium. The judge adjusted a pair of spectacles perched on his nose and leaned forward slightly.

“You stand accused of public drunkenness,” he began, his voice echoing through the chamber. “Found by the city guard in the middle of the road of…” He paused, his gaze drifting downward to a document on his desk. His expression shifted subtly, confusion flickering across his face.

“Guard,” he called out, his voice sharper now.

“Yes, Your Honor,” the guard beside me replied, stepping forward slightly.

“You said this man was classless when he was arrested?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” the guard confirmed, his tone clipped and certain.

The judge tapped a finger against his desk, his eyes narrowing. “Look again.”

The guard turned to face me, his brow furrowed in confusion. His eyes locked on mine for a moment, and then widened as if he’d seen a ghost.

“This morning… he was nothing,” the guard stammered. “I swear.”

The judge leaned back in his chair, his gaze turning cold. He adjusted his robes with a measured, deliberate motion, his irritation now palpable.

“Release the ranger,” he said, his voice low but laced with anger.

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.

The guard hesitated, clearly taken aback. “But, Your Honor, he’s only—”

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“Level 1 or not,” the judge interrupted, his voice rising sharply, “he is still a ranger. NOT… NOTHING.”

The chamber fell silent. The guards exchanged uneasy glances, their armor clinking faintly as they shifted.

I stood frozen at the podium, my mind reeling. Ranger? The word echoed in my head. My class. The judge knew. The guard knew. But how? What did it mean to them?

The judge’s piercing gaze turned to me once more. “You may go,” he said curtly, waving a hand in dismissal. “But heed my words, boy: this city has no patience for rangers who forget their place.”

I wandered the streets for what felt like hours, aimlessly drifting from one cobblestone alley to the next. The sinking sun painted the sky in shades of orange and purple, and the shadows stretched long across the ground. I had no idea where I was going—or even what I was looking for.

I tried stopping a few people, raising a hand or calling out a hesitant, "Excuse me," but no one so much as glanced my way. They passed me by as if I were invisible, their faces etched with purpose or exhaustion, too busy to waste a moment on a disheveled stranger like me.

My stomach growled, a low, uncomfortable reminder that I hadn’t eaten since… well, since before all this madness started. My feet ached, my head throbbed, and the cold stone streets beneath my boots didn’t help. The last rays of sunlight faded, and the chill of night crept into the air.

Just when I thought I might collapse on the side of the road, I saw it: a building with a sign hanging above the door. It swayed slightly in the evening breeze, its letters barely legible in the dim light.

"Mercenaries Guild."

My heart sank. Mercenaries? I wasn’t a mercenary. I didn’t even know how to hold a sword, let alone swing one. But beneath the larger sign, a smaller one caught my eye, written in simpler lettering:

"Free rooms for Rangers."

I stared at the sign for a long moment, chewing the inside of my cheek. I didn’t want to go into a place full of mercenaries, the kind of people who’d probably laugh me out of the building—or worse. But I had no money, no plan, and no idea where else I could go for the night.

With a deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The smell hit me first: stale beer, roasted meat, and the faint, earthy scent of sweat and leather. The place was busy but not rowdy, with a handful of people sitting at heavy wooden tables scattered across the room. A fire crackled in a large stone hearth to one side, casting flickering shadows across the walls.

Behind the counter stood a man who immediately locked eyes with me. His hard stare pinned me in place, and I hesitated just inside the door. He was tall, with a neatly trimmed beard and a sharp nose, his apron spotless despite the rough look of the tavern.

"Ahhh," he said, breaking into a surprisingly posh accent that didn’t match the rugged surroundings. "Welcome to The Sword."

I stepped forward cautiously, unsure of what to say. Before I could find the words, he spoke again.

"I see you’re looking to take advantage of our free room services," he continued, his gaze flicking over me. "All rangers are welcome. Even a level one."

The words struck like a jolt to the chest. He knew what I was. Just like the judge. Just like the guard. Ranger. Level one. How could they tell? Was it written on my face?

The man studied me for a moment longer, then raised an eyebrow. "Odd you’re not in school, though," he said, his tone musing. "Although… you do seem a bit old for that, don’t you?"

I felt my jaw tighten. "School?" I asked hesitantly, my voice barely above a mumble.

He waved a hand dismissively. "Ah, never mind. That’s none of my business." His sharp features softened slightly, and he gave a small, apologetic smile. "Forgive me, that was rude of me. Your level and your story are your own."

Before I could respond, he turned and reached behind the counter, pulling out a key attached to a simple wooden tag.

"Room 12," he said, handing it to me. "Up the stairs and to the left. Sleep well, Ranger."

I took the key carefully, the weight of it feeling oddly significant in my hand. He gave me a small nod, then turned his attention to another patron approaching the counter, leaving me to find my way.

The stairs creaked under my feet as I climbed, the noise loud in the otherwise quiet upper floor. The hall was narrow, lined with plain wooden doors, each marked with a small number carved into the frame.

Room 12 was at the far end. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, half expecting something grand or strange. What I found was simple but comfortable: a small bed with a thick wool blanket, a sturdy wooden chair, and a basin of water on a stand by the window. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, a welcome change from the streets outside.

I closed the door behind me, sliding the latch into place. For the first time since waking in that cold cell, I felt a flicker of relief. The bed looked better than anything I could’ve hoped for, and the key in my hand felt like a small victory, even if I didn’t fully understand how I’d earned it.

Sinking onto the edge of the bed, I stared at the key for a moment longer before setting it on the small nightstand. My hand throbbed dully, and I rubbed it absentmindedly, my thoughts drifting.

Level one. Ranger. School. The man’s words replayed in my mind, over and over, adding to the growing list of mysteries. There was so much I didn’t know, so much I didn’t understand.

But for now, all I could do was rest.