The road sloped downward as we approached the massive front gates of the capital, their sheer size overwhelming even from a distance. The outer walls loomed high above us, towering fortifications of dark stone reinforced with runes that faintly pulsed with protective enchantments. Unlike the patchwork defenses of smaller towns, these walls had been built to withstand armies, sieges, even magic itself.

The gates themselves were a monument of craftsmanship, two massive doors of reinforced steel and oak, their surfaces engraved with intricate carvings of past wars, legendary rulers, and the founding of the Empire. Towering statues of winged guardians flanked either side, their stone hands resting on the pommels of immense swords, their hollow eyes staring eternally outward.

A wide stone bridge stretched before the entrance, spanning a deep trench that had once been a moat but now served as an additional barrier. The bridge itself was lined with braziers of crackling blue flame, illuminating the carved reliefs of past emperors set into the stone railings.

At the far end, beneath the colossal archway, a line of travelers and merchants waited for inspection. Wagons loaded with goods, caravans draped in colorful banners, and cloaked travelers on horseback all gathered here, their voices mixing into a dull, constant murmur. The guards stationed at the gates were a different breed from the ones I had seen in smaller cities.

Their armor was polished to a perfect sheen—steel plate embossed with the sigil of the Empire, deep crimson capes flowing behind them. They carried halberds and longswords at their hips, but what stood out most was their discipline. These weren’t mere town guards. These were Legionnaires—elite warriors trained to enforce the Empire’s will.

We reached the back of the line, slowly moving forward with the crowd. The closer we got, the more imposing the city became. Beyond the gates, I caught glimpses of wide streets paved with white stone, lined with towering buildings of marble and brick. A massive plaza opened just beyond the entrance, where a colossal fountain stood, its cascading waters glistening in the late afternoon sun. The main road split off into several districts, each marked with banners of different colors.

From where we stood, I could already hear the buzz of the city.

Street vendors shouting about freshly baked bread and roasted meats, blacksmiths hammering metal in their forges, couriers weaving through the crowds carrying sealed scrolls and messages. The scent of spiced wine, hot meals, and distant incense filled the air, mixing with the ever-present background noise of thousands of people moving at once.

"This place is…" Drea trailed off, taking in the sheer scale of it all.

"Massive," Garvin finished. "And expensive. Just looking at these walls makes my coin purse feel lighter."

Malric remained watchful, his hood pulled low. "The guards are thorough," he muttered. "No one’s getting in without scrutiny."

He was right. Each traveler was stopped, questioned, and inspected. Some were simply waved through, while others had their belongings searched. I counted at least twenty guards at the entrance alone, with more stationed along the walls. They weren’t just checking for contraband.

They were checking for threats.

"Keep your documents ready," I muttered, adjusting my cloak. "Let’s not give them a reason to look twice."

Garvin pulled out the sealed letter from House Veyren, tucking it into a pouch for easy access. "Let’s hope my father’s name carries enough weight to keep them from asking too many questions."

The line moved forward, and with every step, the reality of where we were sunk in deeper. This wasn’t just a city. This was the beating heart of the Empire. And whether we were ready or not, we had arrived.

The deeper we pushed into the city, the more overwhelming the scale of it became. The wide streets were packed with merchants hawking goods from across the Empire, armored knights in polished plate riding on horseback, and noblemen in flowing robes drifting between grand marble structures.

But none of us knew where to find the Mercenaries' Guild.

“I thought you knew this city,” Drea muttered to Garvin as we passed a massive fountain, its cascading waters glistening in the afternoon sun.

Garvin scoffed, adjusting his belt. “I know my part of the city. The nice part. The part where you don’t hire people to stab other people for money.”

Drea rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that sounds like a real hardship.”

Malric had already stopped a passing courier, speaking in his usual quiet, serious tone. The man gave him a brief answer before hurrying off.

“Well?” I asked.

Malric exhaled through his nose. “It’s not called The Sword or The Spear here. And apparently, it’s not something you just stumble upon.”

That made sense. This wasn’t some regional outpost in a minor city. This was the heart of the Empire.

“I’m guessing it has a more… prestigious name,” I said.

Garvin clapped his hands together. “Alright, let’s think. Every guildhall we’ve been to so far was named after a weapon. But this is the capital—the main guildhall. So the name should be something grand, something fitting.”

Drea crossed her arms. "What’s the most impressive weapon you can think of?"

We all stood there for a moment, thinking.

Then a passing blacksmith, overhearing our conversation, let out a laugh and jerked his thumb toward a distant, towering structure.

“You’re looking for the Mercenaries' Guild? Just keep going straight to the Imperial District. Can’t miss it—it’s called The Warhammer.”

I turned my head and saw it.

A colossal stone fortress, towering over the surrounding buildings like a monument to battle itself. Its walls were reinforced with black iron, and a massive engraving of a warhammer smashing into the earth stretched across the front entrance. Banners of deep crimson and gold hung from the ramparts, bearing the sigil of the guild—a warhammer wreathed in flames.

I let out a slow breath. Now that was a name fitting for the capital.

“The Warhammer,” Garvin said, grinning. “I like it.”

I adjusted my cloak, already moving toward it. “Let’s see if they like us.”

And with that, we pushed forward, heading straight for the stronghold of the Mercenaries' Guild.

It took longer than it should have to find the Warhammer.

The Guildhall District was sprawling, packed with structures belonging to the various factions that operated in the capital. The Adventurers' Guild, the Dungeon Crawlers, the Mage Consortium, the Beast Hunters' Lodge—each had a massive hall, all of them grand, fortified, and impressive in their own right.

But when we finally found The Warhammer, it made all the others look small.

The capital’s Mercenaries' Guildhall wasn’t just a building. It was a fortress.

Dark stone walls rose high above the surrounding district, reinforced with thick iron bands that gave it an almost unbreakable appearance. Two massive banners hung down from the highest tower, displaying the guild’s sigil—an enormous warhammer wreathed in flames, smashing into the earth.

The entrance was even more imposing.

The doors weren’t simple wooden gates like at The Sword or The Spear. They were reinforced black iron, carved with battle scenes of warriors in heavy armor cutting down monstrous foes. At the very top, etched in gold, were the words:

Strength Forged in Blood.

The courtyard inside was bustling.

Dozens—hundreds—of mercenaries filled the space, some training with oversized weapons, others sitting at stone benches drinking and laughing. A wide sparring arena took up one side of the yard, where warriors were clashing in open combat, testing their skills against one another with the sounds of steel ringing through the air.

To the right, a row of forges burned hot, blacksmiths hammering away at weapons and armor, the heat from the flames casting long shadows across the courtyard. Several mercenaries stood nearby, waiting for repairs or commissioning new gear.

And then there was the main hall.

It was colossal, built from the same black stone and iron, its archways supported by towering pillars carved into the shapes of warriors holding warhammers. The double doors stood open, revealing a massive interior filled with long tables, towering chandeliers of iron and bone, and a massive bar stocked with enough alcohol to make an army drunk.

Garvin let out a low whistle. "Alright," he muttered. "Now this is a guildhall."

Drea crossed her arms, taking in the sheer size of the place. "We really should’ve started looking here."

Malric, as always, said nothing. But I could see the way his sharp eyes scanned the courtyard, analyzing everything, already gauging threats.

I exhaled. This was the heart of the Mercenaries' Guild. The strongest of the strong came here. This was where real contracts were made, where legends were built.

And if we wanted to survive the capital, if we wanted to get the answers we came for…

This was where we had to start.

I stepped forward toward the doors.

"Let’s get inside."

The inside of The Warhammer was just as impressive as the outside.

The moment we stepped through the massive iron doors, the sheer scale of the hall hit me. The ceilings arched high, supported by pillars carved from solid stone, each depicting legendary mercenaries locked in battle against monsters, warriors, or even each other. The walls were lined with banners, some bearing the sigil of the guild itself, others displaying the emblems of famous mercenary companies.

Rows of long wooden tables filled the center of the hall, where mercenaries of all kinds sat, drinking, eating, boasting, and arguing over contracts. The sheer diversity was staggering. I had thought the guildhalls I’d seen before were impressive, but this?

This was another level.

The bar stretched along the far wall, a massive structure lined with casks of ale, barrels of wine, and shelves stacked with bottles of spirits from across the Empire. Behind the counter, a broad-shouldered bartender with scarred knuckles and a missing ear was busy pouring drinks, barely keeping up with the demand.

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At the far end of the hall, a raised platform held a massive quest board, covered in parchment, maps, and bounty posters. Several guild scribes were stationed there, organizing the contracts, calling out names as mercenaries came forward to accept jobs.

The noise was constant—the clatter of tankards, the shouts of arguments over coin, the laughter of warriors sharing stories of past battles. The smell of roasted meat and spiced ale hung in the air, mixing with the faint metallic scent of armor and weapons that had seen recent battle.

A few heads turned as we entered, new faces always attracting some level of attention. But in a place like this, unless you made trouble or had a reputation, no one cared for long.

Garvin grinned. "Alright. Now this feels like a place we belong."

Drea glanced toward the quest board. "We should figure out how things work here. I doubt they’ll just hand us a job without checking our credentials first."

Malric was already scanning the room, taking note of the bigger threats, the most dangerous-looking fighters. His eyes lingered on a towering man in dark plate armor, a massive two-handed sword strapped to his back, deep in conversation with a group of similarly armored warriors.

I exhaled. This wasn’t just some guild outpost.

This was the Mercenaries' Guild. The main hub.

If we wanted to make a name for ourselves in the capital, if we wanted to get closer to the truth about the Ashen Court, we had to start here.

I adjusted my cloak and nodded toward the front desk, where a severe-looking woman in a red officer’s coat was flipping through a thick ledger.

"Let’s check in," I said.

We made our way across the hall, stepping deeper into The Warhammer.

Garvin stepped up to the front desk, his usual confident smirk in place as he leaned casually against the polished wood. The woman behind the desk barely spared him a glance, still flipping through her ledger, but that didn’t stop him from making an entrance.

"Garvin Veyren," he announced, far too loudly. "Son of Lord Veyren, current adventurer, former dungeon diver, and—most importantly—newest member of The Warhammer."

Drea sighed, already rubbing her temples.

The woman didn’t react immediately. She finished whatever note she was writing, deliberately slow, before finally looking up at him with a sharp, unimpressed stare.

"You’re nobody here," she said flatly.

Garvin’s smirk faltered slightly. "I—Well, I was just—"

"Do you have prior standing with any of the Mercenaries' Guildhalls?" she interrupted.

Garvin opened his mouth, then hesitated. "Well. We did some contracts out of The Spear. And before that, The Sword."

She flipped through her ledger, searching for something, then finally found what she was looking for. "Garvin Veyren. Drea Ironwood. Malric Oren. Sigvard." Her eyes flicked up to us, scanning me for just a second longer than the others.

I didn’t react.

"You have confirmed contracts in the records," she continued, "but no formal ranking. You’re all still considered freelancers. No standing within The Warhammer. If you want jobs here, you’ll need to prove yourselves."

Garvin recovered quickly, flashing a grin. "Proving ourselves is what we do best."

She didn’t look amused. "Good. Then you won’t mind taking a contract from the Initiate Board."

Garvin’s smile tightened. "The… Initiate Board?"

Drea groaned. "The grunt work board."

The woman nodded. "You’re newcomers in our guildhall. You start at the bottom like everyone else. If you want real work, earn it."

Garvin started to argue, but I wasn’t listening anymore.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement.

A man, standing in the farthest, darkest corner of the guildhall, had just taken notice of us. He wasn’t armored like a mercenary, nor was he dressed in noble finery. Dark, practical clothing, a hood pulled slightly too low, a posture too controlled.

The second Garvin announced his name, he shifted. Not toward us, but toward the exit.

I didn’t react.

I didn’t turn my head, didn’t let my eyes linger, didn’t do anything that would let him know I had seen him.

He slipped through the side door and was gone.

I exhaled slowly.

I didn’t know if he was a spy for the Ashen Court or one of Lord Veyren’s contacts. But it didn’t matter.

Whoever he was, whatever he wanted—he wouldn’t try anything here.

Not in the middle of our guild.

After settling in and securing rooms at The Warhammer, we gathered in the dimly lit common area of the guildhall to decide our next move. The capital was too big to wander blindly—we needed a plan.

"I’m heading to the library," I said.

Drea, leaning back in her chair, raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t take you for a scholar."

I shook my head. "I’m not. But if we’re being hunted by a secret faction that works for the King, I’d rather know more about them. Or at least figure out if there are any rumors about them hidden in the city’s records."

Garvin tapped his fingers against the table, thinking. "Alright. You do that. Malric and I will check near the Phoenix Dawn’s guildhall. If anyone in the capital has leads, it’s them."

Drea glanced between them. "The Ashen Court is watching. If you go sniffing around the Phoenix Dawn, you’ll stand out."

Garvin smirked. "And who better to stand out than me?"

Drea sighed but didn’t argue.

"Malric," I said, glancing at him. "Keep an eye on him."

Malric tilted his head slightly, the closest thing he ever gave to a nod.

Garvin waved a hand dismissively. "We’ll be fine. If someone’s looking for us, better they focus on me than you two. You actually know how to stay unnoticed."

I considered that. He wasn’t wrong. Garvin was loud, and sometimes that was a liability—but in this case, it might actually be useful. If the Ashen Court had eyes in the city, they’d notice Garvin before they noticed me slipping into a library.

"Alright," I agreed. "We’ll meet back here before sundown."

Garvin and Malric left first, disappearing into the busy streets. Drea and I took a quieter route, weaving through narrow alleyways and back roads to avoid the worst of the city traffic.

"I didn’t peg you as a library type either," I said after a while.

Drea smirked. "I didn’t peg you as someone who cared about history."

"I don’t," I admitted. "But I care about what we’re walking into. I’d rather not be blind going forward."

She nodded, her expression unreadable. "Smart."

The Great Library of the Empire was waiting. And something told me the answers we needed were buried inside.

The Great Library of the Empire was exactly what I had expected—massive, ancient, and overwhelming.

The towering stone structure sat near the center of the capital, its arched windows and carved marble pillars giving it a presence that rivaled even some of the noble estates. Wide stone steps led up to the entrance, where robed scholars and scribes shuffled in and out, clutching books and scrolls like they carried the weight of the world.

Inside, the sheer scale of the place became even more apparent. The vaulted ceiling stretched impossibly high, supported by rows of towering bookcases that ran the entire length of the building. Each shelf was packed with dusty tomes, thick ledgers, and fragile scrolls, some so old they looked like they’d crumble if handled incorrectly.

There were reading alcoves carved into the walls, long oak tables lined with flickering lanterns, and grand staircases leading up to balconies overflowing with more books. A faint scent of parchment, ink, and candle wax filled the air, blending with the hushed murmurs of scholars lost in study.

Drea looked around, unimpressed. "Biggest building I’ve ever seen without a bar in it."

I smirked. "Give it time. Someone’s probably drinking somewhere."

We moved deeper inside, past scribes sorting documents, historians debating over faded texts, and robed clerics whispering prayers over sacred writings. There were sections dedicated to history, warfare, magic, medicine, and trade— but nothing immediately about Outlanders.

It took an hour of searching, a bribe of a silver coin to a reluctant librarian, and more than a little frustration, but eventually, I found what I was looking for.

The book was ancient, bound in cracked leather, its title nearly worn away. I flipped it open, scanning the faded ink beneath the dim lantern light.

Theories. That was all the book had.

No solid facts. No way back.

But there were stories—accounts of Outlanders appearing throughout history, each arrival completely random. Some Outlanders had been great warriors, their skills granted by the System, as if it had chosen them for some higher purpose. Others had been nothing but ordinary people, struggling to survive, most of them dying before they could leave their mark.

One section caught my eye.

"The System is not a god, nor does it possess will. It acts. It adjusts. It pulls from the void and fills the gaps where needed. There is no pattern to whom it selects—only that it selects. Those who survive its trials may rise to greatness, but many do not survive at all."

I stared at the words, the implications sinking in.

The System hadn’t brought me here because I was special.

It had brought many before me.

I turned the page, scanning for more, when a prickle ran up my spine.

The sensation of being watched.

Slowly, carefully, I glanced up.

Among the robed scholars wandering the library, among the scribes and clerics, someone was watching us.

A shadow at the far end of the shelves. A figure lingering just out of reach.

They weren’t reading. They weren’t searching. They were following us. I closed the book, pretending not to notice. Drea tensed beside me. She had felt it too. We were not alone.

I kept my eyes on the pages, but my focus was elsewhere. The presence watching us hadn't moved—not yet—but I could feel their attention lingering, waiting for something. If they wanted to make a move, they wouldn't do it here. Not in a place this public.

That meant I had time.

But the books in front of me were useless. Every account, every theory on Outlanders—it was all the same vague information I'd already figured out. The System pulled people from other worlds, no one knew how or why, and if there had ever been a way back, no one had written it down.

Frustration burned in my gut.

There had to be more.

I ran my fingers along the shelves, flipping through the spines of old books, dust collecting on my fingertips. The further back I searched, the older the tomes became— some so fragile that the pages looked like they’d crumble at a touch.

Then, in the furthest corner of the section, half-hidden behind a row of larger books, I found it.

A thin, tattered volume, bound in faded black leather.

It had no title.

No markings.

Just an unassuming, worn-out book tucked away where no one would think to look.

I pulled it free carefully, feeling the brittle cover shift under my fingertips. There was something about it—something wrong.

Not in the way that corruption felt, not the way monsters twisted under the weight of dark magic. This was different.

Something about it felt forgotten.

Like it wasn't supposed to be here.

Drea noticed my hesitation. She glanced at the book, then at my expression. "What is it?"

I exhaled slowly. "I don’t know."

But I was about to find out.

The words blurred slightly as I skimmed through the fragile pages, my fingers moving carefully over the aged parchment.

It was a diary. A firsthand account from an Outlander who had been in this world long before me.

I read as quickly as I could, my pulse pounding in my ears. Some pages were too worn to decipher, the ink faded, the words lost to time, but what I could read sent a chill down my spine.

This Outlander—who never mentioned their name—had found others like them.

Not just one or two. A whole group.

"We were drawn to each other, like iron to a lodestone. It was not chance. We felt it, all of us, in some way. A pull toward something greater. Toward each other."

That line alone made my stomach turn.

Was that why I had met Sid? Was that why the Ashen Court was hunting people like me? Was there something more at play?

I turned the pages faster.

The group of Outlanders had fought, survived, thrived. They had made a name for themselves. Unlike me, unlike Sid, they hadn’t hid what they were. The people of this world had known them for what they were—foreigners, chosen by the System.

And they hadn’t been hunted for it.

I searched for a name. A location. Anything useful.

Finally, I found the last few pages. The ink here was darker, like it had been written in urgency.

"We have found something. A cave, buried beneath the old hills, long forgotten. The locals whisper of goblins within, but that is not what waits in the dark. We saw it—blackness, twisting, churning, unnatural. A portal. We do not know where it leads. We do not wish to find out."

I swallowed hard.

A portal. Just like the one I had fallen into.

I turned to the final entry.

"We should not have gone inside. The goblins were nothing. It was the darkness. The emptiness. It... changed something. D. is not the same. He stares at nothing, mumbles to himself. The others are uneasy. I do not know what we brought back with us."

And then—nothing.

No closing words. No explanation.

The diary ended there.

I sat back, the weight of the words pressing down on me. Had one of them been corrupted? Had they turned against their own? Had the whole group fallen apart because of it?

I didn’t know.

But I knew one thing.

This wasn’t just a theory anymore. Outlanders had been here before—and whatever had happened to them, whatever had been waiting in that cave...

It had not ended well.

Drea shifted beside me. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

I slowly closed the book, exhaling through my nose.

"We need to get out of here," I muttered.

Drea stiffened. "Why?"

I didn’t answer right away. Because we were still being watched. And I had a feeling whoever it was didn’t want me knowing this.