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Soren lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. His mind refused to grant him the peace of sleep. Questions about the Guild, about Raz, about his father’s murder, swirled in an endless loop.

Across the room, Alaric’s rhythmic snoring grated on his nerves. Soren envied his friend’s ability to fall into such a deep slumber, but whished he would sleep more quietly..

He turned over, pulling the thin blanket tighter around himself, but it did nothing to quiet the voices, to dull the images.

The more he learned about the Guild, the more questions arose. Who really controlled this shadowy organisation? What were their true motives? And how in the name of Creation was he supposed to uncover the truth about his father’s death through the secrets and half-truths?

The room felt suffocating, the walls pressing in on him. He couldn’t take it anymore. Sleep was a lost cause, but perhaps he could find some answers, or at least a distraction.

Soren slipped out of his bed. He paused, glancing at Alaric to ensure his movements hadn’t disturbed him.

Satisfied Alaric remained oblivious, Soren crept towards the door. He snagged a cloak from the back of a chair, wrapping it around himself against the night’s chill.

The door opened with the barest whisper, and Soren slipped out into the hallway.

The corridors stretched before him, cold and empty, lit only by the occasional flickering gaslamp.

As he navigated the twisting passages, every corner felt like a potential ambush point. His heart raced, imagining Raz or one of the other masters appearing, demanding to know why he was wandering the halls at this hour.

But no one materialised from the shadows. The Guild, it seemed, slept as soundly as Alaric.

Soren’s feet carried him, almost of their own accord, to the Vault. He hesitated outside the door, his hand hovering over the handle.

Was this wise? If he were caught here, how could he explain himself? But the hunger for answers outweighed his caution.

With a deep breath, Soren pushed open the door. It creaked, the sound seeming to echo through the entire building.

He froze, certain that at any moment, alarms would sound and guards would descend upon him.

But the silence held.

Steeling himself, Soren slipped inside the Vault. Rows upon rows of bookshelves stretched into the darkness, filled with dusty tomes, ancient scrolls, and manuscripts.

A single candle burned on a distant desk, its feeble light barely reaching the closest shelves.

Soren pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his face, though he knew it was a futile gesture if anyone were to discover him here.

He began his search, his eyes straining in the dim light to make out the titles on the spines of the books.

Shadows danced along the shelves. Some of these books held secrets about the Guild, its history, and its members. But which ones might hold the key to understanding his father’s murder?

His fingers trailed along the spines, the tactile sensation grounding him as his mind raced with possibilities.

He spotted a thick volume with faded gold lettering: “The Order of the Guild: Rules and Structures.”

With trembling hands, he pulled it from the shelf.

Glancing around, Soren moved to a corner where the candlelight barely reached. He opened the book, its pages yellowed with age, the musty smell of time rising from within.

As he began to flip through the pages, his eyes widened at the wealth of information before him.

“There are always thirty-three masters of the Guild,” he read aloud to himself, his voice a whisper. “Each master holds a different domain. No more, no less. When a master dies, they are immediately replaced.”

Soren’s brow furrowed. Thirty-three masters…but why that specific number? And who was responsible for choosing them?

He wondered if this system had existed since the Guild’s founding, and what it meant for those beneath the masters, like Raz.

Was Raz destined to become one of the thirty-three, or was he forever relegated to a lower rank?

As he continued to turn the pages, Soren’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes locked onto a passage: “Any who train with the Guild and wish to leave must die.”

The words hit him like a physical blow, a cold dread filling his chest.

There was no way out.

A knot of panic began to form in his stomach. He had known, on some level, that joining the Guild was a lifelong commitment. But to see it spelled out so bluntly, to know that death was the only alternative to serving the Guild, was almost too much to bear.

Forcing himself to continue, Soren turned more pages, his eyes devouring every scrap of information.

He came across a section detailing the roles of peripheral Guild members—fixers and recruiters. “Men and women who are installed within normal jobs in the community, acting as the Guild’s eyes and ears. They gather information and identify potential recruits.”

The Guild’s influence was far more pervasive than he had ever imagined. They could be anywhere, anyone. The tavern keeper who had served them drinks, the blacksmith who had repaired Alaric’s knife, even the old woman who sold flowers in the market square…any of them could be working for the Guild.

The walls of the Vault seemed to press in closer, the sense of being trapped growing stronger. The Guild’s fingers were in everything, their reach extending far beyond the confines of this building.

How could he ever hope to uncover the truth about his father’s death?

And even if he did, then what?

The pages blurred together as he read faster and faster, desperate for more knowledge, more understanding.

A sound broke through his concentration.

Soft footsteps approached.

“You’re late.”

Soren froze, a deep pulse pounding in his skull.

He raised his eyes from the book to see Raz standing at the Vault’s entrance, arms crossed over his chest, Alaric at his side.

“You seem to have lost track of time, Soren.”

Soren shut the book. How long had he been down here? What time was it?

Raz stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the book in Soren’s hands. Would Raz demand to know what he had been reading? Would he punish him for being in the Vault without permission?

“Come. You have training.” Raz turned on his heel and walked away.

Alaric hesitated for a moment, then fell into step behind Raz.

Soren lingered, his mind reeling. He replaced the book on the shelf. The Guild was far more dangerous, far more all-encompassing than he had ever imagined.

With a deep breath, he followed Alaric and Raz out of the Vault.

He glanced at Alaric, walking ahead of him, and felt a pang of guilt. His friend had followed him into this dangerous world out of loyalty, and now they were both trapped.

There was no way out, no simple path to the truth.

The sun had barely crested the horizon when Raz led Soren and Alaric into Welttor’s central square. Despite the early hour, the city was already alive.

Soren squinted, his mind still groggy from his excursion to the Vault.

“Look around you,” Raz said. “What do you see?”

Soren’s eyes swept over the buildings surrounding them. Each structure seemed to represent a different era, a different style of architecture. Some were squat and sturdy, built of rough-hewn stone, while others soared upwards, their spires piercing the sky. Ornate facades stood alongside utilitarian structures.

“I see... a mix of styles,” Soren said. “Old and new, grand and simple.”

Raz tapped his foot against the cobbled ground, drawing their attention downward. “In Welttor, every building tells a story. Some were built by the Ostreich Empire to show their power, others to defend against the slave rebellions, others to showcase wealth. Most have their secrets. It’s your job to read these buildings, to understand their purpose, their weaknesses, how they can be another weapon in your arsenal.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He gestured to a towering mansion across the square adorned with intricate carvings and columns. “See those doors?”

Alaric snorted. “You’d need a battering ram to get through those.”

“Indeed. But they’re rendered useless if you know about the servant’s entrance at the rear. Security is a game of perception—what they want you to see versus what they hope you’ll miss.”

Raz led them down a winding alley, his footsteps silent on the cobblestones. He stopped and pointed to a weathered building on their right. “Look there. What do you see?”

Soren gazed up at a crumbling stonehouse with a series of narrow balconies running along its side. “I don’t know. It’s just a house?”

Raz shook his head. “Those balconies. Notice how they’re staggered? A skilled climber could use them to ascend to the roof without ever touching the main walls.”

Soren’s eyes widened. The balconies did indeed form a sort of irregular ladder up the side of the building.

“And there.” Raz gestured to a nearby tavern. “See that ledge running just below the second-storey windows? In the right light, it casts a shadow that makes it nearly invisible from the street. But it’s wide enough to traverse if you’re careful.”

Soren nodded. As he continued to follow Raz through the city, he began to notice details he’d overlooked before—the way certain windowsills were just deep enough to provide a foothold, how some decorative carvings could serve as handholds for a skilled climber.

Beside him, Alaric shifted his weight from foot to foot. “This is all very interesting, but when are we going to actually do something?”

Raz’s gaze snapped to Alaric, his eyes narrowing. “Patience. Understanding comes before action. Would you charge into battle without knowing your enemy?”

Alaric scoffed. “At least in a battle, I’d be moving. This standing around and looking at balconies isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I signed up for this.”

“Is that so?” In a blur of motion, Raz grabbed Alaric by the collar and shoved him against the nearest wall. “Then by all means, show us how it’s done. Climb to the roof of that tavern. Now.”

Alaric’s eyes widened, but a grin spread across his face. “Finally.” He pushed away from Raz and approached the tavern, eyeing the wall for a moment before leaping up to grab a low-hanging sign. He swung from it, reaching for the ledge Raz had pointed out earlier. But as his fingers grasped for purchase, they slipped and he crashed to the ground with a grunt.

Raz stood over him, shaking his head. “Your lack of patience could prove deadly if you don’t learn to stop and observe before acting. Now, get up and pay attention. Your life may depend on it one day.”

Alaric climbed to his feet, brushing dirt from his clothes.

As they continued their tour, Soren’s mind raced with the possibilities each new detail presented.

Raz stopped before an older building with high walls and arrow-slit windows. “This was built for defence during the first rebellion. Those windows look too narrow to slip through—but with the right technique, you’d be inside in seconds.”

Soren tried to imagine how one might contort their body to fit through such a small opening. He found himself studying the building’s structure, noting the placement of each stone, each potential handhold. It was like looking at a half-finished sculpture, seeing not just what was there, but what could be.

As they continued, Raz delved into the basic security measures used throughout the city—guards, watchtowers, and more subtle defences. “Some buildings are rigged with hidden alarm systems. When you plan a contract, you don’t just think about how to get in, but how to get out without setting off a chain of consequences.”

Soren had always thought of assassination as a straightforward task. But this…this was something else.

They came to a narrow alley flanked by tightly packed buildings. The rooftops formed a patchwork of ledges, pipes, and wooden beams, creating a network of potential paths.

Without warning, Raz sprinted forward, his body a blur of motion as he scaled the nearest wall.

Raz’s hands found invisible holds in the stonework, his movements fluid and precise.

In seconds, he had reached a balcony, then swung from a pipe to a neighbouring roof.

With a graceful leap, he landed back in the alley. “You need to learn to move through the city without being seen. We are raised to assume that paths run along the ground. Walls, roofs, ledges—they’re all just pathways if you know how to use them.”

Alaric stepped forward and rolled his shoulders. “Let me try.”

Soren watched as Alaric approached the wall.

His friend’s strength was evident in the powerful way he pulled himself up, muscles straining as he reached for the balcony.

But where Raz had been fluid, Alaric was all raw power. He made it to the balcony, but his movements were clumsy, lacking the grace and speed of their instructor.

“Strength isn’t enough,” Raz said. “You need to flow with the city. Watch your weight distribution. I expected more from someone used to rigging. Every move should conserve energy. You don’t want to get caught halfway up a wall with no breath left to escape.”

Alaric’s face fell, but he nodded.

Raz turned to Soren. “You try.”

Soren stood before the wall, his heart pounding. Rough stone loomed before him. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the cool surface.

“Come on, Sor,” Alaric called. “It’s not that hard.”

Ignoring the taunt, Soren took a deep breath and leapt for the first handhold.

His fingers grasped the edge, but as he tried to pull himself up, his foot slipped.

He scrambled for purchase, his nails scraping along the wall as he slid back down to the ground.

Gritting his teeth, Soren tried again.

He heaved himself up to the first ledge and reached out for the next hold. Was it too far? Would it support his weight?

Once again he found himself back on the ground.

“You’re thinking too much, Soren. Don’t see the wall as an obstacle. It’s a medium. Like stone beneath your chisel, it responds to your touch. You need to feel your way through it.”

Soren closed his eyes, feeling the rough texture of the stone against his palms. In his mind’s eye, he saw not a wall, but a block of marble waiting to be shaped.

Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes. Where before he had seen insurmountable heights, now he saw a network of possibilities. That slight protrusion could support his foot. The shallow indent above was perfect for his fingers.

He began to climb, finding holds almost instinctively, as if the wall itself guided him.

He flowed upward, each movement bleeding into the next with a grace that surprised him.

As he neared the top, Soren caught sight of a narrow ledge just out of reach.

Without thinking, he pushed off from his current hold, his body twisting in mid-air.

For a moment, he was suspended in nothingness. Then his fingers found the ledge, gripping as he swung his legs up and over.

Perched on the rooftop, Soren looked down at Raz and Alaric.

“Well done,” Raz called up. “Now, let’s see you get down.”

Soren grinned. He stood up, surveying the city in all directions. The rooftops stretched out around him, each gap and ledge a challenge waiting to be met.

Without hesitation, Soren took a running leap to the next roof, rolling to absorb the impact. Rising to his feet, he continued his descent, each move more confident than the last.

He dropped back to the ground in front of Raz and Alaric.

“Not bad,” Raz said. “You might make an Apprentice yet.”

Raz led them to an unassuming building near the marketplace, its exterior plain and weathered. He approached a section of the wall, his fingers probing at the stones.

Something clicked, and a portion of the wall shifted, revealing a hidden entrance.

“The city is full of passages like this,” Raz said as they entered. “Learn to find these. They’re often hidden in plain sight—underneath loose stones, behind tapestries, disguised as parts of the architecture itself.”

Raz demonstrated how some structures had concealed compartments—spaces between walls where valuable items might be stored. He showed them how to tap along walls, listening for hollow sounds or feeling for subtle drafts.

“Many will try to conceal their secrets with thick stone or reinforced wood. But every builder leaves a flaw. All you need is patience and the right touch to find it.”

Raz turned to face them, his scarred face unreadable as he studied his two students. “There are a hundred ways to navigate this city. Force will get you through some walls, but finesse will get you through most. Learn to balance both, or you’ll find Welttor has a way of burying those who don’t respect it.”

As Raz signalled the end of their lesson, Soren took one last look at the sprawling cityscape. Welttor was no longer just a set of streets and buildings. It was a training ground, a puzzle, and a potential battleground. And he was determined to master it.

As night fell, Soren lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing with the revelations from the Vault.

He sat up, the sudden movement making his head spin slightly. “Alaric. Get up.”

A grunt was the only response from the other bed.

“We need to train.” Soren rose to his feet and began to pace. “If we’re going to survive here, we can’t waste any time.”

Alaric groaned and rolled over, pulling his blanket over his head. “Not tonight. I’m too tired. We trained all day. I just want to rest.”

How could Alaric be so complacent? Didn’t he understand what was at stake?

Soren strode over to Alaric’s bed and yanked the blanket away. “You think we can just take it easy? There’s no rest here.”

Alaric sat up, his eyes bleary as he glared up at Soren. “What’s gotten into you? We’ve been pushing ourselves for days, and you want more? We need to pace ourselves or we’ll be useless in training.”

Soren’s hands clenched at his sides. “I’ll tell you what I found out in the Vault. But first, we train.”

Alaric threw up his hands. “I don’t care what you found. None of it matters tonight. What matters is getting enough rest to survive tomorrow.” He flopped back down on his bed, turning his back to Soren.

“You don’t care that they’ll kill anyone who tries to leave? You don’t care that we’re stuck here, with no way out? If we don’t train, we die. You think Raz will go easy on us? You think we’ll be safe if we don’t push ourselves?”

Alaric turned to him, his face set in a scowl. “Fine. If you’re so desperate to train, let’s train.” He stood up, squaring off with Soren. “No punches. No kicks. We grapple. But after this, we’re done, and you’re letting me sleep.”

Soren nodded. “Agreed.”

Alaric lunged first, going for a headlock.

Soren ducked under his arm, pushing him back.

“I read…” Soren said as he tried to break Alaric’s grip. “Anyone who trains here and tries to leave…they’re marked for death. There’s no way out unless you die.”

Alaric grunted as he tried to pin Soren to the wall. “I figured that out the moment we got here. Did you really think we were free to leave whenever we wanted?”

Soren pushed Alaric off. How could he be so nonchalant about this? They locked arms again, both struggling to gain the upper hand.

“And there are people—’fixers’ and ‘recruiters’—hidden among the normal folk, watching everyone, waiting to pull the right people into this.” He narrowly avoided Alaric’s attempt to trip him. “We could have been marked for this long before we even knew it.”

Alaric shook his head. “Sor, it doesn’t change anything. We’re still stuck here. None of this will help us.” He twisted, using his weight to throw Soren off balance.

They crashed to the floor, Alaric pinning Soren beneath him.

“We’re done for tonight,” Alaric said as he pushed himself up. “I don’t care what you read in the Vault. What I care about is surviving each day, and that means resting when I can. You should do the same.” He grabbed his blanket and sat back on his bed. “And stop wandering off alone in this place. You don’t know who’s watching.”

Soren remained on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, his body aching. “I can’t rest. Not until I get answers. I need to know what really happened to my father. I need to understand what this Guild really is.”

Alaric sighed, rubbing his face. “Fine. But don’t drag me into it.” He turned away, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. “Do what you want. Just don’t get yourself killed in the process…or me.”

Soren stayed where he was for a long moment, the cold of the stone floor seeping into his bones.

He pushed himself to his feet and moved to the small desk in the corner of the room.

In the flickering light, he pulled out a sheet of parchment and a stub of charcoal.

His hand moved almost of its own accord, sketching out the layout of the Guild’s headquarters as he remembered it. Every corridor, every room he’d seen.

The Vault couldn’t be the only place where the Guild kept its secrets. And somewhere, there had to be answers about his father’s death.

He glanced over at Alaric’s sleeping form. Survival wasn’t enough. And if Alaric wouldn’t help him, he’d find a way to do it on his own.

He needed answers. But there was also the pull of the craft, of the art, of the lure of mastery.

The candle burned low as Soren worked, adding details to his map, jotting down notes about the Guild’s structure and the little he knew about its hierarchy. Thirty-three masters, always. But who were they? How were they chosen? And where did Raz fit into all of this?

He would continue his training, push himself to excel in every lesson Raz taught them. But he would also watch, listen, gather every scrap of information he could.

And when the time was right, he would use all of it to uncover the truth.