They changed the emblem. When Cyril left Gwyllion Abbey, the building’s entrance was under a yellow painted symbol. One sword crossed over a heart shape. The building was otherwise the same. A long arcade wrapped around the three storied wooden guild hall. Behind it was a wide ring enclosing a dirt arena. From the outside, passers by could spy on wardens practicing in the arena, but could only enter from the front (or by climbing over as Cyril once had).

Above the arcade still read the words, “Gwyllion Abbey,” but the emblem was now two swords crossed over an open eye. Was it just a marketing ploy? Or did it represent some effort from the guild to be more vigilant?

The sun had almost made it halfway across the sky by the time Cyril had disembarked from the Runaway and found his way through Lyrique. After his monster slaying, the galleon had limped into port. He expected to be regarded as a hero for rescuing the crew, but when the captain saw the decks he’d broken and smelled the corn whiskey on his breath he was less inclined to show any gratitude.

Cyril suspected they’d lost his belongings on purpose. It saved him the trouble of lugging it through the city at least.

From before he walked through port authority, Lyrique had come to life. Nurses and surgeons were on hand to receive those wounded from the monster attack. Dockworkers moved crates and barrels from the hold in between puffs of herb. Hawkers advertised directions and escorts to inns and eateries across the city.

Cyril noticed some scribes carefully studying the scene of the attack. Reporters most likely. By the next day orators will have spun the story into ten monsters massacring the pitiful Runaway. Orators only made their money when the story was worth listening to. He wouldn’t stick around to tell his piece of it. No food, no prospects and no place to stay, the man needed to get where he was going.

The day was hot from the start, promising to only aggravate everybody already working. The streets brimmed with activity, mostly shaggy-dressed laborers kicking up the dirt roads. A familiar green weed, winding and assertive, infested much of the town. It clung to the sides of shops and inns, blooming into little yellow buds. At least that hadn’t changed. Cyril found unexpected comfort in the resilient plants. Like they remembered him too and had stuck around for his return.

Gwyllion Abbey was built a mile from the shore. It used to be the only guild in Lyrique, but the population had boomed. Its industry had boomed. He was presumptuous to think Lyrique was the same pit he’d left. Cyril noticed the two wardens employed by the Runaway had reported to a different hall much closer to the docks. He didn’t want to admit that the other guild had looked much cleaner and better maintained than the sight of the old abbey.

Even the community around Gwyllion Abbey felt deflated. The hustle of the morning ebbed as he approached the guild headquarters. A dorm across the dirt road was once an inn with no vacancies. Cyril noticed the place was advertising an abundance of quiet rooms now.

“Hello?”

Cyril pushed through the mustard-colored curtains into the hall. He savored the cool shade. A long bar met him at the front, its five desks unoccupied. Behind the bar was a wall decorated with wanted posters. Criminals and gwyll tamers that had attracted a price on their head. To the left, behind the desks, was another door to the proper hall, where the guild’s wardens could convene and train and eat.

But, there was no answer to his greeting. Cyril opened one of the desks at the hinges, folding it against the rest of the bar and passing through. A muffled argument grew in volume. Cyril followed it through to the back.

“-fault is that?”

“I’m not trying to lay blame-”

“Well, I am!”

That seemed to be the final word. A young man stormed out of an office on the ground floor, across from a series of empty wooden tables and benches. An open kitchen was connected to the mess, but opposite the entrance of the guild hall was the boss’ office. Where the arguing had come from. And where the young man stood frozen.

“We’re not open yet,” the stranger said. Cyril recognized only a few features. His narrow, suspicious eyes, studying Cyril. His black hair and pronounced widow’s peak. He was younger than Cyril, but perhaps old enough to be working as a warden. His body hadn’t yet filled out the awkward, gangly proportions of his arms and legs.

“I’m looking for the old man,” Cyril said.

The young man laughed without joy. “Can’t imagine why,” he muttered. The strange teenager climbed the stairs to an upper floor. Above the mess, wrapped around the hall were dorms for guild wardens. Cyril was a little surprised that somebody like that was employed by the abbey. He was more surprised that he was the only warden present.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Bu?” Cyril said before walking into the boss’ office. It was a warm, spacious suite with a glass pane keeping watch of the training arena out back. The chipped desk in the center carried two sconces with unlit candles. A thick, red couch was shoved against the opposite wall with a few plain chairs randomly set along the expensive area rug. Cyril remembered the boss bragging about the price he got that stupid rug at from some trader from the Central continent.

“What’s that now?” Bu asked. It had been a while, but the old man hadn’t changed much. He’d lost some hair atop his head and his cheeks carried a little lower on his face. But, he was still built as thick as an ox, with suspicious eyes and a pronounced widow’s peak. “Who are ya?” His voice was warm, but deep.

“It’s been a couple days since I shaved, but come on, old man,” Cyril swung a chair around and took a seat. “You don’t recognize your favorite employee?”

Bu raised a salt and pepper eyebrow. Cyril showed his teeth with a grin. The realization hit him like a splash of water, cleaning away all the confusion. In a moment, Bu’s arms were wrapped around him and Cyril was fighting for breath.

“I knew you’d come!”

“You did?”

The hug was over as suddenly as it started and Bu was shouting out his office door for someone named “Xin,” to come down out of his room.

“That punk,” Bu complained and took the seat behind his desk again. He was smiling wide. “Near as bad as you was.”

“For your sake, I hope not,” Cyril replied. He was trying to get feeling back in his arms. “Is everybody on vacation? There’s no one at the front desk.”

That confused look overtook Bu’s face again, but it melted on its own. “Well, we don’t get many walk-ins these days.”

“That can’t be true,” Cyril’s mind spiraled into a slight panic. “Lyrique seems busier than ever.” Bu was pouring a mug of something hot without asking. Cyril prayed the blend had plenty of caffeine. He was not disappointed by the first sip and took another.

“You don’t wanna talk business, do ya? Aren’t’cha here about your sister?”

Cyril was lost in the coffee to really hear his questions. Alcohol and coffee were his vices and he was far pickier about the latter. The drink was bitter and earthy, the kind of sharp tone that numbed his hangover by virtue of its own strength. The old man always had good taste.

“How is Cassidy doing?”

“You mean you didn’t get my letter?”

“What letter?”

“Well, by the salt, son, why are you here?”

“I’m here for a job.”

“What happened to the one you had?”

“Boss!” Another stranger. A woman with a severe black haircut above the neck pushed her way into the office. She wore a loose workman’s shirt with the buttons near the neck undone and blue cotton suspenders. Her nose and shoulders were pronounced. No jewelry. A warden, Cyril guessed.

She sized Cyril up while Bu made introductions. “Abine, this is Cyril. Cyril, Abine. He’s a warden with the Silver Dragon Order. Used to be one of us though.”

Abine made a face when Bu brought up the order. Every warden had some opinion on the SDO. Most of them hated the organization, especially the ones that couldn’t make it in. Cyril offered to shake her hand and she just studied that too.

“What’s a silver dragon doing in Lyrique?” she asked.

“That’s what I was just getting to, boss,” Cyril braced himself for the uncomfortable conversation. “I was with the SDO.”

“You quit?” Bu asked.

Cyril wanted to give him the full explanation. He did not want this stranger to hear it. “I’d rather discuss it privately.”

“You were expelled!” Abine clicked her tongue. “Did I hear you were looking for a job too? Couldn’t cut it in Central so you thought you could slum it here with us, eh?” The truth of her words burned Cyril’s cheeks. “Well, gee a fancy guy like you… maybe you could be our secretary out front?” Abine flicked the lapel of Cyril’s coat, laughing at her own joke. The girl’s accent originated from one of the smaller landlocked cities in the West.

“Bu, if you would please tell your coffee girl, here-”

“What’s that now?!” Abine shoved her hand into Cyril’s face. He caught it in a snap, pinching her fingers in a vice. “You let go o’ me right now, or-”

“Or, nothing, you hack,” Cyril could’ve been gentler. In action and in tone, but the girl was too accurate, too cutting in her words. He’d been pent up in a shoebox on a boat for three weeks, his head was pounding, the room was stuffy and this girl was getting under his skin in every wrong way.

“Let go of my warden, son,” Bu ordered. Cyril obeyed. “And you, give us some privacy and I’ll-”

“For what?” Abine asked. “A job interview? You can’t seriously be considering this…” her face screwed up around her big nose. Looking for the right word. “Daffodil to join us.”

Cyril took another sip of coffee, trying to appear as nonplussed as he could manage under every circumstance. Bu tried to talk them both back to calmness, but the rage had already manifested. It would not be easily quelled. Cyril made a big show of sighing in relief as the drink filled his stomach. Abine snatched it out of his hand.

Tried to, anyways. The mug crashed into Bu’s desk and the coffee spilled down the side. Wasted. That was just about enough.

Cyril popped out of his seat, pushing the chair back behind him.

“Fancy a pop at me, fancy?” She exposed unexpectedly sharp teeth with a sadistic smile. Cyril pulled his coat off his shoulders and lobbed it to the couch.

“‘No fighting in the guild hall,’” Cyril quoted one of few rules of Gwyllion Abbey and pushed past her out to the mess. “I’ll see that some decency is maintained around here.” Through the window, Bu and Abine both saw the man take position in the sparring arena out back.