Pag, Darleyn, and Eryk stepped into the bustling hall of the Broken Fang Adventurers’ Guild, their eyes sweeping over the expanse of the room. The scent of aged wood, burning torches, and well-worn leather mixed with the more pungent aroma of unwashed armor and stale ale. The guild was a hive of activity—warriors, mages, and rogues of varying levels of experience filled the space, some engaged in quiet discussions over maps and contracts, others laughing boisterously while draining tankards of mead.

A large wooden counter dominated the far end of the hall, behind which stood a broad-shouldered man with graying hair, his thick arms crossed over his chest. His piercing eyes studied them with the kind of scrutiny reserved for sizing up potential recruits. Before him, an oversized ledger lay open, an ink pot and quill resting at the ready.

“You looking to sign up?” he asked, his voice carrying easily over the din of the guild. It was a voice that had given many orders, one that commanded attention without effort.

Eryk stepped forward first, nodding. “That’s right. We need work and a place to start.”

The guildmaster grunted, reaching beneath the counter to retrieve a set of aged parchments. He slid three copies across the polished wood toward them. “Standard guild contract. Sign, and you’re in. Comes with a basic gear kit, access to job postings, and a spot on the roster.”

Pag picked up the parchment but, instead of signing immediately like many others likely would, he furrowed his brows and began to read through the text with careful deliberation. He traced each line with his finger, absorbing the details.

Darleyn and Eryk exchanged looks. “You’re actually reading it?” Darleyn asked, incredulous.

Pag didn’t look up. “Of course. It’s a contract. We don’t know what we’re agreeing to yet.”

Eryk sighed, leaning against the counter. “Most people just sign and get to work.”

“And most people regret it later,” Pag countered. He glanced up at the guildmaster. “I assume you have no issue with me reading this through?”

The guildmaster smirked, resting his elbows on the counter. “Not at all. In fact, more should. Saves me from listening to complaints when they realize what they signed up for.”

Pag returned his focus to the document. The first section covered payment and taxation—5% of all earnings from guild-sponsored jobs, whether as direct payment or as loot acquired during missions, would go to the guild. Any unclaimed or undocumented spoils would be revealed under a truth spell at the conclusion of every job.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Pag frowned. “So, the guild takes a cut of everything—even loot?”

“It’s a fair trade,” Eryk reasoned. “The guild provides work, supplies, and a network. That support isn’t free.”

Pag continued reading. The contract outlined benefits: new recruits would receive basic armor and weaponry, a supply of minor healing potions, and access to discounted gear and services. As members rose in rank, they could earn additional perks—better equipment, specialized training, and, in some cases, free supplies for particularly difficult missions. However, there were also penalties. Any misconduct that reflected poorly on the guild could result in fines, suspension, or permanent expulsion.

Then Pag reached another clause that made his stomach twist. In times of crisis, such as incursion or war, guild members in affected areas could be conscripted to aid in defense efforts.

Pag raised an eyebrow. “Conscription?”

The guildmaster shrugged. “We’re not just mercenaries; we’re a standing force when the kingdom calls. If a city is threatened, the guild fights.”

Pag tapped his fingers against the parchment, weighing his options. The guild was their best shot at steady income and improving their gear. But it came with strings attached—ones that could pull them into situations they had no say in.

“Another thing to note,” the guildmaster added, as if reading Pag’s thoughts. “Once your contract is stamped, it’s magically copied to all registered guilds across the land. You won’t have to sign up again. Your file follows you wherever you go. It keeps track of every job you take, every reward you earn, and every failure you rack up.”

Pag exhaled. That meant his choices here would stick with him no matter where he went. If they screwed up or got expelled, it wouldn’t just be this guild refusing them—it would be every guild under the network.

Finally, after another moment’s deliberation, he picked up the quill and scrawled his name at the bottom. “Alright,” he muttered. “But if I get dragged into a war I don’t want to fight, I reserve the right to complain.”

Darleyn chuckled, picking up his quill. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Eryk smirked and signed his own contract without hesitation. “Welcome to the guild.”

The guildmaster took their contracts and pressed a heavy seal into the wax at the bottom of each one. As he did, a faint blue glow pulsed through the parchment before fading.

“There. It’s done.” He slid three small pouches toward them. “Your starter kits. Low-grade armor and weapons, plus five minor healing potions each. Not the best gear, but it’ll keep you alive.”

Pag picked up his pouch, feeling the weight of the equipment within. He knew it wouldn’t be much—cheap iron and poorly stitched leather—but it was better than nothing.

As they turned toward the job board, the weight of the stamped contract settled in Pag’s mind. They had officially joined the guild. The road ahead would be dangerous, full of risk and uncertainty, but at least now they had a foothold. A place to start.

Still, as he scanned the parchment one last time before tucking it away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they had just bound themselves to something far larger than they had anticipated.