Brakar winced as their boots scraped against Ironweave’s famous bridges, the metallic screech a perfect accompaniment to his throbbing headache. The morning sun caught the iron latticework at exactly the wrong angle, creating a dazzling display that did nothing to improve his mood. Their shadows stretched long across the weathered metal as they made their slow trek toward the Patchwork Post.

The city sprawled around them in its usual organized chaos—a patchwork of architectural styles as varied as its inhabitants. Market stalls perched precariously on the narrower bridges, their colorful awnings snapping in the wind. The familiar scents of spiced meats and fresh bread wafted up from the lower levels, making Brakar’s empty stomach clench painfully.

“Watch your step,” Mira called from behind as Thadan’s boot caught on a loose rivet. “Last thing we need is someone falling through.”

The humor failed to spark a reaction, just as their spirits remained dim. The leopard-folk’s cream-colored fur was matted and dirty, her usual meticulous grooming abandoned in favor of basic survival during their trek back to the city. She moved with none of her characteristic grace, each step careful and measured to avoid aggravating her injuries.

Pockets brought up the rear, unusually quiet. The normally chatty kobold hadn’t spoken more than a few words since they’d broken camp, her fingers absently fiddling with what remained of her prized compass. The constant metallic clicking had become a sort of nervous metronome for their procession.

A merchant caravan passed them on the wider section of the bridge, the traders giving them a wide berth. Brakar couldn’t blame them—they looked like walking disaster victims. Their gear, what little remained of it, hung in tatters. Mud and worse caked their boots, leaving trailing footprints that drew disapproving looks from the morning crowd.

“Almost there,” Thadan announced, his usual confident tone strained around the edges. “Just need to explain things to Ms. Thornberry. Get our payment sorted.”

The way he said “payment” made it sound like “miracle.”

They descended a spiral staircase to the lower level, where the Patchwork Post squatted among its more respectable neighbors. The former textile warehouse wore its history proudly, its mismatched architecture a testament to generations of modifications. Windows of varying sizes and shapes dotted the facade, accommodating the diverse height requirements of its equally diverse clientele.

The morning crowd had already gathered—fresh-faced adventurers with shiny new gear and untested dreams. They parted like water around a stone as Steel Tempest approached, whispers following in their wake. Brakar caught fragments of conversation:

“Is that blood or mud?”

“Both, probably.”

“Weren’t they copper-ranked?”

“Not for long, by the looks of it.”

The Patchwork Post’s interior hit them with its usual wall of noise and barely controlled chaos. The main hall buzzed with activity—clerks shuffling papers, adventurers arguing over contracts, the constant creaking of wooden floors beneath feet of various sizes. The famous job board hung from its chains in the center, its surface plastered with notices ranging from mundane to mysterious.

Ms. Thornberry sat at her usual desk, her weathered green skin catching the light from multiple-height windows. Her sharp amber eyes tracked their approach with the resignation of someone who had seen this particular walk of shame many times before.

“Ah,” she said, setting aside her quill. “Steel Tempest returns. Though perhaps ‘stumbles back’ would be more accurate.”

Thadan stepped forward, summoning what remained of his charm. “Ms. Thornberry, always a pleasure. About our contract—”

“The water pump contract?” She raised an eyebrow. “The one that specifically requested pest control for, and I quote, ‘just some giant rats and maybe a few spiders’?”

“There may have been some... unexpected complications.”

“Complications.” She drew out the word like a sword from its sheath. “Do tell.”

As he launched into his explanation, carefully crafting failure into something approaching success, Brakar felt a light touch on his arm. Mira gestured toward a quieter corner of the hall, her expression unreadable.

They moved away from the main crowd, finding relative privacy behind one of the hall’s many support columns. Up close, Brakar could see the full extent of her exhaustion—the slight droop to her whiskers, the way her tail hung limp instead of its usual beautiful movements.

“I need to tell you something,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I’d rather do it now, before things get any more complicated.”

Brakar’s healing instincts kicked in, eyes automatically scanning for injuries he might have missed. “Are you hurt worse than you let on? I might be able to—”

“I’m leaving the party.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Brakar blinked, certain he’d misheard. “What?”

“It’s not because of this quest,” Mira added quickly. “I made up my mind a while ago. Been thinking about it for months, actually.”

“But...” Brakar struggled to process this new reality. “Why?”

Mira’s tail flicked—a subtle but uncommon display of nervousness for someone typically so composed. “I might give hairdressing another go. My parents’ old clients still ask about me sometimes. There’s a market for traditional grooming techniques, especially among the older beastfolk families.”

“Hairdressing,” Brakar repeated numbly. “Instead of adventuring.”

“Instead of dying in a waterlogged cistern fighting oversized bugs.” She attempted a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Seems like a lateral move, at worst.”

Movement caught Brakar’s attention. Pockets stood a few feet away, shifting from foot to foot with uncharacteristic hesitation. The kobold’s eyes were fixed on the floor, her usual enthusiastic energy completely absent.

“Pockets?” Brakar asked. “What’s wrong?”

She looked up, her expression a complex mix of emotions. “I... I got accepted. At the university. The artificer’s college, specifically.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “I want to keep adventuring, I do, but this is a really good opportunity and they rarely open up spots for new students and—”

“Pockets!” Brakar cut off her rambling. “That’s amazing news!”

Mira’s ears perked up. “The artificer’s college? That’s incredibly prestigious. When did you apply?”

“Last season.” Pockets twisted a gear between her fingers. “I didn’t think I’d actually get in. My methods aren’t exactly... traditional.”

“Traditional is overrated,” Brakar said firmly. “You’ll revolutionize the whole field.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so.” He managed a genuine smile. “And we can still hang out. The university’s not far from The Stack.”

“Really?” Hope crept into her voice. “You’re not mad?”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“Mad? About one of my friends achieving something incredible? Never.”

Their moment was interrupted by Thadan’s return. Their leader wore an expression of carefully measured satisfaction—the look of someone who had haggled their way to an acceptable compromise.

“Good news,” he announced. “We’re getting thirty percent of the original payment.”

Brakar stared at him. “Thirty? How did you manage that?”

“The information about the centipedes has value,” he explained. “Plus our initial survey of the tunnels. I started at fifty percent, but honestly? I would have taken twenty.”

“I didn’t think we’d get five,” Brakar admitted.

“Never underestimate the power of proper documentation.” Thadan produced a slightly damp but still legible map covered in Mira’s precise notations. “Ms. Thornberry was particularly interested in the maintenance logs you found. Apparently, there’s been some concern about similar issues in other parts of the water system.”

The conversation lulled as a group of fresh-faced adventurers passed nearby, their gear gleaming in the morning light. They wore silver medallions—mid-ranked guild members, probably looking for support roles for their next expedition. One of them glanced at Steel Tempest with poorly concealed disdain.

Brakar watched them go, remembering when his own gear had been that pristine, when every quest had seemed like a step toward glory rather than survival. The weight of unspoken words hung heavy between the four of them.

“So,” Thadan said finally. “Who’s hungry? Thirty percent should cover a meal at The Six Spoons, at least.”

No one moved. Mira’s eyes narrowed. Pockets clutched her broken compass tighter.

“About that,” Mira began.

But before she could continue, a commotion erupted near the job board. The chains creaked ominously as a crowd gathered, voices rising in excitement or alarm. Ms. Thornberry rose from her desk, her customary scowl deepening.

“New posting,” someone shouted. “Priority contract!”

“Emergency request from the water commission,” another voice added. “Something about ‘unexpected fauna’ in the northern reservoirs.”

Brakar caught Thadan’s eye. Their leader’s expression shifted from exhaustion to calculation in an instant.

“We should at least look,” Thadan said. “With our recent experience—”

“Thadan.” Mira’s voice cut through his planning like a knife. “We need to talk.”

The job board shifted once more. Steel Tempest stood frozen in their moment of truth, while around them, the Patchwork Post continued its eternal dance of dreams and disasters.

More adventurers pushed past them toward the board, their excited chatter fading into background noise. Brakar noticed how none of his companions moved to join them. Instead, they formed their own small island in the chaos—four friends at a crossroads, each holding a different piece of their shared future’s wreckage.

Time drifted in quiet currents through the room, its presence felt in the air itself. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled the hour. Time, like water in the cistern, kept flowing forward, carrying them all toward inevitable change.

Ms. Thornberry’s voice pierced through the growing crowd: “Those interested in the northern reservoir contract, form an orderly queue. And please note—this one specifically requires proof of experience with subterranean fauna.”

Thadan’s hand twitched toward the pouch containing their new payment. Thirty percent of a failed contract—enough for one last meal together, perhaps. Or a down payment on whatever came next.

The job board creaked one final time, its chains settling into a new configuration. Above them, the iron bridges of Ironweave gleamed beneath the shifting sky, their patterns a reminder that even the strongest connections could be beautiful in their complexity.

The chains rattled again, an impatient summons to glory or doom. But for once, none of them moved to answer its call. Instead, they turned away, leaving the excited chatter of hopeful adventurers behind them. Thadan’s suggestion of The Six Spoons hung between them like a lifeline—their last feast as a party.

The prospect of another quest faded into the distance as they left the Patchwork Post, Brakar’s mind already seeking refuge in the familiar comfort of analysis. It was what he did best—break down situations into manageable pieces, just like dissecting spell theory or studying healing techniques. The thirty percent payment felt heavy in Thadan’s pouch, each coin a lingering weight of their failed mission. But what weighed heavier was the unspoken tension between his companions—Mira’s fur standing on end, her posture taut, and Pockets unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

The walk to The Six Spoons traced a path he knew by heart, across three different bridges and down two levels to where the old tavern squatted between districts like a grandmother who refused to move despite her children’s success. He’d spent countless hours in its library corner, borrowing books that helped him understand everything from advanced healing theory to social cues he’d missed growing up. The thought of those books brought a familiar ache—his own spellbook was still somewhere in that flooded cistern, probably being used as a centipede’s coaster by now.

The tavern’s noisy atmosphere greeted them first. Then the layered traces of six different cuisines mingling through the space, and his mind cataloged them automatically—spiced meats from the northern quarter, fresh bread from the human district, aromatic teas from the eastern edge. Each smell carried memories: late-night study sessions, quiet conversations with other regulars who never pressed too hard about his past, gentle corrections from the librarian when his social awkwardness showed through. The Six Spoons had become more than just a tavern to him; it was where he’d started rebuilding himself after escaping his girlfriend’s manipulation, where Thadan had first introduced him to Mira and Pockets, where he’d learned it was okay to trust again.

Watching his companions’ drawn faces and noting the careful distance they maintained from each other, he couldn’t deny what was coming. He’d seen enough endings in his books to know what they looked like in reality. The thought of change sent a familiar panic through his chest, but he forced himself to examine it rationally, the way the library’s self-help books had taught him. Sometimes endings were just beginnings in disguise. Still, as they approached the tavern’s weathered door, he wished he’d borrowed a book on how to say goodbye to friends who’d become family.

They settled into their usual corner, where the mingled scents did little to ease the tension. Their drinks arrived—three ales and Pockets’ usual tea with extra honey. A half-eaten loaf of dark bread sat untouched between them.

“So.” Thadan broke the silence first, rolling his tankard between his palms. “That new contract on the board...”

“Don’t.” Mira’s tail wrapped tighter around her chair leg.

“We could at least look at the details. With our experience—”

“Our experience of nearly drowning?”

Brakar coughed into his fist softly. “The historical records suggest that most successful adventuring parties actually face several near-catastrophic events before—”

“Oh-oh! Like the Champions of Dawn! They almost got wiped out by those crystal golems before they...” Pockets’ voice trailed off as she caught the others’ expressions. “Sorry. Not helping.”

“My fur’s still damp.” Mira ran a claw through her matted coat. “Feels about as sleek as a hedgehog’s attempt at swimming.”

Thadan leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Look, I know things got messy—”

“Messy?” Pockets began disassembling her napkin ring, her claws working faster as she spoke. “Wait-wait, that reminds me—I could probably design something to help with the water problem. Maybe if we rerouted the flow through a series of graduated chambers, or—oh! We could install pressure gauges at key points—and what if we added a resonance detector to—I got accepted to the artificer’s college.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than their waterlogged gear.

“Wh—” Thadan’s tankard hit the table with a dull thud. “You what?” His voice cracked slightly. “Since when were you even—how long have you—” He dragged his hand through his hair, a gesture that would have looked more dignified if it wasn’t still crusted with mud.

“Last week. I mean, I applied months ago, but I never thought... and their admissions only happen once every three years, so...”

Mira’s fur slowly settled. “I’m leaving too.”

“For the mapmaker’s guild?” Thadan asked.

“Hairdressing.”

“Oh.” Thadan sat back. “Well. That’s...”

“Practical.” Mira shrugged. “Less chance of being eaten by centipedes.”

“The statistical likelihood of centipede-related fatalities is quite low compared to...” Brakar adjusted his collar. “Never mind.”

“What about you?” Thadan’s gaze fixed on their healer.

“I...” Brakar traced a pattern in the condensation on his tankard. “The library always needs help. With cataloging. And research.”

“Right.” Thadan pushed back from the table. “So that’s it then.”

“Thadan—”

“No, it’s fine. It’s smart, actually. Very practical. Unlike some of us, still chasing stupid dreams about—”

“Wait-wait!” Pockets’ hands fluttered over her collection of gears. “We could still... I mean, between classes, maybe...”

“The university’s schedule is quite demanding.” Brakar’s voice grew softer. “I’ve read their curriculum guidelines.”

“Of course you have.” Thadan’s laugh held no humor.

“My first client appointment is next week. Some noble’s pet project. Wants old-school grooming methods.”

They all stared at their drinks.

“We had some good moments, though.” Pockets began reassembling the napkin ring.

Thadan raised his tankard. “To Steel Tempest. May we die of old age instead of stupid heroics.”

“To not dying.” Mira lifted her drink.

“To new beginnings?” Pockets offered.

Brakar hesitated, then raised his ale. “To friends.”