Her steps began to quicken. A wall twice as tall as her stretched down the road now, slick with unmanaged moss and overgrowth. Margery couldn’t hold back a bit of childish wonder as the building at the end of the path came closer and closer. It had always seemed like a fairy tale back home, a fantasy, but there was no mistaking it. That was the House of Heroes.

A smidge transparent of a title, but there was a simple charm to it. A coat of honesty that couldn’t be replicated with another name. A place for warriors of all kinds to band together under a great code of honor, to protect not only Gransmede, but the entire kingdom. Direct servants of the people, untethered by the government that financed them.

A Witch does not belong in a place like that, her father had said many times before, all of which Margery gladly ignored. It was a different kind of prestige than she needed if she was to become the head of her family, but that would go to her oldest brother, Victor. What then was left for her? To fade into obscurity as another member of the family? To cling to that shameful label as the albino of the household?

Not if she could help it.

As the road came to a bend, the wall connected to a building slightly taller than it. Margery and Duncan stepped into its overbearing shadow, fading sunlight putting a shine to the brick foundation and stone body that made up the bulk of the guild. A tilted plaque hung right above the door—a timeless carving of a blue and white kiteshield, and a double-bladed golden sword: the symbol of Heroes. Greatness lied beyond, Margery could sense it. The most powerful, most honorable, and most revered warriors in the land gathered here.

Margery took in breath, released it, then followed Ser Duncan as he pushed the doors open. Today was the beginning of a new future, a mark in history, a modern legend. Today she started on the path of destiny. Margery took her first step inside.

And welcomed the little devil called regret.

The smell hit her like a punch to the nose—rotting wood, dirt, feet. The taste of alcohol muddied the air. It was a large hall for certain, with a magnificent round table that had a good third of it missing like a Behemoth had taken a bite out of it. The flooring outside of the table was elevated, making room for several old tables, chairs, and couches decorated with stains. To her right, cloaks and capes preferred the floor to the hangers on the walls.

Margery gaped as she took a step back. Back toward home while she still had the chance. The job board was built into the back wall next to what she assumed was the mission desk, likely where Heroes went to take on new assignments. The board was old and dirty, with stacks of papers pinned atop one another like books without spines. The desk itself was clean, which was the only reason it stood out. A woman sat behind it, with paintings of warriors, stacks of documents, and clearly unfinished work resting on the tables behind her.

There were people in the guild, as one might expect. But there were very few and didn’t quite embody the heroism Margery envisioned. One dark-skinned man was passed out in his seat, a liquor bottle held loosely in his hand as it emptied onto the floor. A woman on the other side of the room was at least awake, wearing a chainmail dress and leather armor, bare feet propped on the table. She wore a sneer of incredible boredom, and picked her teeth with a dagger to combat it.

But all that could all be ignored. Unruly, but not the worst she’d ever seen. How often would she spend time here, anyway? Margery made the quick and executive decision that this would not deter her, and approached the entrance desk to ask where the Guildmaster was.

He looked a kindly, sensible man: thick brown mustache and beard, equally brown curly hair and an age to his face that surely carried wisdom in the wrinkles. He dressed nicely enough too, a prim black coat with gray trimmings and the symbol of the guild sewn into the chest. Surely this man was her savior. The man who would right the wrongs which had been done to this guild. Wait, why was he biting his toenails?

“What in the world is going on here?” Margery screamed with mounting fury. The drunkard shouting in shocked retaliation, “I didn’t do it!” as he woke up. His bottle clattered on the floor and rolled off.

"The Heroes’ Guild, my lady.” Duncan stated. Margery resisted the urge to slap him.

“It can’t be! This is the furthest thing from it!” Margery faced the man at the registry, “Excuse me, I—oh by the Mother.”

She reeled, covering her nose as the pungent odor got a clean hit. Red eyes looked up from under thick brows, the man putting down his feet and straightening his coat with a sharp yank before offering his hand to her. “You must be new. I’m Caxton, welcome!”

“Welcome?” Margery squawked.

“Er, not welcome?”

“This is not welcoming at all! What kind of establishment are you running?”

“A heroes’ guild, my lady.” Two for two. Now Margery was certain Duncan and this Caxton were morons.

“Summon your guildmaster.” she ordered.

“Why?”

“For questioning! I demand to know—”

“Is this the bitchy niece you’re always complaining about?” Caxton looked at Duncan.

“I beg your pardon?” Margery’s fingers itched to choke him. Did this fool realize who he was talking to?

"Hey, hey, what’s going on?” someone cut in from behind her. The drunkard sauntered toward her, black boots dragging, hunched over like he had an anvil hanging off his neck. A red cape hung off his shoulder, a half-open quilted jacket exposing his chest. Dark skin and even darker hair—a Redman. He had a smirk so lax, so lazily arrogant, so insultingly coy that Margery instantly despised him.

The drunkard stretched out his arms above his head, shirt lifting to expose a small, hairy gut as he let out a yawn. “Whole lotta yelling over here. I was having the nicest nap, too.” He looked around, squinting at things as if he couldn’t even recognize them. He clapped Ser Duncan’s shoulders with both hands, nodding wordlessly, then decided to sniff him. “You smell nice, Dunc. What’s for dinner?”

“Sobriety,” Duncan’s nose crinkled as he eased his admirer off. “Not the best first impression to make, Maz.”

The drunkard looked at Margery then, still squinting. “Oh yes, that’s right. You must be Margaret Silverspooner.”

"Margery Silverwither! Are you the guildmaster?” Margery scoffed then, “No, of course you’re not. Retrieve him. I demand to know why the House of Heroes has been reduced to this… this embarrassment!”

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Remarkably, the man managed to wake up a bit. A devilish smirk appeared, pronounced his scruffy chin and dark eyes. “Calm down there, your highness. Now it’s true I ain’t the guildmaster, but I’m the next best thing. Name’s Mazrur.”

Mazrur? The modern legend known by his moniker of the “Bloodhound?” He had to be lying. “You?” shrieked Margery.

"You bet!” he said with a dramatic point of his finger inches from her nose. “I got your transcripts today. Most witches this far inland want to work at the Penta."

Margery had only acknowledged his existence for two minutes and was already sick of him. Duncan stood by, unfazed by it all, and if the gnashing of teeth she heard behind her was any indication, then Caxton had gone right back to chewing his toenails.

“You’ll call me Captain or something like that from now on, got it? Blah, blah, lovely to meet you. Shall we get started?” Mazrur didn’t wait before pushing Margery into a chair, then dragged up one for himself. “So your reason for coming here is?"

Margery scowled. "Experience.”

“Would’ve been smarter to stay home if you want to become a magister.”

Her scowl deepened. “The House of Heroes is invaluable for the work I’m pursuing.” Or it was supposed to be.

“And what work would that be, hm? Fighting Sabercats and wildfolk? That’s us humans’ job.”

True enough, humans and witches like Margery might look similar, but she was a completely different species. She commanded nature itself, magic, and while some humans could too, it wasn’t even comparable to a witch. “It is not illegal for me to join — I paid the fee.” A more generous donation than the place deserved apparently.

“Sure, and conveniently skipped three years of training required to get a license. Which, your highness, is illegal.”

Margery rolled her eyes. One couldn’t join the House of Heroes outright. There was a three year training school to learn the basics. She’d gone in knowing that, but it wasn't something to worry about. It was a poor man’s crime at best, and compared to her duties as a Witch, negligible. People would laugh at whoever was stupid enough to put her before a court.

“But let’s skip that part,” Mazrur showed some papers, files that had been filled out, stamped, and as she now saw, approved. “Guild’s been outta shape for years and the upkeep are too busy to get to us right now. Place usually doesn’t have that many people since everyone is always working, so everyone’s free to relax as long as they aren’t being obscene or hurting anyone.”

Margery gestured to Caxton, who continued to bite his toenails.

“Consider yourself blessed. He used to shave his fruits back there.”

She pointed at the woman picking her teeth.

“No health benefits. Whitternash ain’t cheap!”

Margery breathed through her nose. “Fine. Can we get back to business?”

“I live to please.” Mazrur tapped some blank spaces on the paper. “Fill out the rest of these here.”

Ten minutes, five quippy remarks, and a near backhand later, Margery slid her documents back to Mazrur. “Is that all?”

“Slow down there, Sweetness. You’re staying in Gransmede, right?”

“No, I’ll be regularly escorted from the Witchwood and back. What do you think, fool?”

“Touchy. You’ll fit right in.” Mazrur chuckled as he pushed back his seat and stood, Margery lamenting having to look up at him. “Your combat test is in three days. That’s when Master Sato should be back. Completing that will decide your starting rank.”

Margery gaped. “My father promised me Journeyman rank at minimum! That was the arrangement!”

“Aww, daddy pwomised?” Mazrur pouted mockingly, “Well, I’d hate to disappoint him, wouldn’t I? Let’s take a look at this then, shall we?” He flapped out one of the sheets of her transcripts. “He said, and I quote, ‘Requesting for Journeyman-level status on entry, should her skills live up to the standards of the guild.’”

Margery wanted to tell him he was wrong. That her father would never say such things. That it had simply been misread. A silly mistake tagged onto her documents. But who was she kidding? The one time she asked her father for a favor and he couldn’t deliver on it. Or refused to. Margery sank into her seat, utterly shattered. “I cannot believe this.”

“Believe it, Sweetness.” Mazrur gave a smirking bow, before shooting back up to throw his arms out wide “Welcome to Gransmede! Where no one gives a shit about who you are or what you want. Everyone is the same and no one is special. Best get used to it.”

Margery glared at him. She wanted to smack that stupid smirk off his stupid face. She chose against it, for now, and stood. “We’ll see about that. Warn whoever it is I’m facing for my test. Give them my apologies in advance.”

Mazrur jabbed both his thumbs into his chest. “If you kill me, will you sign my gravestone? It’d be a huge honor.”

So it was him, then. The All-Mother was smiling down on her this day. Margery turned on her heel and yelled at Duncan to follow. The knight called out, but she was already storming through the dark streets as a fire brimmed to life in her chest. This was not the way things were supposed to go. All the training, all the hard work, only to be disrespected? Why was nothing going the way she wanted?

“It is coming, friends!”

Margery stopped. A scraggly man in tattered clothes stood on a crate in front of the local tavern, a man no one bothered to spare their attention. He had what looked like a year's worth of dirt smudged on his face and caked under his fingernails. Through the holes in his tattered shirt, she could see his ribs protruding from his skin, impressively malnourished. A man with no life ahead of him, but it didn’t discourage him from his speech. He continued, however pathetically, to disrupt the quiet street.

“Heed my words, the Darkness will return! It will come and plunge our land into eternal night. Bloody winters will storm us and freeze our lands. Devils will rise from the shadows, and steal the souls of our children. Say your prayers now. The end is near!”

He raised a fist, punched the air like he was ready to fight the world. Some stopped to look, but they were the rare few. “But all is not lost. For where there is a great shadow, a light must be there to cast it. The Morn is Promised. Our hero is among us!”

The fire in her chest blazed at his words. The legend still lived, even if some didn’t think so. The Mornbringer only appeared when the world was in danger of being consumed by The Darkness, and if there was no danger, he may as well not exist. Sure, people knew the Mornbringer was real, that he or she was only born when the Darkness began to seep into the world. But the world didn’t seem like it was in danger, so why would anyone believe Margery when she told them she was the Mornbringer? Margery doubted she’d believe anyone who told her that, either. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t the truth. They didn’t believe her now, not her people, not her father, but she’d make them believe. She’d prove them wrong.

“Prove what wrong?” Margery whipped around at the voice. A few civilians were walking by, but none who were looking at her. Then, a shadow. A brief thing, barely noticeable as it swam in the dark corners of distant alleyways. Dozens of them in unnamable, unknowable shapes and forms, whispering coldly. “Believe what? Darkness. All pointless. What are you proving? The Darkness, it comes.”

Margery fought not to clutch her head, a pounding headache was forming, and her brain felt swollen. She thought to count, but chose against it until she was able to get to her house. Gransmede was home until her destiny was fulfilled. Then she’d return to the Witchwood a hero—honored, praised, respected. Her father would see. Her whole country would see.

The voices she heard couldn’t be detected by anyone else. The voices couldn’t harm anyone nor be harmed by them. Not yet. Some would say they weren’t real, but they were. These agents of the Darkness, these devils from hell. They’d invaded her mind to torture her, to make her suffer, to keep her from awakening the powers she needed to destroy them.

The power to save the world.

“Rejoice!” The fanatic raised his arms to the sky, sputtering out mad laughter. “The Mornbringer is here!”

Indeed she was. And in three days, she’d have that guild captain on his knees.