The guild smelled of old wood and ale. Some things never changed: familiar faces paid Zunuha a wave or shout; Drachma, wearing her heavy armor, toted a goblet of sloshing ale, laughing alongside her friends as they pounded on their table. Oscar stood atop the captain’s worktable, pasty skin turned beet red thanks to one too many drinks. His thick beard was soaked, and only got worse as he downed another mug, letting it spill all over his coat. He trotted around as he recounted a grand tale to a mass audience of no one.

Clanking armor, scrambling feet, and incoherent conversation mixed together to make a sea of familiarity that Zunuha hadn’t realized she missed. Her chest warmed as she absorbed it all, recalling the anxious steps she’d taken into the guild when she first joined, expectations high, and very quickly humbled. Kept her hopes though, sure that something would change her mind. You have to have hope to make it in the world, or whatever the fuck.

Caxton's waving hand drew her attention and Zunuha made her way over. "Been a month, Z." he chirped, using his other hand to pick at the soles of his callused feet. It had been a while since she’d heard that nickname. "Finally get fed up with kitchen work?"

"I’m not allowed to work for a week."

"Tragic. For what it's worth, I pity you apprentices. Working your way up is always the hardest.”

"Pity won’t pay my rent." Zunuha stepped aside as a party entered the guild hall. Tan cloaks with the guild sigil embedded in on the back of the capes were discolored by dirt, grime, and dried blood. Exhausted eyes carried sagging dark circles amongst them all, their feet dragged as if weights had been chained to them. The accompanying cold left a damper in the air as they tracked mud across the floor. One of the receptionists at the mission desk greeted them, and the world carried on as if they'd never even been there. As if it was normal.

Zunuha recognized the leader of the party. A tall man, muscled, skin dark as tree bark. Sandy hair was cut unevenly in one place—an unfriendly blade had come close, she guessed. He looked painfully exhausted, and while he stood the strongest of the group, it wasn’t by much. "That’s Gladis. Didn't he say his team would be gone for a few months?"

Caxton scratched the side of his face, looking the group up and down as if unsurprised by their current states. "I'd take them returning early as a good sign. Coulda took care of our Night Order problem."

Did they? Was Caxton seeing something Zunuha wasn't? She didn't see victory in their eyes. She didn’t see anything in them at all. There was nothingness, a barren wasteland where hope and confidence had once been. A handful of Gladis's party found seats, shedding their cloaks to reveal injuries of a harsh variety. One member’s lip curled as she touched the side of her face, where a long pink scar cut from her missing ear up to her bandaged eye. Another was massaging his hand, particularly the crusty dry stubs where his ring and middle fingers used to be. Hardly a new thing, such injuries; part of the job was taking the horror with the honor. Still, this was one of the guild’s better teams. They’d fought behemoths, crushed an entire tribe of wildfolk beyond the border, and even turned around a pack of wild sabertooths that came too far inland. Right now, they didn’t look like they could so much as fight a toddler armed with a toy sword.

She knew the Night Order was powerful, a group of Ishtarian warriors banded together under a woman who called herself the Night Queen, and declared war on the kingdom. Zunuha didn’t know much beyond that, though she had a guess it had to do with the previous war almost eighty years back. Looking at Gladis’s team certainly made her curious. And eager.

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"Don't get your hopes up," Caxton advised with a snap of his fingers. He’d probably seen her staring at them. "You're still an apprentice.”

"I know that," though Zunuha’s gaze still hadn't left broken, exhausted warriors. One was rubbing the hand of her friend, and put up a thin smile. If she was trying to comfort him, it didn’t look like it was working. "But if they need people..."

"Then they need ones that can do the job,” Caxton folded his arms on the desk, inclining his big head toward her, then nodding at Gladis’s team. “That is not a job you want."

Zunuha gave him a deadpanned look.

"Alright, let me rephrase that: It’s not a job you're ready for."

Excuses. That’s all she ever got, and to such an extent now that it instantly pissed her off. But without more missions under her belt, there wasn't much leeway to get what she wanted. Guildmaster Sato was nothing if not a hardass for the rules.

Caxton nodded her toward the hallway. “Since you’re here, Mazrur wanted to talk to you. He’s in the back now."

Her captain? What for? Zunuha was about to question him, but Caxton shooed her away before she could. Zunuha would see him around town from time to time, stop to catch up, but there wasn't much to say beyond that since they were both equally busy, albeit for different reasons.

The heroes’ hall was a wide corridor connecting the foyer and meeting room. Sunlight washed over the railing, hot and bright, spraying the brown walls on the right side of the hall. An expanse of grass and chains of woodland out the opposite. Paintings and plaques of past heroes defended the walls. She’d seen them all, knew them all, could count them off in order with her eyes closed. But Zunuha could never keep herself from looking at them whenever she passed through.

Miron the Tall came first, a big man covered in white bear furs over leather armor from the Towers region, a man who’d slain demons during the Age of Conquests. Azra Vincent, the dashing rogue from the west whose skills with a cutlass were so great that he needed ten opponents for a fair fight. Ynissa Thorne, the gallant witch with skin as blue as the sea and a control to match. She rode the waves on the backs of haired drakes, warred against the nomadic ronin in the wilds of the Forbidden West. Faces and histories came and went as Zunuha passed, the stories growing grander with every step. Some weren't even convinced these people existed, weren't sure if the wild tales spun by those that came before were real or fantasy, but Zunuha knew there was one who had to be real.

Silvery-blue eyes stared at her, convinced her to stop and meet them. Samwin Heel, the Morning's Knight. Not an attractive man if his broken nose, crooked teeth, and blotchy skin were anything to go by. His chestnut hair was cut dangerously short, a bent and battered plate shielded his chest, with a chipped longsword and kiteshield as his only companions.

How many stories had she heard of him? How often did she and her friends as little kids fight over who got to play Samwin Heel in their playground battles? Zunuha recalled her granddad telling her about the Battle at the High Hills, where Samwin Heel defeated a hundred Vikes on his own, at fifteen years old. Four years younger than herself. Who was that powerful at that age?

Zunuha jumped as cheers and shouts came from behind her. Zunuha was sure she started to see chairs, knives and tableware flying around in the main hall. She shook her head and smiled.

Heroes saved people, they did the right thing, and they lived honorably and were bound by duty. They didn’t pursue selfish material things, like money or revenge. That was how it was. How it was supposed to be. Zunuha's eyes fell, no longer able to look at the eyes of Samwin Heel. Her hero. The ideal which she'd once been so sure everyone aspired to follow. And only then did she get her legs moving again.

She tried to convince herself that her captain would have more for her to do than escorts and helping out on the farms. She was here to fight. To save people. Working in a kitchen wouldn’t save innocents from bandits and wildfolk.

Working in a kitchen would not stop the Night Order.