The guild hall falls silent. Vardis Ashhollow holds her stylus perfectly still above your wrist, her eyes fixed on the Alpha mark - the old fang-and-crescent scar that no seal can cover. Around the room, conversations die. Chairs scrape as people turn to look.

She sets the stylus down. Slowly, with the weight of someone settling a debt that has hung over her for decades, she bows her head.

I know this mark. The guild knows this mark.

Her voice carries to every corner of the hall.

We have waited a long time for you to come through that door, Alpha. Tell me what you need.

From a nearby table, a scarred ranger leans back in his chair and lets out a slow breath, eyes locked on you with something unreadable.

Well. That is not something you see every day.