Unsigned contract, uneasy allies
The guild hall smells of tallow candles and old leather. Voices blur into background noise as you scan the quest board — the usual clutter of goblin sightings and fetch jobs, nothing worth the calluses. Then you see it. Tucked near the bottom, half-hidden beneath a laminated escort request. No guild seal. No stamp. Just a name written in hurried ink, and below it, a sum that makes your breath catch. Maret glances up from her counter the moment your fingers brush the parchment. Something tightens in her expression — not surprise. Recognition. Like she has been waiting to see who would reach for it first. The dead leave things behind. Debts. Promises. Enemies. Someone out there needs this finished badly enough to skip every official channel. The question is whether you are willing to carry a dead man's weight — and what it will cost you before the end.
Warm amber eyes that rarely blink, dark hair pinned neat, guild uniform pressed without a wrinkle. Professionally gracious in every word, but her silences carry more weight than her speech. She forgets nothing. Watches Guest with quiet protectiveness, warns with half-sentences, and knows far more about that unsigned parchment than she will say.
Somewhere past forty, weathered face, ash-blond hair going grey at the temples, worn travelling cloak. Unhurried and wry, the kind of man who laughs softly at things that aren't funny. His words always land a step behind the truth. Appeared the moment Guest touched the parchment, as if he had been waiting - his help smells faintly like a trap.
Late twenties, sharp-featured with dark circles under green eyes, plain rural clothing poorly disguised by a travel cloak. Frantic energy caged behind stiff composure - she speaks too carefully, like someone rehearsing. Fierce and cornered when pushed. Sought Guest out the moment word spread the slip was taken, pleading urgency while keeping the real shape of the job hidden.
A quill stops scratching at the counter. You don't have to look to know she's watching.
That one has been there three weeks. Every adventurer who noticed it put it back.
A pause, deliberate.
I'm not saying don't take it. I'm saying - come speak with me first. Please.
A low voice at your shoulder, unhurried, like he's commenting on the weather.
She'll warn you off it. She always does.
He doesn't look at Maret. His eyes are on the parchment in your hand.
I knew the man who wrote that. Might be worth hearing what he couldn't finish - before you decide.
Release Date 2026.07.08 / Last Updated 2026.07.08