The chef, I soon discovered, was a forthright, no-nonsense Human woman by the name of Thorde. She was lean and wiry, with a sharpness to her voice, but was not fierce in her instruction. She took her work very seriously, and I could tell right away that she was used to people listening to her.

Halec gave a quick announcement, and then shuffled me inside, slamming the door behind him, to Thorde’s visible frustration. She wore a flour-caked apron over a simple olive-colored long-sleeved shirt that complemented her tanned skin nicely. She was perhaps in her late forties or early fifties, but did not seem any less energetic because of it. In fact, I couldn’t see a stitch of gray in her mousy brown hair. I could see her name above her head, but there was no associated Guild or Level, so my assumption was that she wasn’t a member of Malicious Intent, at least not in any official capacity and was likely hired help.

Thorde had me sweep the floors first thing, as she was currently occupied with some task, and I quickly hopped to work. I’d spent the bulk of my life working in kitchens, and I knew busy work when I saw it. The floor didn’t really need much cleaning, but I performed dutifully anyway, not wanting to ignite the ire of my new boss. I spent the next little while making sure I touched every corner of the room with the swishy straw of the broom head.

An hour after we were introduced, Halec poked his head in to check on my progress, but Thorde ushered him away, and he had bolted. She didn’t like being disturbed apparently, and it seemed the whole of Malicious Intent respected her authority in this domain.

So much so, in fact, that Thorde explained she was given ultimate authority in this area. She didn’t believe in cutting corners, and it was her firm belief that anyone who set to work in her kitchen would need to earn each success. Which meant that every chop, every sizzle--literally every single motion involved in the cooking process, had to be done without the aid of the shortcut system. She’d gone so far as to disable it here, so that anyone who helped her would have to present in each moment of the food preparation. I couldn’t just select the “cook” option and wipe my hands of it.

And so, I spent the day working in the Guild’s astonishingly well-lit kitchen. The area itself was immaculate, a fact that would have surprised me had I not met its proprietor. Even as we cooked, the stony-faced Human was frequently wiping something down or bidding me to do so. In fact, the only thing with any gunk on it in the spotless space was the oversized cast iron pan hanging above the cooking hearth. It was three-feet wide with a four-foot handle and had definitely been around quite a while as it was dinged and battered, with a few layers of crud stuck to the inside rim. From the state of it, I’d have guessed it was used to crush helmets in battle. Through the day, I’d shot many glances at it, terrified that my unsettlingly serious instructor would feel inclined to rattle me with it if I messed up.

We had gone over some of the basics of the meal preparation once I’d finished sweeping, and Thorde had found my ability competent enough. So we moved on to preparing lunch.

Chef Thorde set up a ten-gallon kettle full of water on one of the many hooks hanging over the cavernous hearth, and set me to cutting dozens of carrots and onions, while she minced garlic and rosemary. Then we tossed the ingredients in the pot and set to work deseeding twelve plump tomatoes, slicing them up, and dropping them into the water as well. After that, we took the kettle off of the fire and dunked it into an ice bath. I grabbed a wooden bowl filled halfway with spices, while Thorde placed everything into a large strainer. Together, we passed the cooled contents of the kettle through the mesh twenty-or-so times and put the mixture to chill in the ice chest.

During the whole process, Thorde was very quiet, concentrating on her task. She’d break though to correct me or direct me to my next duty. Luckily, I was quite familiar with this environment and found myself lost in the work. We combined the remaining ingredients and mixed them until Thorde nodded satisfactorily. Eventually, we moved on to the garnish, a task I had found challenging.

“Like this?” I asked, turning the herbs and carefully slicing with the blade.

“That’s fine,” Thorde said in a tone that indicated it was not fine.

“Okay, so how should I be doing this chiffonade?” I asked.

In real life, I knew the proper method of performing such a basic type of cut. At least, I thought so. The details were a little fuzzy for some reason. It seemed like without the experience with Skills in-world, I was shit out of luck.

The thin human woman took several green leaves of basil and stacked them on top of one another.

“First, you will need to lay the herbs out like so, with the membrane face-down.”

Then she gently folded the leaves in half, the open side out, and began to neatly roll them.

“After a quick fold, begin to roll the basil compactly. Keep the bundle tight and hold it in place when you use your knife. Then, very carefully drag the tip of your knife across the end of the roll, moving toward yourself slowly. You’ll want to make sure that you are slicing very thinly. You’ll notice it gets quite fluffy as you do so, which is perfect.”

Thorde was slicing the thin strips of basil as she spoke, and I watched as the pile of herbs became a tangled wisp of green tumbles. Then, she scooped the pile up onto the edge of the blade and presented it to me.

“Voila! Chiffonade!”

She pinched some and placed it carefully on the surface of the cold soup we’d made earlier, right in the center of the bowl. Then she passed the knife to me, handle out.

“Now, you do it like that.”

I sighed.

“Alright, let me try this again,” I said, taking the knife and setting it next to the uncut basil. I plucked a few pieces from the stem and laid them on top of one another, overlapping, with the shiny side up and then rolled them like I had just watched her do. I held the jumble and began slowly tracing the tip of the blade across the leaves. I made sure to make them as thin as possible as I did and watched the pile of green slivers grow.

This time I could feel the Skill activating in my mind, and as I finished, a few points of experience appeared. A message box sprang up. I’d reached Level Three in Cooking!

I proudly presented my creation to Thorde as she nodded.

“Good,” she said, pointing to the remaining three bowls of soup, “now finish these off.”

I took a pinch for each and deposited them dead center like she had. I took a step back to admire my handiwork.

“That is fine,” Thorde said and hoisted the bowls onto a silver serving tray. She lifted it and handed it to me.

“What do you expect me to do with this?” I asked.

“We don’t have a server anymore. I’d do it myself, but these old knees of mine don’t have the same spring they used to, and there are a few too many stairs for my liking.”

She nodded toward the door.

“Besides, you need the practice.”

Very well. It’s not like I can refuse. I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to.

I lifted the tray with some effort.

“It’s heavy!” I said.

“You’re right!”

Thorde’s fake enthusiasm was a bit deflating.

“Where am I taking this bad boy?” I asked as I turned to the door.

“The Guild Officers are taking their lunch in the dining room on the third floor. Do you need me to draw you a map, or will you be alright to find it?” She was already gathering ingredients from the ice chest on the other side of the room, her back to me.

I took that as a dismissal and exited, making sure to watch that I didn’t spill the bowls or run into anything.

The moment I was in the hallway beyond the kitchen, Halec stepped out from an adjacent doorway and into my path.

“Well, how was day one on the job, Rookie?” He brandished his annoyingly, smug smile.

You are way too close to headbutting range to be making comments like that.

Halec looked down at the contents of the tray.

“Hell, yes! Thorde’s gazpacho is to die for. I hope you didn’t fuck it up?” The Fomorian chuckled to himself and fell in pace next to me as I made my way to the stairs.

“Though, if you did ruin in it, that would be hilarious. Paris would probably break your bones and send you back to the Interim.”

“Is there a point to you?” I demanded, stepping into the narrow doorway of the staircase. I glanced up as it spiraled out of sight above me.

“Boss’ orders!” Halec said and gave me a salute, “he says I can’t let you out of my sight. I’m just doing what I’m told.”

“I think you’re doing what you enjoy,” I grunted and began my ascent, balancing the tray carefully with each step.

“Perhaps it’s a bit of Column A and a bit of Column B, Vale. You should be more respectful to me since I give him nightly reports not only on your whereabouts but also your attitude.”

“I’d be in a better mood if you weren’t goosing me on this staircase right now. Haven’t you heard of personal space?”

“Never much liked her,” Halec returned.

We made it up to the third floor, and I found that we were in a massive, glittering hall. Rows of polished Fomorian armor lined the left wall, bisected by tall windows with deep red velvet curtains. The helmets had holes in their crowns for the horns, and they were empty inside.

Just like Halec’s head.

Along the right wall were various painted portraits and landscapes. The pictures were all of Fomorians, I assumed of some note, as they had little brass nameplates with descriptions written underneath. I didn’t read any. The larger paintings depicted battles, with a background of a fiery haze or cool-colored fog, and was a bit over-the-top for my tastes.

Malicious Intent has really sold themselves on the idea of being bad guys.

I moved down the polished floor to the ornate black doors at the end and paused, looking over at Halec. He stood there, smiling irritatingly.

“Yes?” He asked.

“Can you get the door?”

He shook his head.

“No.”

My blood was boiling. With a frustrated sigh, I slowly lowered the tray to the floor and then grasped onto one of the heavy iron rings in the door and pulled.

It didn’t budge.

I looked over my shoulder at Halec. He was watching me quite gleefully, his arms crossed, the ruffles of his garish costume poking out comically.

You look so stupid.

I gave another heave, but the door seemed immovable.

“What’s this door’s deal?” I asked, scowling at Halec, “is this some prank? You guys have already taken me here against my will, isn’t this a bit...overkill?”

I grabbed the iron ring again and propped a foot up on the wall next to it and tried to use my body weight to open the fixture, but it remained in place. I dropped the ring and held my finger up to the little notification near the door.

[Ornate] Door

Durability: 1561/1566

Might Requirement: 15

Well, that’s just wonderful.

I wouldn’t be able to open it because my Might score was too low. It even had the added effect of being greyed out so that I knew I wasn’t capable at a glance.

Halec chuckled. He must have known I wouldn’t be able to open the door and just wanted to watch me struggle.

“Are you able to open this?” I asked him, picking up the tray again and flicking my chin toward the door.

“Of course, Vale,” he said, “I’m much higher level than you, and that isn’t much of a Might rating at all.”

I rolled my eyes.

“So will you open it now that you’ve had your fun? I’m just trying to make the best of this situation without having additional wrenches in additional gears.”

Halec shook his head.

“Sorry, but I’m not authorized to help you. I can only observe. You understand, of course?”

I was angry. I took a deep breath and looked around for any sort of clue. I couldn’t see anything that might help me in this situation. I cursed under my breath.

“How am I supposed to deliver lunch then?” I asked Halec. The Fomorian just shrugged.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I am only interested in seeing how you react to this endeavor. I’m hoping for tears, personally.”

I caught a movement behind him, far at the end of the hall.

One of the largest Fomorian I had seen so far came strolling into view. He turned the corner and headed straight for us, his gait long and relaxed. He was very tall and wide, and his ancient, dusty armor was stretched tight over his plump frame, giving him the appearance of an overstuffed sausage. His black horns curled upward and then straight, making him look even taller. Under his dented helmet, tufts of mint green hair stuck out in various directions, and dark purple eyes peered out from a pleasant and friendly wine-colored face. His name hung in the air above him.

Shizukana [ Underling ] [ Lvl. 6 ]

“Hey,” I summoned, and smiled as well as I could manage, “Could you help me out, friend?”

Halec turned and let out a disappointed sigh.

“What are you doing here, Shizu?” he asked, his grin fading for the first time, “the kitchen is downstairs.”

The larger Fomorian flashed a toothy grin back at Halec and winked. When he spoke, it was in a measured tone, almost lazy sounding, as if he had just woken up.

“I lent Grigorio the Armory Key, and I need it back. I’m supposed to sweep it out this afternoon.” He bent forward to look down at me.

“What do you need help with, little Sidhe?”

Shizukana had an easy way of speaking that I liked immediately. I beamed back at him.

“Would you mind getting the door for me, big guy?”

Shizukana nodded.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said and pushed past a crestfallen Halec, “especially if our friend here is inconvenienced by it.”

In a single long stride, Shizukana had closed the gap and reached the door. He raised a dark, meaty hand to grasp the handle and pulled. The heavy wood slid open easily, wide enough for me to slip through.

“Much obliged,” I said and took a step forward into the doorway. Pausing, I looked over my shoulder at Halec.

“I hope you get a hemorrhoid,” I said to him, and turned back to the room beyond. As I passed the foyer into the dining hall, I heard Halec respond.

“Better to have one than to be one.”

I shrugged it off. This was the first victory—however small that I’d gotten over the obnoxious Fomorian, and I was going to relish in it. I smirked to myself as I carried the tray of soup passed the dim inner alcove reserved for servants and out into the sunlit dining room. I was aware of a murmur of voices in discussion.

The room was large, stretching forty feet to the wall opposite me. It was half as wide, with the entire wall to my left filled with ten-foot windows. The scene outside was more of the luscious farmland, green and dewy. The sky was grey, but that was to be expected. A few hundred feet from the wall was the Guild Training Dome, and I remembered my first night with the Guild with a rueful wince. I caught a glimpse of Gruoch, perhaps three miles away, tucked into the hills, and I thought immediately of my fleet friendship with Kellmen and the others. Anubis was most prevalent of all. I remembered his face on the night of the attack in the inn, full of concern for my safety.

Don’t worry, pal, I’ll get back to you.

I switched my gaze back to the interior of the room. A twenty-foot table filled the center. It was made of keenly polished wood and was a bit hard to look directly at because it caught the sunlight so well. It had a warm, honey-colored finish that was well complemented by the white and red linen table runner that relaxed along its length. In the center were a few silver trays with finger food that had clearly been picked over. Some of it had fallen to the tabletop, and more had landed on the floor and been stepped on. It was quite a mess.

At the end of the table were three individuals sitting in conversation in front of the large black, white, and red banner of Malicious Intent, depicting the angry eye of their crest. It looked silly to me, but I wasn’t in a position to humiliate, so I stayed quiet and approached the trio. I couldn’t see their names and considered that they may have disabled that feature for some reason.

To my left was the largest of them: a bone-white Fomorian with his powder-grey hair pulled back into a loose bun to reveal the thin, broken brown horns on his forehead. He had a long, wispy mustache that hung down from below his crooked nose at the level of his sculpted chin. Two glassy, pale pink eyes moved quickly back and forth between his companions’ faces. He was wearing a thin, red and yellow doublet with a black breastplate over it. A soft, sable cloak fought to stay fastened around his broad shoulders, and across his barrel chest hung a bandolier full of bottles and vials, each with different colored liquid inside of them. I couldn’t see a weapon, but I had no doubt that a man of his size had a way of defending himself.

The Fomorian in the center was stocky and robust looking. He had pale grey skin and powder blue hair that reached down to his waist. His eyes were blood red, and he wore a silver circlet at the crown of his head with a ruby in the center of it. This accentuated the already too-big horns that curled comically up and back, threatening to loop and pierce his skull from behind. He was cleanly shaven and smiling as he spoke, though his face had the telltale tightness of arrogance—someone used to getting their way. He wore bulky plate armor, even here in the Guildhall, and it was shining with silver everywhere. Pauldrons bulged out with ornate spikes growing from them, while a sturdy breastplate bore the etchings of some runic design. Poking out from behind him was the garishly crafted haft of a wide-bladed sword—the pommel fashioned to resemble an eye inside of an orb. This could only be Matar, the notorious Guildmaster of Malicious Intent.

The Fomorian to my right surprised me. A woman sat quietly, looking on in quiet annoyance as the two others conversed about something she seemed to deem inappropriate. Up until now, I hadn’t seen any female Fomorian, and I had begun to wonder if they even existed. It definitely seemed like a race designed to appeal to machismo. She was olive-skinned, her hair black as night and bound back in a tight bun accented with a bright red comb. She was garbed in a large, flowing crimson robe that fell open and loose at the front. Beneath the heavy fabric was a black tunic under a black-leather jerkin. She had a dingy, white scarf gathered many times around her neck and shoulders underneath the robe, and the end spilled out and onto the floor. Most impressively were her horns. Curving off into opposite directions, they were quite broad, though not overly long, but they were topped with shining, tempered gold. They had a faint, magical quality to them, and I knew immediately that this was not a typical ornament. She had the same pale, pink eyes as her counterpart on the other side of the table, but hers had a bit more of an edge to them. Of the three at the table, she gave the impression of being the most dangerous.

All three wore the red, white, and black tabard of the Guild, the evil eye glaring out at me from their chests. They gave me a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. They emitted an awful aura, something smug and unruly. I didn’t like being in their presence at all. Their light-hearted conversation was a juxtaposition to their menacing and arrogant air. I took a deep breath. I had a job to do, so I shuffled forward dutifully, food in tow.

I approached Matar as respectfully as I could, lowering the tray to his shoulder level so that he could reach one of the bowls.

“Soup?” I asked pathetically.

What have I been reduced to? Was this going to be my existence now?

Matar wasn’t looking at me though, he was staring past me. I chanced a look over my shoulder and saw the relaxed form of Shizu, casually leaning against the table. I had completely forgotten his presence until now. For his size, he was quite good at moving along unnoticed.

The conversation stopped, and all three of the Officers were suddenly staring at the humongous Fomorian in the ill-fitting armor.

“What do you require, Underling Shizukana?” Matar demanded, puffing out his cheeks in annoyance.

“Yes, Underling Shizukana,” the man on the left thundered, “what reason do you have for bothering us?”

The woman on the right just frowned and regarded Shizu silently. Her reaction seemed the most malicious of all.

Shizu was unfazed by their words and just sighed, as though being in their presence was bothersome.

“If you’ll recall, Grigori,” he began, speaking to the large male on the left. His sentence was interrupted by a very pointed throat-clearing from Grigori himself, and Shizu sighed and rephrased his words.

“If you’ll recall, Executor Grigori—you asked for the key to the Armory two days ago and never returned it to me. Now I’m due to clean the whole thing from top to bottom, and I find that it is incredibly difficult to unlock the door without the key. Could I get that back?”

His tone was still the same comfortable, measured cadence, but Grigori seemed infuriated by it. He slammed a giant mailed fist on the table, startling me and knocking some more of the food from the trays in the center.

“Underling Shizukana!” the pale Fomorian bristled, “are you making demands of a higher ranking member of the Guild? Because that would be unacceptable! Underlings do what they’re told, not what they want. Is that understood!?”

“Yeah, I get that…” Shizu began, but stopped and took a breath again.

“Executor Grigori. Would you give me the esteemed joy to receive the key to the Armory so that I might scrub it senseless, as would befit my lowly station?”

Grigori didn’t seem to know how to react to Shizu’s statement. He peered at him seriously, his pale eyes never leaving his face. After a moment, he cleared his throat and seeming to find what he was looking for in Shizu’s countenance, swiped his hand in the air, opening his Menu. He spent some time scrolling slowly through his inventory before highlighting an option.

“Here,” he said, “make sure you do a good job, or you’ll regret almost taking a hard tone with me.”

A trade window appeared in front of Shizu, and he accepted the options with an annoyed sigh, bowing to each of them in turn.

“Thank you Executor,” he said to Grigori, “Vicemaster,” he said to the woman on the right, “Lordmaster,” he said to Matar. He stood up to his full height again and smiled.

“By your leave?”

Both Grigori and the Vicemaster looked to Matar. The Fomorian commander held Shizu in his gaze for a moment before waving him away, the tension in the room easing a bit. Shizu turned and left, closing the door behind him. Which left me alone to fend for myself.

“Soup?” I asked again, indicating the tray that I had not raised since the entire interaction began. Matar stared at me, so I quickly added, “my Lord…?”

The area around his eyes relaxed, and his smile returned. That made me more uncomfortable than before. He seemed to be considering me as one might an animal in the zoo. I was a novelty.

“What are you called, servant?” he asked, his eyes flashing from his Officers coyly as if it was the beginning of a joke.

Servant? Seriously? This guy is really immersed in his role as Guildmaster. As if somehow he’s better than me because he got here first. At least give me the benefit of saying ‘Apprentice.’ I should tell him to shove his title up his dick.

“Vale,” I stated instead. It was frustrating, especially considering my name was clearly hanging in the air above my head.

“Vale…” Matar said, considering my name.

“Vale. Vale. Vaaaayle,” the last utterance was stretched out for emphasis.

“It’s a stupid name,” he said finally.

“Thank you…?” I said.

Like Matar is any better.

“You’re the Beatdown Brigade hopeful, right? The one Donnaghal acquired. Tell me, how do you like being inside a real Guildhall?” He stretched his arms out and looked out the window.

“An A Ranked one as well. It’s got to be a hell of a lot better than the hovel the Brigade run their hackneyed Quests out of.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond.

This dude is a straight-up douchebag. He makes Halec seem palatable.

“Well?” Grigori demanded, pounding on the table again, “answer the man, dammit! Is this better than their shitty Guildhall or not?!”

Easy Turbo, or you’ll squirt blood out of that vein in your neck.

“Oh, uh, I dunno,” I said, looking around, “I haven’t been there. This place seems, uh, neat, though.”

“Neat?!” Grigori screamed, both fists pounded the table, and he stood suddenly, his face reddening.

“Neat?! This place is a whole-fucking-lot better than neat! This Guildhall was crafted by our finest artisans, with gold and silver that we personally wrought from hundreds of Quests! High-level Quests! Quests that would knock you on your ass and leave you sucking your thumb! You show too much disrespect! I should—”

“You should sit down, Grigori,” Matar said calmly, his hand up to soothe the raging Executor.

The big, pale Fomorian looked embarrassed and found his seat quickly, the redness fading slowly from his cheeks.

“Apologies, Lordmaster,” he said, his eyes down, “I just can’t tolerate someone disrespecting the Guild like that.”

“Oh, I don’t think you meant it as an insult, did you, Vale?” Matar asked, daring me to say otherwise.

“No,” I said, still clutching the tray, “I haven’t seen any other Guildhalls, but this one seems pretty sweet. It’s big. Shiny. There’s some windows.”

“See?” Matar said, his voice poisonous, “he likes it. Neat is a great word for Horn Keep.”

Grigori seemed satisfied for the moment, but he didn’t raise his eyes. Instead, he busied himself with a critical adjustment to his bandolier that needed immediate attention.

My arm was starting to sag, so I tried again.

“Would you like any soup, Lordmaster Matar? Thorde made it especially for you three. Gazpacho, I think it is.”

“Gazpacho?” the woman asked, speaking for the first time, “I love Thorde’s gazpacho.”

She had a much more pleasant voice than I had been anticipating. It was smooth and musical, like a performer’s. She reached for a bowl and set it down in front of her.

“Everyone loves Thorde’s gazpacho, Paris. She’s a wonderful cook,” Matar said.

Paris shrugged and picked up her spoon. She scooped up a portion and sipped, her hard face lighting up.

“It’s great,” she said, and tucked in.

The others both grabbed a bowl of the soup. Grigori slapped his in front of him on the tabletop and began slurping it down loudly, but Matar just kept staring at me with his knowing smirk.

“By your leave, Lordmaster?” I ventured, hoping that was the password to be released from this uncomfortable situation. My arm ached from holding the heavy tray aloft for so long.

“In a moment,” Matar said, and swiped a complicated pattern in the air. His Menu sprang open, and he accessed a few options before finding me in his gaze again.

“You have an interesting array of skills, Vale,” he said, “tell me, with a Level Three Cooking Skill, did you help Thorde with the soup?”

“Cooking!” Grigori yelped and guffawed, his face splattered with chunks of the gazpacho.

“Quiet,” Matar said sternly, and Grigori immediately shut up and went back to his meal.

“I did,” I said.

“I see it’s your Trained Skill as well. A strange choice, I wonder why you chose that? A very odd choice indeed for a Scamp class. Tell me. Why did you select that Skill?”

Lie your ass off.

I wasn’t sure why, but I knew I couldn’t trust Matar with any real information about myself. I definitely couldn’t tell him that I hadn’t chosen the Skill at all. That I’d just been assigned a random Class and Skills when I fell ass-first into this extraordinary world.

“I uh, want to be a chef,” I said.

Great fucking job, dipshit. You are supremely fucked. That was absolutely horrible. Just give up, because you’re finished.

“You want to be a chef!?” Grigori exploded again, his eyebrows furrowed, his soup bowl finished but midair from where he’d just pulled it away from his face.

Matar held his hand up again to silence Grigori but urged me on.

“You want to be a chef.”

It was a statement.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my face as serious as possible, “I’m not much for combat. I mean, if you couldn’t tell, I can barely hold this tray upright without dropping it. I prefer something a bit more relaxed. Without conflict.”

Matar studied me for a moment, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Then he spoke.

“Donnaghal said you attacked him in the hallway. Was he lying?”

“Anyone will try to defend themselves, I think.” I said, “but I wasn’t very good at it clearly. I mean, I tried to take him down with a piece of wood. Obviously, that was never going to work!”

Matar cracked a smile.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, relaxing his posture and dipping a spoon into the soup, “you should avoid fighting as much as possible. You may go,” he said, and waved me away.

I turned and caught Paris’ eye as I did.

What the fuck?

She was absolutely seething. Her eyebrows were narrowed, and her mouth was curled into a feral grimace. Her pale pink eyes burned like simmering coals as she tracked my movement away from the table. She was indeed terrifying and seemed as though she could boil me with a glare if I upset her.

I tried to push her out of my mind and focused on the door as I marched toward it. I was almost into the alcove when I heard Matar’s voice behind me.

“One more thing.”

I turned around slowly, making my best impression of a submissive smile.

“Yes, Lordmaster?”

The Guildmaster took a slow slip from his spoon and set it down next to the bowl. He crossed his arms, turning his head from side to side as he spoke.

“I think it would be in both of our best interests to have a candid conversation very soon.” He sat upright, and his eyes seemed to light up.

“I’m very excited to learn all of the information you’re going to share with me about the Beatdown Brigade.”

My heart dropped. I felt a coldness creep into my chest, but all I could do was nod.

“As you wish, Lordmaster,” I said, and turned back to the door.

“And Vale…”

I froze.

What else is this piece of shit going to demand of me?

I turned again slowly. When I looked into Matar’s eyes again, they were back to normal, no longer burning in his skull. He gave me a thumbs-up and winked at me.

“Great job with the soup.”