The bell above the guild door rang as another adventurer pushed in, boots thudding against the worn stone floor.
Jinn stood behind the front desk of Cindres Branch Guild Hall, straight-backed, calm. Her hands moved lightly across a stack of delivery reports, stamping, sorting, setting them aside. Her expression was blank—quiet, professional.
But inside, she was content.
So this is what normal feels like.
I'm getting used to this.
No yelling, no panic, just... manageable chaos.
She glanced up now and then as adventurers came and went—bloodied, loud, tired. Some nodded to her. She nodded back, silent, efficient.
Every day, same routine.
Requests come in—ranked, filtered.
Some urgent, some fake.
Bounties need stamps. Reports need checks.
And gods, adventurers really can't fill out forms to save their lives.
A low sigh left her nose.
They fight wyverns but forget to sign page two.
Or spell their own names wrong.
At least I'm learning what matters... and what's just noise.
She tapped her fingers once on the desk. Another form done. Another small victory.
> Lavirra trusts me now.
Even some of the adventurers nod back.
I still keep my distance...
but this job isn't bad.
Peaceful. Steady. Human.
The hourglass on the shelf beside her emptied with a soft clink.
Her shift was done.
---
The sun was high but soft as she stepped outside, warm light brushing the cobbled streets. Jinn walked without hurry, satchel at her side, coat folded on one arm.
> Good thing Lavirra helped me find this place.
It's small, but quiet—
and I don't have to sleep over ledger piles anymore.
She passed the market on the way—same stalls, same voices.
She bought a loaf of crusty bread, a bundle of dried pears, and a bottle of ink. Routine.
Down a side street, through a back alley, she reached her little rental house.
White walls. Stone steps. Faint moss on the edges.
She tossed her bag by the door and stepped out back.
The tiny backyard had a plank post and a patch of earth, barely big enough to move in.
She picked up her wooden sword.
> Form. Balance. Grip.
Not elegant—but at least I won't die flailing if it comes to it.
She ran drills until her arms ached, then leaned on the post, breath fogging slightly.
After a drink of water and wiping her face, she moved back inside.
There was a thick book on the table—borrowed from the guild shelf.
Some nights, she read.
Other nights, she just stared at the ceiling and slacked off.
She prepped her things, stacked tomorrow's forms, checked her cloak, then lay on the bed—arms folded behind her head, one foot dangling off the edge.
Her eyes drifted to the side table.
An old eyeglass frame rested there.
She reached out, picked it up, and slipped it on.
The lenses were clear—no magnification, no enchantment glow—just plain glass. But inside the rim, a faint flicker of appraisal magic still clung to the frame.
> Father gave this to me when I was little. Said it could appraise things—barely. It shows the obvious, and once in a while... something more.
Back then, I pretended to need glasses just so I could wear it all the time. It made me feel smart. Important.
Eventually... I didn't need to pretend. It just became part of me.
She adjusted the frame slightly.
> It doesn't do much. But when I wear it... I think clearer. It helps me focus. Ground myself.
Maybe that's the real magic.
She smiled slightly, eyes half-lidded.
> I hope this lasts a while.
Me, this job...
and this eyeglass with no lens that magnify.
Silence settled.
The candle burned low.
And the night was still.