The rain had rinsed the town clean by dawn. Roof tiles steamed; the gutter on their townhouse whispered the last of the storm along its honest line. From the ridge of the guildhall, a man in threadbare gray watched the lane the way a bell listens for breath.
Brother Sen noted the new ceiling hook and the heavy bag behind their window. He noted two figures walking shoulder to shoulder with the stride of people who had decided to share a pace. His mouth threatened a not-smile and then thought better of it.
"Pillar holds," he said to nobody, and shifted along the tiles until he could see the guild yard below.
Inside, the guild hall felt like a smithy for paper—stamps ringing, quills cutting, coin counting like nails poured into a bucket. A chalk board read:
GUILD APPRAISAL — For G-E RANKS RAISE YOUR RANK: PERFORMANCE REVIEW, DISCIPLINE, FIELDCRAFT, COMBAT, ETHICS "SAFETY, PURPOSE, CAUTION."
Kelda slid two slates forward, dry as ever. "Forms, signatures, then you'll do what you've been doing underground—only with clipboards watching. No heroics. Fail a safety, we stop the day."
Niya ghosted up, braid high, cloak still beading rain. She signed halt, bend, break, breach with two quick flicks. "I'll run your fieldcraft and mapping. Dorum has the door set."
Master Dorum—a door captain with a forehead scar like a hyphen—lifted a palm. "You two've been showing up in other people's reports. Let's see if your footwork can keep up."
Trixie tightened her buckler strap; Taro presented his knuckles. She wrapped him snug, then smoothed his face-wrap with exact thumbs. He tapped the back of her hand—thanks—then gave her knuckles a quick squeeze. Their eyes met just long enough to count as breakfast.
"Hands up," she said.
"Chin down," he grinned.
They touched buckler rim to his pauldron—their small ritual—and followed Dorum toward the stair tower.
Station I — Breath & Load
The stair tower ran two flights up. A steward handed Taro a sand sack and clipped a timer to his belt.
"Armor Steps," Dorum said. "Exhale on the step, stand tall, no wobble."
Taro breathed out and moved the way Sen's wall had taught him—step, settle, bones stacked; no flair, no debt. The sack rode quiet on his shoulder. At the top, he turned without pride and came down with the same economy.
Trixie took the crate with comfort straps and called cadence for both of them. "In—two—three—four; out—two—three—four—five—six." Her voice slid into Taro's head the way a good song lives there. On the clipboard, a quill made tidy ticks: cadence steady; no bob; load control excellent.
Recognized Training (utility).
Blessed Growth: +2 to all stats.
Up on the roof, Sen rested his chin on his wrist and watched their feet. The pillar held.
Station II — Door Discipline (Mock Set)
They stepped into a corridor the guild had built out of planks and stubborn imagination: root posts, a hinged blank where a door would be, hidden triplines, a smoke phial waiting with bad manners. Niya watched from the shadows; Dorum stood by a whistle.
"Wedge, chalk, rope, signals," Dorum said. "No chasing. If the door argues, you make it say please and you leave."
Trixie knelt and planted the wedge clean, seam cloth rolled ready. Taro chalked the frame, then let his eyes unfocus until wrongness showed as an angle. A bell line sat knee-high and sulking.
"Line fouled—knee," Trixie murmured.
Taro set Rope-Cut Step through the air where the trip wanted to live. His sole kissed dust, not string. The bell kept its silence.
A sapper popped a smoke phial. Trixie slid seam cloth low, then called cadence through gray: "In two… out six." Nobody rushed the door; nobody got clever. When Dorum blasted a retreat whistle, they backed out by the numbers and Trixie picked up rope as if the floor were a ledger you could balance with tidy fingers.
Clipboard notes: Door seam chalked; wedge discipline; smoke handled; no over-Surge; no chase. Dorum, low: "Door-ready instincts."
From the roof, Sen exhaled once. A nod. That was all.
Station III — Combat Gauntlet
The sim rigs rolled on rails: straw-and-hide wolves and padded "rider" frames.
Trixie raised Roof Guard against a falling club. Steel dish rang, she stole one brick of space with a neat shield-shoulder, then Riposte—quick, straight thrust—into the open lane. Stop, reset. High, mid, low. The buckler did its job; the sword spoke politely.
Taro worked clear: Snap Step (half-shoe slide—be there before your foot admits it), jab-cross-hook (straight, straight, short arc), then Guard Melt—tap-tap same seam during one breath—Surge short and sure. He capped Surges at three. The ribs remembered.
Live round: a padded "rider" skimmed the ring path, javelin ready. Taro slipped his head left, half-stepped inside, ran body → head → short right. Trixie clipped the girth on the pass; the rider spilled; buckler rim to knee; neat ending cut. Judges wrote "no waste" and "talked without words."
Recognized Training (combat).
Blessed Growth: +2 to all stats.
Parry-Catch (Novice) flagged—open-palm pat on jabs, sets tight counters.
Roof Guard (Novice) ↑ coverage vs. overhands.
Station IV — Spars
Taro took a light round with the guild pugilist. No headshots, points for choices. The other man jabbed; Taro parry-caught with an open palm, slid a short hook into the ribs, rolled his shoulder when the counter came so leather kissed instead of bit. Counter-Tempo III stole a beat where the pugilist's habit hiccuped. Judges wrote: economy, efficient, no debt, few openings, hands come back home.
Trixie faced a shield sergeant. She raised roof to catch an overhand, slid a brick sideways with the shoulder, touched a quick slash and got out clean. On the reset, she gave ground to the line without letting pride talk. Kelda, watching from the rail, didn't smile. Which is how Kelda smiles.
Two-on-two: they ran "Cover! → switch → finish" without speaking; a steward's pen paused mid-scratch and then kept writing faster.
Station V — Fieldcraft & First Aid
Niya took their map away and asked for the loop from memory.
"Arch," Trixie said, drawing the bend. "Dry-well elbow. Den flank. Rider bowl here."
"Two trap lanes," Taro added. "Bell knee-high; twine at shin."
Knots showed up neat; rope lengths came off with clean know-how. On the mock calf wound, Trixie braced the recruit's hip and knee, wrapped while counting breath, then checked the pulse in two fingers the way a camp mother would. Taro didn't stare at the injury; he watched the lane, the better to keep both of them whole.
Examiner's note: "No fuss. Knows what belongs to the knife; what belongs to the breath."
Station VI — Ethics & Ledger
Behind a desk and a city seal, a clerk with gray hair read clauses as if she were rolling scripture. Taro produced the stamped manumission deposit and buyout path; Trixie recited her right to refuse if too tired to do a thing well; both described no-chase doctrine in words the city liked to hear.
The clerk tapped her pen thrice, then made an entry in a fat ledger. "Compliant," she said. "Keep being boring."
Brother Sen followed their path through the mock door and spars the way a fisherman follows a float. He watched Taro's foot arrive before the rest of him, watched the way the girl's cadence slipped into a room and made it steadier.
He said nothing at the end. He stepped off the roof, cut through an alley, and left a thread-thin chalk mark above their lintel before anyone could notice.
Breathe first.—S.
By mid-afternoon, the hall's air had turned to hot paper and ink. Scribes in blue sleeves set two plates on the counter and sketched the runes that made numbers tell the truth. The plates warmed, then flashed.
The clerk cleared her throat and read, voice ringing just enough to let nearby benches listen.
Guild Record — Taro (Monk I)
Guild Rank: D (promoted two grades)
Class: Monk I
Title: Combatant Prodigy (Disguised title thanks to the gods blessing)
Base Stats (post-appraisal read):
STR 86, END 84, AGI 82, SPIRIT 63, MIND 60, LUCK 59, Ki 77
HP: 840 base (10× END)
Notes: Door discipline "exemplary"; formation trust "strong"; skill refinement logged (Guard Melt nearing next tier; Call-and-Breath synergy high).
Guild Record — Trixie (Beast Warrior / Porter)
Guild Rank: D (promoted two grades)
Plate Read — Base Stats:
STR 74, END 78, AGI 72, SPIRIT 56, MIND 50, LUCK 48
Notes: Cadence reliability; buckler discipline; rapid growth from prior plate (40–50 avg → 70–80 band); kit registered to her plate (buckler, sword, reinforced leather).
A murmur moved through the benches. Someone let out a low whistle. Kelda didn't look surprised, which was the most surprising thing she could have done.
"Door team," she said, stamping two cards and sliding them across. "You now have F3 full access and F4 expedition eligibility under a captain. Restricted phials by voucher, mapping stipends, hazard bounties. Don't spend the privilege like amateurs."
A neat pane unrolled where only they could see it:
Meaningful Training Registered.
Blessed Growth: +2 to all stats.
Team Passive — Call-and-Breath II: steadier Ki and focus while adjacent; cadence carries further; minor morale bolster.
Technique — Guard Melt I → II (Apprentice): seam persuasion window wider; third tap in one breath can force brief guard collapse (stagger on light targets).
Trixie's ears tilted when the passive clicked; Taro felt the way her count sat even more easily inside his ribs, like a metronome made of trust.
He leaned in and kissed the edge of her brow-guard—quick, certain, small enough to dodge a clerk's lecture. She straightened his chin strap with exact thumbs. Kelda pretended to examine a stamp, which is how Kelda says "I saw nothing."
On the edge of the crowd, Niya's mouth twitched up a fraction. "Bring that boring to F4," she said. "Leave the pride."
Master Dorum planted a finger on the board where a new line had been chalked:
F3 FAR DEN DEEPENING — DOOR TEAM MUSTER AT FIRST LIGHT
F4 ORC SIGHTINGS — EXPEDITION SIGN-UP (EXPERIENCED COMBAT LEAD PREFERRED)
"Be at the yard at dawn," he said. "Ropes, wedges, chalk. No more than three Surges until I say otherwise. If the door argues, make it say 'please' and leave."
"Breath before doors," Taro said.
"Always," Trixie answered, and touched buckler rim to his pauldron. Their ritual felt bigger in a room that had decided to write their names in ink.
They stepped into late light that smelled like washed stone and soup. On the ridge, Sen watched them turn toward the townhouse. He let himself have the not-smile, just once.
"They will live," he told the chimney stacks, which kept their opinions to themselves.
At home, they put the stamped cards by the window where plans liked to sit. Trixie colored a tiny square beside Party Fund 6g 40s. He set a pot to simmer. They did the simple work that keeps a day from becoming a boast: oil on straps, wax on the buckler rim, chalk re-wrapped, rope flaked without knots.
"D-rank," she said, half awe, half ordinary.
"Just a letter," he said, and couldn't help grinning. "A good one."
She fixed his strap a thumb's worth and looked up through her lashes. "Together?"
"Together," he said.
They settled into a good dinner, with a foot rub for Trixie, an arm massage for Taro, and a quick kiss as they turned into bed, their night settled down and prepared for a good rest before the next days training with Sen and the preparation for their next dungeon quest.
The training bag swayed once in the window draft and decided to be still. Under the bell, the board gathered dew around two important words, chalk bright as a promise:
Door team.