[Chapter 10] Detour

  They left the Guild Hall with a quest slip and a direction.

  The heavy doors thudded shut behind them, muting the layered noise of voices and boots for a heartbeat.

  “Southside granary?” Yssavelle thought, tightening her grip on the bow’s strap.

  “Detour first,” Haru said, cutting across that first momentum as neatly as if he’d sliced a line on a map.

  She blinked, but followed without protest.

  He led her along the main avenue that ringed the Guild, past a cluster of stalls that had clearly grown fat on proximity—armorers, scribes, outfitters, all offering some version of “adventurer essentials” on their signs.?

  The shop he chose was practical rather than flashy.

  No grand signboard, just a wooden plaque with a stylized pack and sword burned into it. Inside, the air smelled of oil, leather, and faintly of dried herbs. Racks and shelves held weapons of every basic kind—not masterpieces, but straight, well-kept steel. Crates of potion vials, rolls of bandages, coils of rope, simple enchanted trinkets with price tags hanging from their cords.

  Everything an adventurer who wanted to stay alive longer than a week might need.

  Haru’s gaze skimmed the displays once, cataloguing. Then he moved toward a corner where small shields were stacked—a half-forgotten section compared to the more glamorous blades.

  He sifted through them with quick, economical movements and picked out two round bucklers of sturdy wood, each reinforced with a simple steel boss in the center. They were small enough to be nimble, large enough to knock aside a bite.

  Duelists’ gear, to anyone who knew what they were looking at.

  The shopkeeper, an older man with ink stains on his fingers and a measuring eye, watched this choice with one eyebrow creeping upward. The expression on his face hovered somewhere between “Are you sure?” and “As long as you pay.”

  There were larger shields nearby—cheaper, more obviously “protective” to the untrained eye. Haru ignored them.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  A deal was a deal; the merchant did not argue.

  Coin changed hands. The man wrapped neither shield, only wiped them with a rag and passed them over with a nod. Haru slid one onto his left forearm, testing the weight, the balance, the way the strap bit into his sleeve.

  The duo stepped back out into the street, the Guild’s bulk at their backs and the city stretching ahead.

  It was only then that Yssavelle’s curiosity overran her caution.

  She gestured—touching first the shield on his arm, then the second one he carried, then let her fingers hang in a shape that was almost a question mark.

  Why those?

  One corner of Haru’s mouth moved. It never became a full smile, but the suggestion of one flickered at the edge.

  He tapped the steel boss at the center of the buckler with his knuckles. The sound was a solid, satisfying thock.

  “They’ll be useful,” he said. “You’ll understand when we’re there.”

  His tone held the same calm certainty he used when he said “Ten steps” or “Breathe.” It had an odd way of smoothing doubts without answering them.

  They walked.

  Between one street and the next, life in Lumendell spilled out around them in fragments.

  Two laborers argued about grain prices. A Garuda courier glided down to land on a balcony, wings folding as neatly as a cloak. Children darted between legs, wooden swords in hand, shouting the names of famous adventurers Yssavelle had never heard.

  At the edge of a tavern’s outdoor seating, a cluster of robed figures sat hunched over a table littered with papers and empty cups. Their voices carried just enough to catch.

  "…I’m telling you, the mutation rate doubled after the Cataclysm," one said, tapping a page that showed more inkblot than discernible chart. "The Monster Boom didn’t come from nowhere."?

  "Or maybe we did," another replied dryly. "Eight branches of the same stock pushing mana in too many directions for too long. Humans with scales, Humans with feathers, Humans with gills—" He wiggled his fingers in a mock shrug. "Perhaps the beasts just followed suit."

  A third laughed into his cup.

  "Careful," he said. "If the Department hears you say all the races are just clever beasts with a head start, they’ll brand you unclaimable and throw you to Civic Handling."

  They all chuckled at that, a brittle kind of humor.

  "Relax," the first added. "No one listens to scholars unless we say what they’ve already decided is true."?

  They drank, ink and speculation dissolving back into tavern noise.

  Haru didn’t slow, but Yssavelle could see the way the line of his shoulders shifted—just slightly, like a hound catching a scent. His attention caught, filed, already traveling along invisible threads that connected "mutation rate" and "branches" and "Monster Boom" to the diagrams in his notebook.

  To anyone else, his face looked as controlled as ever.

  To her, who had watched him write and watched him watch her, there was a faint brightness in his eyes that hadn’t been there in the Rusted Perch. Not joy, exactly. Curiosity, sharpened almost to hunger.

  He noticed her watching.

  "Lore isn’t just what the Guild writes on its walls," he said, tone casual. "It leaks out in taverns, too."

  He adjusted the second buckler under his arm.

  "Rats next."

  The streets narrowed gradually as they headed toward Southside, the buildings a little closer, the cobbles more worn. Here and there, faded notices about curfews during past Monster Boom surges still clung to walls, half-peeled.?

  Somewhere below, beneath a granary floor, something chittered in the dark, teeth already waiting.