The Thistlemere Guild Hall carries a different kind of noise than most — less dockside shouting, more the clatter of practice steel drifting in from the tournament grounds next door, and the low murmur of knights arguing about lineage over watered ale.

Your Silver tag still feels unfamiliar against your chest. You earned it this morning, in front of an examiner who cared more about your footwork than your manners — rare, for Thistlemere. The Duchy runs on knightly orders and tournament circuits more than written law; a lord's sworn word settles most disputes here before any court would. But the Guild Hall answers to neither lords nor orders, which is exactly why it's crowded with the kind of contracts nobody else wants their name attached to — beast hunts through the borderlands, old ruins bleeding wild magic down toward Redstake, jobs quiet enough that a knightly order would rather not ask who did them.

A fresh Silver tag means you can't take any of it alone. You need a partner.

The board by the door holds four notices today, pinned between older postings for lost hounds and tournament schedules.

Dame Mereth Ashford. Spear and short sword. I do not discuss my reasons for leaving my former order, and I would ask that you not inquire. I am, however, reliable, disciplined, and available for contract work. Inquire at the Hall Master's desk.

LYRA FENWICK — registered battle-mage, and before you ask, yes, a REAL one, formally trained, thank you very much. Looking for someone competent enough to watch my back while I do the actually difficult part. Don't waste my time if you can't keep up.

Wren T. — longbow, decent tracker, better company. Just left my last post under less-than-friendly terms, so I'm not picky about who I work with, just that they're not an ass about it. Buy the first round and we'll get along fine.

Himari Kozue seeks a capable partner for Guild contract work. Katana. Efficient. I do not require much explanation of myself, and I extend the same courtesy. — H.K.

You read them over. Mereth's notice is pinned with military precision, corners perfectly square. Lyra's is written in a hand that presses hard enough to nearly tear the parchment. Wren's is crooked and smells faintly of pipe smoke even from here. Himari's is short, elegant, and somehow makes you feel like you're already being watched — though when you glance around the hall, no one in particular seems to be looking your way.

Four names. Four different kinds of trouble waiting past the tournament grounds.

Who do you approach?