Chapter 32: Hail to the Proven

Blood had dried on Caleb's shirt in rusty patches. Mud caked his boots, and the acrid smell of goblin fluids clung to his clothes. He stepped through Deadfall's gates, his stride even and measured, ignoring the curious stares from evening merchants packing their stalls.

The broken spear in his hand drew every eye. Where a proper iron point should have gleamed, jagged metal teeth caught the torchlight. The weapon looked like it had been through a grinder.

Good. Let them wonder.

Caleb ignored them all. His attention had narrowed to a single objective, a clean line item on a project plan from hell: get paid.

Pack bulging with his grisly harvest, his face betrayed nothing. His expression was a mask of calm, the look of a man with business to finish. He’d learned something fundamental in that cavern about how respect was earned in this world. It had to be carved out with blood and determination.

He walked directly to the Adventurer’s Hall, his boots leaving muddy, reddish prints on the stones. The familiar sounds of the Hall—boasting, laughter, the clink of mugs—washed over him, but he felt detached from it, an observer behind a pane of glass.

He didn't pause at the entrance. Didn't scan the room. He moved with purpose toward Felicity's counter, a corridor of silence opening in the crowd ahead of him. Upending his pack, a cascade of bloodstained yellow claws tumbled onto the polished wood, one set noticeably larger than the rest. The clatter was quick and dry, rattling through the Hall’s noise.

Conversations stuttered and died. The dice game in the corner paused mid-throw. Every person in the room fixed their eyes on the pile of trophies.

"Look what the mist dragged in. Come to beg for more handouts, dull-ear?"

Branson’s voice was a slurred sneer from the bar. Caleb didn't turn. He kept his eyes on Felicity, who was staring at the pile of claws, her professional composure momentarily fractured.

"Contract 734," Caleb said, his voice a dry rasp. "Feral goblins. Objective: culling."

Branson laughed, a wet, ugly sound. He pushed himself off his barstool and swaggered over, the stench of stale ale preceding him. "Look at that. The little half-breed got lucky and stumbled on a few gobs." He leaned on the counter, his bloodshot eyes gleaming with avarice. "Tell you what, kid. You probably left a mess out there. A real pro knows how to harvest a whole kill. You tell me where the big one’s body is, and I’ll even give you a silver for the tip. A matriarch's hide is worth a pretty penny if you know how to skin it."

Classic vulture tactics, Caleb thought. Seen it a dozen times.

The corner of Caleb's mouth hitched up. He reached into a separate pocket of his pack and produced a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. He unwrapped it with deliberate care, revealing the musky, fist-sized gland. "Funny you should mention that."

A gasp came from a nearby table. "Is that... a matriarch's pheromone gland? A fresh one?"

"The contract was for culling," Caleb said, his voice carrying easily in the sudden quiet. "I culled the matriarch. And her guards." He gestured to the pile of claws. "And their scouts. And the ones in the cave. Total of eleven confirmed kills."

The adventurer who had spoken—a woman with a scarred face and a shrewd stare—whistled low. "A matriarch's gland is a key reagent for rare F-Tier combat stimulants. That thing alone is worth thirty gold, easy."

Branson stared at the gland, his jaw slack. The easy confidence drained from his face, replaced by a sullen, thwarted anger as he turned and left the bar to find a table elsewhere.

At a table near the back, a young adventurer leaned toward his cynical, older companion. "A half-breed kid, slaying a matriarch on his first contract?" He whispered, his voice full of awe. "He has to have a hidden bloodline, right? Some ancient power?"

The older man snorted into his ale. "Luck. The forest gives and the forest takes. Kid used up all his luck on one contract. It'll run out."

Felicity cleared her throat, a flicker of pride in her eyes. "Indeed. Let me get you a preservation jar for that." She slid a heavy glass container across the counter. "The Guild's standing offer is twenty-five gold, should you wish to sell."

Caleb placed the gland into the jar and sealed it. "Thank you, but I'll hold onto it for now."

A small, knowing smile was Felicity's only reply. "Very well. Let's settle the bounty on the rest."

She counted the claws with practiced efficiency, separating the matriarch's larger, thicker trophies from the others. "Ten sets of claws." She finished her count and made a quick calculation on her slate. "That comes to a total of two gold and eight silver. The matriarch's claws are another matter." She consulted her rate board with a glance. "Eight gold for the set. That brings your total to ten gold and eight silver."

The sum was a small fortune, more money than he'd had in his possession since arriving in this world. Felicity counted out the coins quickly, setting them on the counter in front of Caleb.

"Now, about your advance," she said.

"Seventy-five silver for the cuirass," Caleb recited. "And one gold, ten silver for the spear, with your interest, and a final gold for the Guild fee that was deferred." He pushed three gleaming gold pieces from his new pile across the counter. "Call it three gold even."

A flicker of approval crossed Felicity’s features as she swept the coins into her palm.

"Alright then," she said, her tone shifting from businesslike to something more formal. "Time to make this official."

Felicity produced a blank bronze badge and a flat, slate-grey metal plate etched with glowing runes. She placed them on the counter, the ambient noise of the Hall seeming to recede as the runes pulsed with a soft, steady light. "Place your hand on the badge, Thal."

Caleb did as instructed. The blank bronze was cool and inert under his palm.

"Now, the Oath. First, push your Stamina into it. Show it your strength."

He concentrated, drawing on the warm, kinetic energy in his muscles and channeling it down his arm. The badge grew hot under his palm, a pleasant, radiating warmth that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. A red rune lit up on the plate.

"Good. Now, your Mana. Show it your will."

He reached for the cool pool of energy in his core, guiding a delicate thread of it into the heated metal. A core of coolness formed within the badge's heat as a blue rune flared, a swirl of opposing forces that made the air hum.

Before Felicity could give the next instruction, it happened. A sharp, unsettling lurch deep in his core, as if something had been plucked from his very soul. The sensation was gone as quickly as it came, leaving a faint impression of wrongness behind. The mingled energies on the runic plate flared with a soft purple light.

"Recite the words after me," Felicity commanded, her voice now resonant with tradition.

The faint purple light from the plate intensified, casting them both in a solemn radiance. Caleb met her eyes and gave a single, firm nod, ready to speak the words that would bind him to this new life.

"Before the eyes of the Guild, and by the soul within me, I make this pledge."

"I give my body's fire to this metal, my mind's light to this mark, and my life's own spark to seal this bond."

"Where the wild dark encroaches, I shall be the ward. Where the innocent falter, I shall hold the line," he affirmed, the line hitting closer to home than the others.

"In the service of my contract, I will not waver."

"My contract is my honor, and my honor is my life."

As the last word left his lips, the light from the plate flared, then died. He retrieved his prize. The badge now bore the stamped image of a Sitka spruce, with a hair-thin outline of silver mist shimmering at its base.

Felicity took the badge from him, a hint of a grin playing on her mouth. "Initiate rank. Standard for a first contract." She glanced from the simple badge to the pile of matriarch claws still on the counter. "But killing a matriarch on your first run is anything but standard."

Before Caleb could ask what she meant, she plucked the new badge from his fingers and placed back onto the runic plate, touching a specific rune at the device's edge. "The ritual defaults to the minimum. But exceptional performance deserves exceptional rewards."

The plate pulsed with a brighter, warmer light this time, as the hair-thin outline on the badge shimmered, dissolved, and then reformed. The silver mist was no longer a simple outline. Faint, silvery wisps now curled up from the base of the tree, a clear mark of a higher standing.

Felicity picked up the newly altered badge, its emblem now carrying more significance. Her professional demeanor returned, but it was colored with a genuine smile. She pinned the badge to the sleeve of his bloodied tunic herself, her movements firm and practiced. Then she turned to the now-silent Hall, her voice rising to carry across the room.

"The debt is settled and the contract is complete! We have a new member! Hail to the Proven: Thalorin!"

A ragged cheer went up from a few tables. The scarred woman who had commented on the gland raised her mug in a silent toast.

"First round's on the newbie!" someone shouted from the back.

"No, the first round for the newbie is on us!" another voice corrected, earning a wave of good-natured laughter.

The scarred woman set her own mug down and pushed back from her table, weaving through the crowded Hall while Caleb smiled at the jeers. She returned from the bar with a fresh, full tankard and stopped before Caleb, offering the drink with a nod.

"Well done, kid," she said, her voice a low rasp. "Most don't make it back from a matriarch hunt at all, let alone with a profit. The first one is on me. It's tradition."

Caleb looked at the offered drink, then at the faces in the crowd watching him. He saw respect. Acceptance. For a moment, he felt like he belonged. The deep, cellular exhaustion from his ordeal was a burden pulling him toward the inn, toward the promise of rest. But his previous life's instincts, honed by years of managing perceptions, told him this was the last, crucial step of the first impression.

Just one more thing. A deep weariness washed over him. Then you can collapse.

He took the heavy mug from the woman. He raised it to the crowd in a silent toast, then tilted it back and drank. The ale was bitter and watery, but he forced it down in long, determined swallows, his throat working until the mug was empty.

He slammed it down on the counter with a solid thud and, summoning a reserve of energy he didn't know he had, let out a loud, rattling belch that resounded in the quiet hall. Jack would have been so proud. Evelynn, less so.

A few chuckles broke the silence, then a smattering of appreciative laughter.

Caleb reached for the pile of coins on the counter, his movements slow and deliberate. He selected a single gold piece, its surface gleaming in the torchlight. With a flick of his thumb, he sent it spinning through the air. A young serving girl who had been watching the spectacle snatched it deftly from its arc, her eyes wide with surprise.

"The next round is on me," Caleb announced, his voice carrying across the room.

The Hall erupted. The scattered laughter became a full-throated cheer, the loudest one yet. Mugs were raised, backs were slapped, and the usual boisterous din of the adventurer's life returned in full force.

He turned back to the scarred woman, who was watching him with an amused, knowing look. "I appreciate the welcome," he said, his voice now rough with a fatigue he could no longer hide. "Truly. But I think I need a bed more than I need another ale right now."

The woman laughed, a throaty, genuine sound. "Even better. A kill that big should leave you wrecked. Get some rest, kid. You earned it." She clapped him on his good shoulder and returned to her table.

"One more thing." Felicity leaned in as Caleb collected his earnings, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "About that gland. You know who the players are. Be smart about which you approach. Getting caught in their war is not something you want. Getting on the wrong side of Zarven is something you want even less."

Caleb looked her in the eye and nodded. "Understood. Thank you, Felicity."

As Caleb turned for the door to head out. He had money in his pocket, a new reputation, and a very clear understanding of his next steps.

He stepped into the damp air of the main thoroughfare, Felicity’s warning recalling in his mind. Zarven. The name was a reminder that the dangers here weren't just fang and claw. For now, however, the heavy purse was a more immediate reality. It was security. It was the means to better gear, better accommodations, and maybe, just maybe, a real future.

The Hearthsong Inn was in the throes of late-night revelry. The common room was a chaotic mix of clattering mugs, loud voices, and the lively tune of a bard. Caleb’s entrance had the same effect it had in the Hall. A wave of silence spread from the door as patrons took in his blood-spattered appearance and the broken spear.

Cassia rushed from behind the bar, her eyes wide with alarm. "Thal! My goodness, are you alright? What happened?" Her hands fluttered around him, checking for injuries without quite touching his filthy clothes.

"I'm fine," Caleb said, his voice steady despite his exhaustion. "The contract is complete. But I could really use a room to clean up in."

"A room? But your cot in the staff quarters—"

"I'm not staff anymore." He pulled out his coin purse, letting her hear the musical clink of gold and silver. "I'm a paying guest. For tonight, at least."

Understanding dawned in her brown eyes. "Of course. Second floor, third door. There's a washing basin with hot water runes." She hesitated, then added softly, "I'm glad you're safe."

Caleb offered a tired smile in return, the genuine warmth of her words a small comfort. He ascended the main staircase under the lingering stares of the common room patrons. Closing the door felt like sealing off another world, leaving the judgment and the noise behind.

The room was small but clean, with a proper bed and the promised washing basin. Caleb stripped off his blood-stained clothes and activated the water runes with a touch of his Intent. Hot water poured from the spout, and he scrubbed away the grime of battle with methodical thoroughness.

The water in the basin stilled, its surface becoming a dark mirror. He leaned closer, studying the reflection. The face was familiar now; the initial shock of seeing a stranger long since faded into a simple fact of his existence. The auburn hair, the moss-green eyes, the subtle taper of his ears—they were his.

But the eyes themselves were different.

The haunted look that had been Thal's legacy was gone. So was the weary resignation that had belonged to a forty-year-old man in a different world. What was left was something new. A quiet, unnerving focus. The look of someone who had faced the darkness and hadn't flinched. He held his own regard for a long moment.

An hour later, clean and dressed in fresh clothes a housemaid had brought him, Caleb descended the main staircase. The common room had quieted, and the crowd had thinned out. He saw Gareth behind the bar, wiping down the polished wood with a cloth.

Caleb walked up and placed the deboning knife on the counter. It was clean, oiled, and as sharp as he'd received it.

Gareth paused his work. He picked up the knife, testing its edge with his thumb. He looked from the blade to Caleb, his green eyes holding an unreadable expression. Then, he gave a single quick dip of his head. He headed into the kitchen and returned with a bowl full of the night’s stew. He placed it on the bar, along with a mug of dark ale and a thick slice of bread.

They exchanged no words. None were needed. It was an acknowledgment. A welcome. Respect, served in a bowl.

Caleb sat at the bar, but before he could take a bite, Corinne slid onto the stool beside him, her eyes wide with a thousand questions.

"You have to tell us everything! Did you really kill a matriarch? Was it huge? Did it have giant teeth?"

Caleb's eyebrows lifted.

Cassia arrived a moment later, her expression a mixture of relief and maternal worry. "Let the boy eat, Corinne."

"But Mom, he—"

Gareth gave his daughter a look. The unspoken parental command worked, and Corinne fell silent, though she continued to vibrate with barely contained excitement.

Caleb ate a spoonful of the stew. The rich flavor of roasted meat and root vegetables was the taste of safety. Of home. He looked at the three of them—Cassia, Gareth, Corinne. His employers. His friends. His... family? The idea was jarring, but not unwelcome.

Caleb took a deep breath and began. He recounted the hunt, his voice low and even. He described the ambush, the desperate fight in the pass. His narration was analytical now, colored by his new skills. He spoke of the goblins' flanking tactics, of the beta leader's intelligence, of how he'd used the chokepoint to his advantage.

When he described his first kill, the brutal, clumsy battering with a rock, Corinne leaned forward, her eyes sparkling.

"Wow! Did its head really just... pop? Like a melon?"

The question was so jarringly cheerful, so utterly disconnected from the vicious reality, that it almost made him laugh. He looked at her innocent, excited face and saw the vast gulf between the stories she'd heard and the life he was now living.

"Something like that," he whispered.

He finished his tale, describing the final, desperate gambit against the matriarch—purposefully leaving out any mention of the cave and the dark. As he fell silent, Gareth, who had been listening with stoic intensity, gave a second, slower nod. This one differed from the first. It was deeper. It was the respect of one warrior acknowledging another.

"So you're an adventurer now?" Corinne asked, breaking the moment.

"Seems that way." Caleb turned to Cassia. "Which brings me to business. I'd like to keep a room here. The staff quarters are generous, but if I'm taking contracts..."

Cassia and Gareth exchanged a look. It was Cassia who spoke. "Of course, you'll need privacy and proper storage. We'll even give you the family rate. Our only condition is that you promise to help in the kitchen from time-to-time when we need you."

A quiet release of breath eased the tension from his frame. He had other matters to attend to.

"I also need to settle my debt." He placed three gold coins on the bar. "For the healing potion."

Cassia pushed one of the coins back toward him. A warm, genuine smile spread across her face, reaching her eyes. It was a look of heartfelt maternal pride.

"A man who settles his debts so honorably deserves a discount," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Two is more than sufficient."

Caleb met her gaze and saw the shift in their relationship. She saw him now as an equal, a man who paid his way. She respected him. He pocketed the coin with a grateful grin.

"You've earned your rest tonight, Thal," Cassia said, her voice warm. "But be careful. A reputation like the one you earned today... it attracts attention. Not all of it is desirable."

"I understand."

Cassia’s warning lingered in the air. He had been cultivating a specific image at the Hall, one of competence and dangerous potential. He felt it was a necessary performance to secure his place. But every morning, he put on a different mask for Captain Hatch, one of fumbling inadequacy designed to keep him off the military’s radar.

Crumb. The two roles couldn't coexist for long in a village this small. News of the half-elf who single-handedly cleared a goblin nest would travel fast. He could already picture Hatch’s skeptical glare during the next drill when "Thal the Victor" inevitably tripped over his own feet. The Captain was far too perceptive to not question such a glaring contradiction.

But that was a problem for another day. Tonight, he was an adventurer, not a recruit. Caleb appreciated the rich, savory broth, letting the warmth chase away his concerns. He ate another bite of the stew and took it all in. He sat in the common room, a patron and a victor. His place here was earned with blood and silver. The food tasted different here. And it tasted good.

He finished his meal, then stood, nodding to the Hearthsongs. "Good night. And thank you."

He walked toward the stairs that led to the guest rooms. By the landing where he'd left it was the broken spear.

He paused, then bent down and picked it up. The jagged, ruined tip was evidence of the price of his victory. He carried it with him as he climbed the stairs, the worn wood a reassuring comfort in his hand. The failed tool had become a memento. A reminder.

A promise.

Author's Note:

I copy/pasted the below from RR, but wanted to share with you too. Hope you enjoyed the conclusion of the goblin arc! Thank you so much for your support!

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Bonus chapter to celebrate Front Page Rising Stars placement! Ya'll rock! I'd love to show more love, but I'm running out of backlog much faster than I had planned at launch... need to buckle down and get back to writing forward. The feedback and revisions y'all are driving make the story much tighter, but I didn't realize how time-consuming it would be. So thank you! And sorry.

Speaking of revisions... voila!

Slight change in Chapter 18 (10/18/2025) to make the stakes of why Caleb is trying to fly under the radar in front of Captain Hatch more explicit. 

Added an "Oh Crumb" moment to Chapter 21 (10/18/2025) that shows Caleb at least acknowledging he dun goofed by flashing his skills.

Chapter 18 TLDR: The Mandate is a recruiting front where top talent gets an offer, and often times conscripted if they refuse.

Chapter 21 TLDR: Caleb has a moment of self-reflection that he shouldn't have overreacted to Branson and flashed his status screen to shut him up.

Chapter 18 revision, Cassia to Caleb:

"Obviously, you couldn't have mustered for training this morning because you just Awakened this afternoon. But be warned: it's not what they tell you it is," Cassia continued, her words coming faster now. "Forget all that nonsense about civic duty. It's just pretty words to hide the teeth. The Mandate is a recruitment program, and a cruel one. They're not looking for bodies, not at first. They're looking for talent. They push everyone to find the few who truly stand out, and then they make them an 'offer'." Her fingers tightened on his arm, her expression grim. "And that's the trap, Thal. The offers aren't optional. If you're deemed 'valuable' and refuse their placement, they conscript you anyway. A five-year term. It's their way of saying your talent belongs to the Empire, whether you agree or not."

Chapter 21 revision, Caleb after witnessing Branson punch table:

The frustration was so consuming that he almost missed it when the half-elf behind the counter finally broke the tense silence.

Felicity had been staring at Caleb for a long moment. Her words were a hushed murmur he wasn't meant to hear. "Is he some kind of genius?"

Her statement interrupted his analysis, yanking his attention back to the counter. The fascination with Branson's show of power evaporated, replaced by a sudden dread.

Genius? The word was a glaring spotlight that caught him in its beam. For weeks, his entire strategy had been to be invisible, the quiet, reliable boy in the kitchen. But Branson’s casual bigotry, the sneering use of “dull-ear,” had scraped something raw inside him. For a moment, the frustration had boiled over, and he’d just wanted to shut the man up in the most undeniable way possible.

And he had. By ignoring every one of Cassia's warnings about standing out. He'd just hung a huge sign above his head that could make its way back to Captain Hatch. Crumb. That was monumentally stupid. He had to regain control of the narrative, and fast. Downplay it. Make it simple talent, not a miracle.

"I just learn fast." Caleb quickly dismissed the status display. "So—about that sponsorship?"