Chapter 7: Job & Orphanage
The Adventure Guild.
I’d allowed myself the fantasy once—standing under that towering board, imagining the weight of a sword, the thrill of a hunt, the clean simplicity of a path measured in steps and slain beasts.
The thought didn’t last long.
My particular situation—the staff I owned—made the standard adventurer’s life a financial impossibility. The guild’s regulations ensured that any monster I brought in would be processed by their butchers, under their pricing, leaving me with scraps. The system was built for those with capital to spare: nobles and arena owners. I was neither.
So now, the guild was just a place of business. The adventurers were atmosphere—a loud, boisterous background to a more practical pursuit. The air was a familiar blend of spilled ale, worn leather, and restless ambition.
I ignored the main board and its promises of glory. My destination was the modest side wall, where the unglamorous work was posted. Courier routes. Inventory tallies. Temporary guard posts. The kind of jobs that promised stability over stories, a long life over a legendary one.
Before the sheer mundanity could fully settle in, I turned towards the bar.
“Same as usual?”
Hector didn’t look up from the glass he was already filling. We’d met in my first week in Altesia, and an easy friendship had formed. He saw and heard everything from behind this counter, a silent archivist of guild gossip.
“Yes,” I said, taking the stool. “If you ever change the recipe, I’ll be professionally disappointed.”
“Your disappointment funds my retirement,” he said, sliding the drink over.
“Job hunting again?”
“I prefer the term ‘strategic resource acquisition.’”
“Last time you were ‘strategic,’ you rejected three courier jobs for having ‘suspiciously scenic routes.’”
“They did,” I said, taking a sip.
He chuckled, folding his arms. “So what’s the criteria? Boring?”
“Stable. Low-risk. Non-lethal. Boring is a welcome feature.”
“So not the sewer inspection.”
“A hard pass.”
“Not the ‘wanted: bait for river drake’ posting.”
“I have a profound and personal objection to being bait.”
“Not the ‘assist an eccentric mage?”
I shook my head. “Eccentric is a gateway to a trap. Next thing you know, you’re unsealing a forbidden tome. I’m looking for a job, not dead end mage servant.”
Hector nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. He glanced around, then leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “I might have one. It’s… unusual.”
“‘Unusual’ as in tedious paperwork, or ‘unusual’ as in mercenary job?”
“Unusual as in it pays a hundred gold a week.”
The glass in my hand went still. “A week.”
“Enough to retire on in a year,” he confirmed. “And it’s been sitting here for months.”
“There’s always a catch.”
“The catch,” he said, pulling a worn leaflet from beneath the bar, “is that no one who takes it seems to come back to tell the tales from their.”
He placed the pamphlet on the polished wood. I picked it up. The paper was soft at the edges.
Caretaker Position
Lodging & Meals Provided
No Combat or License Required
Discretion Essential
Term: Negotiable
I looked up. “An orphanage.”
“That’s what it says.”
“And the disappearances?”
“Quiet ones. No bodies. No drama. They just… stop showing up. Rumor says they find the work too isolating and move on.”
Hector’s tone suggested he put little stock in rumors. “No verified danger. Just… mystery.”
Silence hung between us. A hundred gold a week was a siren’s call. This screamed plot all over it.
And the mystery was a hook, set deep. I could feel it tugging, that innate curiosity warring with a well-honed sense of self-preservation.
This is how interesting things start, a wary part of me whispered.
Interesting is often a prelude to disastrous.
I traced the edge of the pamphlet. The pay was real. The risk was undefined. And I had a very simple, failsafe option: I could always leave.
“You’re a terrible enabler, Hector,” I said finally, folding the paper and tucking it away.
He smiled, a quick flash of teeth. “You’re still taking it.”
“I’m investigating a lucrative opportunity,” I corrected. “There’s a difference.”
But we both knew the truth.
---
I returned to my apartment to prepare. If I was walking into an unknown situation, I would do so on my own terms.
My home was a study in quiet comfort—reinforced, insulated, private. I’d invested in the space, not the trappings.
My wardrobe was simple and functional; clothes were for blending in.
I chose a plain, well-made white shirt and trousers, boots meant for walking, and my glasses.
The glasses were my one concession to vanity and necessity.
Non-magical, but crafted by a master lens-maker then layed with an illusion barrier since I can't use items.
They were expensive. They were worth it.
The location on the pamphlet was clear: the city’s outskirts, leading into the foothills. No carriage access.
Naturally.
---
The climb was peaceful, if long. The cacophony of the city faded into the quiet of the mountain path. The air grew cool and carried the scent of pine and damp earth.
Stamina was not an issue. A subtle, sustained application of my power kept my breath even and my legs steady.
I could walk this path all day.
The house appeared as the path crested a rise. It was a large, timber-framed building, settled snugly against the mountainside.
It looked worn but solid, its history etched in faded stain and slightly sagging eaves. It felt lonely, but not ominous.
I knocked.
After a moment, the door opened.
“Please, come in,” the being said calmly, stepping aside.
I schooled my features to neutrality. The man in the doorway was an elf. That was clear from the elegant points of his ears and an ageless quality to his sharp features.
But his hair, long and the color of deep forest shadows, was streaked with vivid crimson.
His eyes, when they met mine, were a steady, luminous red.
Not just an elf.
The all-seeing gaze slid into place.
And there it was.
A Tree of Wisdom steeped in crimson, its structure warped yet enduring. The stain wasn’t metaphorical, nor recent. It was ancient—layered, settled, inseparable from the soul itself.
There was only one explanation.
A high elf.
Vampire-blooded.
…Well.
I adjusted my glasses back into place, my expression settling into neutrality as I continued walking behind him.
A caretaker job, indeed.
—-
I was surprised.
In a world where beastkin walked the streets and mixed bloodlines weren’t exactly rare, there were still combinations that made one pause.
Elf and vampire was one of them. Either lineage alone was uncommon enough. Together, they bordered on absurd.
A rare find. A potentially dangerous one. But my purpose here was not to judge bloodlines.
“Please, come in,” he said. His voice was calm and neutral.
I stepped inside, and the space… shifted. The interior was palpably larger than the exterior should allow. Not an illusion, but a careful, powerful folding of space. Of course, I thought.
He led me to a study—a quiet room of books and ledgers. We sat.
“I am Vanon,” he said, steepling his fingers. “You are?”
“Leon.” It was the name I used now. My old one held no relevance here.
“Leon.” He considered me. “Are you comfortable with children?”
“I am.”
“Do you enjoy their company?”
“I respect it,” I said. “I don’t believe in forced affection. But I can provide stability, guidance, and engage with them honestly.”
“How would you handle discipline?”
“With clarity and consistency, not anger. Rules exist for safety and respect. Breaking them has predictable consequences. My goal is to teach, not to punish.”
He asked about cooking, cleaning, teaching. My answers were pragmatic. I could manage, I would do what was needed, and I would teach the fundamentals or find someone who could.
“You are not sentimental about this,” he observed.
“Sentiment is fragile,” I replied. “Reliability is what children need. A caretaker is a gardener—you provide the right conditions and remove the weeds so they can grow.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then he asked, “What if a child were to become attached to you?”
I met his crimson gaze. “I would be honored, and I would be kind. But I would not make promises I cannot keep. It is crueler to let them believe you will stay forever if you will not.”
Something in his stillness changed. A slight loosening of his shoulders.
He drew a contract from a drawer and placed it before me.
The terms were exceptional. The gold amount was exactly as promised. One line was blank: Duration.
“How long do you wish to commit?” he asked.
I picked up the pen. “I will fill that in once I understand the full scope of the work. Let us begin with a trial period.”
He nodded, as if this was the expected answer. “Reasonable.”
He stood and led me out of the study, down a corridor where the air hummed with layered, potent magic. We stopped before an unassuming door.
“This,” he said, placing his hand on the handle, “is what you are being hired for.”
The door opened.
And I understood why no one came back.
