As the guild doors closed behind them with a deep, echoing thud, Lyone let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Pheww... That was suffocating."
The sounds from outside faded into the background, replaced by the low murmur of distant voices, the shuffle of booted feet, and the familiar creak of floorboards soaked in years of footsteps.
The scent inside was different too—aged wood, oiled leather, dried herbs, and faint traces of blood and ink. Just as Damien remembered it.
The Mercenary Guild felt like a place where stories were told with scars and glances more than words.
Damien walked with certainty down the main corridor. Lyone stayed close, practically glued to his cloak, glancing sideways at every armored figure they passed.
Some nodded at Damien, others barely acknowledged him—but Lyone could feel it.
They knew him.
And they respected him.
