"Please, it's a personal request. Please let me talk to the owner of your guild. Please."
The man sounded like he was begging for his life.
And honestly? He kind of was.
Evena blinked up at him, her expression the careful, polite blankness of someone trying very hard not to show how overwhelmed they were. The man was speaking too fast — too loud. His words came out like shattered glass, sharp and all over the place. Trembling. That kind of trembling that came from the gut, not the hands. And when people trembled like that, their words always started to fall apart.
She looked down at the small stack of papers on her desk like they might offer her an escape route. Reception work wasn't supposed to be like this. Her job was simple: receive the request, log the form, accept payment, sign off. That's it. No human drama required. No full-volume panic. And definitely no shaky rich men practically screaming over her desk.
But this wasn't just any visitor. His name had passed through the building earlier — Hank, she thought. Wealthy. The old-money kind. Rings on every finger, his clothes pressed and perfumed to suffocation.
Apparently, after Sinus, Heide, and Shalap had left on their last job, a string of robberies began slithering through the city like a phantom — estate after estate, all high-end, all stripped clean with surgical precision. No noise. No signs. No mistakes.
Naturally, Hank had panicked.
He'd already dragged himself through three different guilds before showing up here, looking like his soul had been wrung out and dumped into a bottle of cologne. The moment he started talking, Wanora had predicted it — that his estate would be next. She listed the reasons with the slow certainty of someone reading from the morning weather scroll.
At the end of it, she asked for extra payment.
Of course he refused. Rich men always did, right until the moment reality kicked them between the legs. And now? Now he was here. Out of breath. Out of pride. Clinging to the receptionist's desk like it might save him from drowning.
And unfortunately for everyone involved, Evena was the one at the front desk today.
The man was practically vibrating from nerves. His voice was loud enough to make the paper on her desk quiver. Evena stared at him — not annoyed, not scared — just a little lost. Like a deer on a busy road with nowhere to run.
Her wooden leg, hidden neatly beneath the desk, ached faintly from the awkward angle she'd been sitting in. She adjusted her weight slowly, hoping the man wouldn't notice. Most people didn't. But the strain was always there, especially when stress crept in from the corners.
And still, he wouldn't stop.
Salvation arrived, as it always did, with a voice smoother than silk and sharper than a dagger.
"Hey. Stop harassing her."
Wanora, Guild Leader of Taskhand, walked in. Her boots barely made a sound, but her presence filled the room like thunder.
The moment Hank saw her, he dropped to his knees so hard Evena winced in secondhand embarrassment.
"PLEASE HELP ME! I DON'T WANT TO BE LOOTED! PLEASE HELP ME! I WILL PAY HOW MUCH EVER YOU WANT!"
Wanora smiled — that smile she saved for moments like this, the kind that said, You lost the game before you walked in.
A new team formed that day: Wanora, Evena, and Gars.
Their mission began with packing. Disguises. Paperwork. Roles.
Evena ended up in a black-and-white maid outfit. Ribbons. Frills. More lace than fabric. Her movements were a little stiffer than usual — not because of the nerves, but because the uniform did nothing to accommodate her wooden leg. Still, she didn't complain. She never did.
Gars looked like someone had stuffed a war veteran into a chef's uniform. His scowl alone could curdle milk. Wanora, of course, walked like she'd been born into nobility, her assistant's suit tailored to perfection.
The mansion loomed before them, all stained glass and polished stone, a beast dressed in elegance. Evena barely had time to admire the architecture — she was already sweating beneath layers of fabric not designed for movement.
"Hey, you new here?" The voice stopped her mid-step. Gravelly, sharp — like iron scraping against rust.
An older maid. Face lined by years of authority, gaze sharp enough to slit throats. The kind of woman who could silence a ballroom just by breathing wrong.
Evena turned toward her slowly, unsure what to say. She didn't say anything. She never did.
Wanora stepped in without missing a beat.
"Yes, we were hired by Lord Hank to serve from today. This girl here is Evena. She can't speak, so please treat her well."
The older maid's eyes narrowed. Her gaze slid to Evena, scanned her up and down, pausing — just briefly — when it reached the way she stood. A flicker of something passed through the woman's expression. Not pity. Something quieter. Something less performative.
"And who the hell are you then?"
"I'm the new assistant," Wanora said, unbothered. "So please, can you do your work?"
That earned her a look of pure disdain. But the woman didn't argue.
"Whatever." She turned to Evena with a huff. "Follow me, girl."
Evena did.
The mansion's interior was worse than the exterior — heavy, old, over-decorated. Gold trims, velvet rugs, furniture more ornamental than practical. The air felt too thick. Her leg made the silence feel louder.
"You know how to sweep, don't you?" The woman handed her a broom.
Evena nodded.
"Good. Start with the front hall. No spots. I'll be checking."
She didn't mind the task. Sweeping was repetitive. Comforting. It gave her hands something to do, her mind space to wander. She lost track of time.
The footsteps returned before she expected them.
The woman had come back — not to scold her, but holding a tray.
Two cups of tea. Not fancy porcelain. Just tea.
"You clean like someone who's had to work for a living," the woman muttered, handing her a cup.
Evena blinked.
Was that... a compliment?
The maid dropped into a nearby chair with the tired weight of someone who worked more than she slept. "Don't expect me to go easy on you. But if you keep doing a decent job, I won't bite your head off either."
Evena smiled — just a little — and nodded again.
They sat like that for a while. Two women. Two uniforms. One stiff wooden leg angled carefully beneath a chair. The mansion around them too big, too rich, too hollow.
Somewhere else in the estate, Wanora was likely wringing gold from Hank like a butcher with a pig. Gars was probably in the kitchen, yelling about onions.
But here, in this quiet hallway?
It was just them. And the tea.
Evena liked that.