The Journey's Veil

The ink wasn’t even dry on the contract, and I already regretted it.

“Congratulations, you all are now The Fellowship of the Arcane… May your luck and prosperity prove useful to the Royal Family" came a dry voice.

Luck? Prosperity? I could use some of that right about now. Mostly luck, because prosperity felt about as far away as the stars.

The receptionist’s desk was shoved into the corner of the drafty hall, stacks of parchment leaning precariously close to an inkwell. His robes looked like they hadn’t been washed in a week. After stamping our documents, he yawned, as if he were the one about to be forced into adventuring.

There were six of us: an ogre, a voidling, and four humans. Everyone seemed just as thrilled about this ‘fellowship’ as I was—except for the madman. He was grinning like we’d won a war, not just signed our lives away for two years of forced labor.

By the time I had meandered over to the table, someone seemed to have already taken charge as our group’s leader. When he noticed my approach, he flashed me a brief smile before saying “Alright. Let's all introduce ourselves. I’ll go first: I’m Arin, a human swordsman.”

Shocker I thought. As if it wasn’t made obvious by the textbook stance and calluses on his hands. I’d say he was right out of the academy if not for his leather armor’s scuffs. It’s a wonder he’s managed to survive any fight with such a predictable fighting style.

I eyed him up and down. Dark blue hair—too clean for a mercenary, but his armor's scuffed. Upper-middle class… which means he probably did train at the academy, but not rich enough to replace his gear once it took a few hits. Sword sheathed on the left, right-handed–

Blink.

That… is a one-handed sword. So why do both your hands have calluses?

Looking him over again, there was a faint bulge in his clothing at the small of his back. Aha. So it’s a trap. Lure them in with the obvious stance, then knife them between the ribs. Not bad.

“My name is Nyrin.”

A human girl with long, flowing black hair stepped in to break the silence, her voice smooth but sharp. The knife she was casually spinning behind her back caught my attention. No hesitation, no care—either she's used to it, or she just doesn’t fear pain.

Arin’s face lit up—either he knew her, or he was just that easily impressed. Neither was good. Anyone who smiles like that at someone casually twirling a knife behind their back is asking for trouble. This girl wasn’t just playing; she was measuring us all.

“I’m a thief on parole for 'accidental murder'.”

Nyrin sure knew how to kill an already dead mood. Arin’s face fell as if she’d just kicked him in the stomach. The others shifted uncomfortably in their seats, but I was still occupied with how casually she twirled that knife, almost like it was part of her hand.

The awkward mood continued as the next three group members all completely refused to introduce themselves despite Arin's prompting.

When he got to me, he just looked at me listlessly, not even trying me. “Oh. Uh, my name is Vakus. I'm human. It’s nice to meet you all.”

Arin’s smile was more of a grimace at this point, like he was trying to convince himself I mattered. No one else even looked up. Talking to a brick wall might have been more productive—and probably more pleasant.

Finally, there was one last person. He seemed ordinary in appearance, just like me, except was very obviously disconnected from our group introductions. The whole time, he seemed to be cleaning his tools and weapons. It was hard to tell what he specialized in because he had such a variety of tools. Swords, a bow, knives, a wand and even what looked like a summoning scroll. When he was prompted to introduce himself, he gave us a dirty look and said “This is such a waste of my time.”

Immediately, Arin went on the attack. “What the hell’s your problem? Why can’t any of you just introduce yourselves?”

Mr. Unordinary sat there quietly for a moment, his hands tightened around his tools, his knuckles whitening as the silence dragged on. Then, without warning, he slammed them onto the table, the clink of metal cutting through the room like a knife.

“I know this isn’t fun for a lot of us, but we should make the best of what we’ve got for our crimes. If we’re going to be together for the next two years, we should at least try to get along.”

This was Mr. Unordinary's final straw. “Crimes?!” His voice dripped with disdain. “I haven’t committed any crimes! No one told me this was part of the immigration process. And now, I’m stuck here. Can’t leave. Not even a choice.”

Arin’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides as if he was ready to throw a punch. The ogre shifted his weight, his gaze flicking between the two, waiting for the first swing. Nyrin’s eyebrow lifted, her knife slowing in her hand, the movement measured, calculating—like she was sizing up how fast this situation could spiral.

His rant hit a little too close to home. I hadn’t committed any crimes either, but apparently wanting to stay in a kingdom without the right papers is enough to get you roped into 'compulsory adventuring service.' Lucky me. At least I wasn’t the only one who felt like this place had tricked me into indentured servitude. Although, compared to Mr. Unordinary, I actually didn't mind this requirement that much. It had some concerning implications about how they treated foreigners around here, but I was simply content with being in a Kingdom that, hopefully, wasn't actively collapsing

After a minute, he reluctantly mumbled “My name is Feran.”

Arin grumbled something I couldn’t quite catch. He then abruptly stood up and clasped his hands together, saying:

“Alright, why don’t we take the rest of the day off and meet back here tomorrow to discuss our first mission.”

I nodded to show I understood, but nobody else gave Arin that courtesy. Feran muttered something under his breath before getting up and making his way out the door.

The cool night air felt like a relief after the stuffy, drafty hall. The streets were eerily empty, the only sounds a faint murmur of distant voices and the steady crunch of gravel under my boots as I jogged after Feran. “Hey,” I called, “I know how you feel.” He didn’t slow down, not even glancing over his shoulder. “Do you?” “Yeah. I didn’t sign up for this either.” I caught up, already regretting it. “I’m also immigrating.” Feran didn’t even slow down. His glance was cold, dismissive. “And?” The word was a verbal slap, the final nail in the coffin of my painfully misguided attempt at small talk. Clearly, my existence didn’t register as important in his world. He continued to walk away, but I didn't follow him any further.

That was so awkward. I wanted to make at least one or two friends here, but it's looking like that's going to be harder than I thought.

All I wanted was a long, boring quest. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll scrape through this ‘service’ with my sanity—and that damned citizenship paper.