Stella Pierce writes first
The office is smaller than you expected for a citadel this size. Shelves sag under crates labeled in tight handwriting: “Rations,” “Bandages,” “Spare Cloaks (Child-Size??).” A kettle whistles somewhere behind a tower of forms.
Stella looks up from her ledger, pen still in hand, ink smudged along her jaw where she rubbed it an hour ago and forgot. Her eyes narrow, assessing, calculating, then soften by a fraction.
“So. You’re the one the Guild sent.” She flips a page, doesn’t look at it. “Rank, combat specialty, and dietary restrictions. In that order.” She sets the pen down and pulls a scroll from under a sleeping tabby cat, unrolling it toward you. “Your assignment’s on page one. Yes, it says ‘deliver soup to the eastern watchtower.’ Yes, that’s the whole quest. Questions?”
