Sage remained rooted in place, taking in the vibrant scene around him. The upgraded Guild Hall buzzed with an energy it had never possessed before.

Voices mingled in a lively chaos. Adventurers registering for quests, Commissioners haggling over rewards, and footsteps softly echoing across the polished marble floor.

The sounds were constant yet not overwhelming, like a finely tuned machine finally operating at its intended scale.

If he closed his eyes, Sage could almost sense the underlying rhythm: ambition layered over order, greed tempered by rules, hunger channeled into paths he controlled.

But his focus was not on the crowd; it was fixed intently on the figure behind the reception desk.

Boren stood there, his large hands gripping a pen that seemed comically small between his fingers. His noble robes, still slightly too snug and ill-suited for desk work, strained as he leaned forward to listen to someone speak.

His posture was imperfect; shoulders rounded slightly, stance too open and honest. Yet despite this awkwardness, there was something undeniably right about how he carried himself.

He listened, not with the superficial attention of nobles waiting for their turn to speak or the impatient tolerance of guards eager to move people along, but with genuine interest.

His gaze remained locked on the speaker. He nodded at appropriate moments and repeated details back, not to assert dominance but to ensure understanding.

It was clumsy and slow, yet it worked. Sage observed as an Iron Rank adventurer left the desk looking relieved, shoulders noticeably lighter than when he had arrived. The man even glanced back once, offering Boren a grateful nod before disappearing into the throng.

Sage narrowed his eyes slightly. That wasn't something learned from training manuals; that was instinct, or perhaps survival.

He shifted his weight and crossed his arms loosely while leaning against one of the stone pillars framing the hall.

From this vantage point, he could observe without being seen, becoming part of the background rather than its focal point.

Suddenly, Boren erupted in laughter at something a commissioner said, a loud wheezing chuckle that shook his shoulders and made his belly ripple like disturbed water.

The sound drew glances from nearby adventurers, some amused, others dismissive, and one smirked openly while whispering to a companion.

Boren noticed it too; Sage caught that moment of awareness as well.

The laughter faltered for just half a heartbeat, a flicker of something familiar passing through Boren's eyes before quickly burying it beneath a broader smile.

Then Boren straightened up again, adjusted his grip on the ledger, and continued as if nothing had happened.

Sage exhaled slowly through his nose. So that's how it was. He recalled Pax's report with unsettling clarity, the words delivered neutrally and professionally but carrying significant weight in every sentence.

Third son of Stonehelm House. Mother deceased during childbirth; blame unspoken but never denied leading to gradual isolation, a presence tolerated but never embraced.

Stonehelm.

Even now, the name carried weight. It was one of the five pillars supporting the Baron's rule, a family whose wealth was built not just on commerce but also on blood-soaked stone and hidden dungeons. Generations of power had accumulated, with leverage upon leverage creating a house that did not rise by mere chance.

And there stood Boren behind Sage's desk, diligently stamping papers with focused determination, a boy born into that house, yet discarded and overlooked, somehow still unbroken.

Sage's lips twitched, not from fear; fear was for those who stumbled into consequences unprepared.

This was opportunity. A perilous one, indeed, but danger and opportunity have always walked hand in hand. The Guild itself stood as proof of that. Every rule he crafted, every restriction he enforced, every benefit he delayed, none were accidents.

He didn't build by reacting; he built by anticipating. And now, fate, or perhaps something more indulgent, had placed a Stonehelm directly at the heart of his institution.

Not a warrior or an heir but a clerk.

Sage's gaze sharpened. That was the most amusing part of it all. If Boren had come demanding recognition and waving his lineage like a banner, Sage would have closed the door in his face without hesitation.

Noble pride was poison; it rotted everything it touched. But Boren had done the opposite, he arrived quietly. Humbly, even desperately.

Sage watched as Boren meticulously aligned completed mission dockets, tapping their edges until they were perfectly straight before filing them away.

The motion felt almost reverent, as if he understood intuitively that order wasn't just an administrative necessity but also a form of respect.

"This desk decides who eats and who starves."

The words Sage had spoken yesterday echoed back to him with greater weight now. He wondered if Boren truly grasped their meaning at the time.

Perhaps not fully, but he was learning.

And that learning, more than any bloodline, made someone dangerous.

Sage began to think, not in grand leaps but in layered structures: information flow, political perception, narrative control. If the Stonehelm family ever turned their eyes toward the Guild, and they would eventually, they would first see numbers: adventurer counts and economic gravity; influence bleeding into surrounding districts.

Only after all that… would they notice the name.

Stonehelm. Behind the desk. Stamped across records, not linked to rebellion or ambition but to stability.

Sage's smile deepened slowly and sharply.

How would the patriarch react? Would he sneer? Dismiss the Guild as a fleeting experiment? Or would he feel that subtle itch beneath his skin, the discomfort of knowing something bearing his name thrived beyond his reach?

Better yet… what would other noble houses think?

A discarded son finding purpose not under another banner of blood but under rules, under structure, under an institution that answered to no family crest.

No swords drawn; no declarations made, just quiet placement.

Sage adjusted his glasses, a subtle gesture that belied the weight of his thoughts. He hadn't stolen Boren from Stonehelm; rather, Stonehelm had cast him aside.

Sage simply recognized the value in what others deemed worthless and placed it at the heart of the city.

And cities have a unique way of redefining worth.

Boren suddenly looked up, his eyes scanning the hall as if he sensed something amiss. For a fleeting moment, his gaze brushed against Sage's position. They didn't lock eyes, but the closeness was palpable.

Boren smiled again, a soft, unguarded expression, and returned to his tasks.

Sage pushed himself off the pillar and turned away. There was no need to rush or expose any secrets. Bold schemes often attracted unwanted attention. This one would unfold quietly, layer by layer, stamp by stamp.

By the time anyone noticed what had shifted, it would be far too late to disentangle the Guild from the Stonehelm legacy, or the Stonehelm name from the Guild's influence.

As Sage walked toward the inner hall, his footsteps were deliberate and calm. Yet inside his chest, something stirred.

It wasn't ambition or greed; it was that familiar, intoxicating clarity, the kind that emerged when everything on the board finally came into focus.

"Interesting," he mused.

"Very interesting."

For the first time since the Guild's enhancement, Sage felt a newfound certainty: this was no longer just a foundation.

It had transformed into a weapon. And Boren Stonehelm, smiling innocently behind his desk, had no idea he was becoming its most elegant blade.

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