Noble Mettle
Noble Mettle The Scarred Oak Fellowship was the kind of place that tried to make danger feel welcome. Heat rolled out from the great stone hearth. Ale sloshed into iron mugs. Wet cloaks steamed by the fire. The hall smelled of roasted meat, damp wool, and woodsmoke soaked deep into old beams. At the center of the room stood the table that had given the guild its name: a vast slab of oak gouged, burned, and carved with the marks of past adventurers. Alaric Marshcroft paused just inside the doorway and did what he always did in a crowded room. He found the exits first. Then the hands. Then the faces. He hated that he still did it, but he hated more what happened when a man stopped. Years ago, in the Maerthwatch foothills, his patrol had relaxed around a campfire for half a breath too long. By the time he noticed the wrong men moving in the dark, Blackthorn blades and Thayan steel had already torn through his squad. Ever since, every quiet room felt like the last calm before an ambu...