Chapter 11 - Triss and Trent, Guild Receptionists

The sun climbed lazily over Breezevale, casting warm light across the refurbished timbers of Beacon Hall. A fresh notice fluttered on the guild board just outside the entrance, ink still drying:

NOW HIRING: GUILD RECEPTIONISTS

Inside, Arlen sat at a table he'd dragged into the entry hall, sleeves rolled up, a lukewarm mug of tea beside him. His hair was slightly less wild than usual—he’d made an effort. Sort of. Beside him sat Pip, legs swinging from his stool, a clipboard nearly as big as his torso propped against the table like a shield.

“Alright,” Arlen murmured, glancing at the scribbled list of applicants. “Let’s just... keep it simple. Polite, professional, no trick questions.”

Pip nodded solemnly like a tiny steward, though he was already doodling a wizard’s hat on the corner of the paper.

Elena stood nearby, arms folded, her apron dusted with herbs from her morning brewing.

She didn’t sit.

“I still think this is your problem to solve, Arlen. Not mine.”

“You said that after agreeing to help sort through the first batch of applications,” Arlen replied without looking up. “Besides, you’re great at judging people’s character.”

“I judge people who buy sketchy knockoff tonics from traveling merchants,” Elena muttered. “Not hopeful youths who want to flirt with adventurers for a living.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Arlen said dryly.

Just then, the heavy doors creaked open.

“First applicant,” Pip declared, trying to sound official as he pushed up his sleeves.

====

In walked a tall, lean young man with windswept hair and an overconfident smile. He sauntered toward the table, leaned one elbow on the edge, and gave Elena a grin that could have melted butter—or tried to.

“Name’s Dallan,” he said. “Receptionist work, huh? Sounds like a breeze. I’ve got charm, I’ve got wit, and I’ve got a sharp eye for talent.” He gave Elena an exaggerated wink.

Elena’s expression didn’t change. “One more word and I’ll test a paralytic salve on your tea.”

Dallan blinked. “...Noted.”

Arlen coughed to cover a chuckle. “Do you have any administrative experience, Dallan?”

“I once led a street theatre troupe through a festival riot.”

Elena raised an eyebrow. “Next.”

====

At least the second interview went smoother.

A bespectacled older woman named Meryl had actual experience managing a shipping office in the capital. She was precise, calm, and clearly not impressed by Dallan, who was still loitering by the window.

But she spoke slowly—too slowly for Elena’s patience. And by Arlen’s standards, it could take her a whole hour to fill up a simple guild request form as her hands shake with age.

“I liked her, though, ” Pip whispered.

“She’s not going to babysit you,” Elena whispered back.

====

Next was a wiry man in a cloak far too large for him, who whispered, “I’m not technically banned from working with guilds anymore. That was a misunderstanding involving chickens and a cursed ledger.”

“You're hired,” Pip whispered.

But Arlen quickly crossed the man off.

====

A bard named Georgie waltz in. He bounced into the room humming—though Arlen vaguely remembered someone of his resemblance being kicked out by Mira for this overly dramatic flare, ruining the patrons’ appetite.

“Is this where they keep the quest scrolls? Do we get hats?”

“Hats?” Elena asked.

“Like… official receptionist hats? With feathers?”

Arlen slowly turned to Pip. “Did you write ‘hats’ on the posting?”

“…No,” Pip lied.

The bard winked. “I’ll just assume we do.”

====

Interview four was a teenager who mumbled so much even Pip gave up taking notes.

Five was a scholar who tried to reorganize the guild's filing system during her interview. “We need a taxonomic system for monster slimes!”. Elena beamed at her like a long-lost sibling, but Arlen was quick to show her the door.

Six had brought a resume with real glitter on it and offered motivational quotes mid-sentence.

Arlen massaged his temple, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“This is starting to feel like penance.”

Then came the moment the door creaked open again—and they walked in.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

====

“We’re here for the posting,” the young blonde woman said briskly, brushing travel dust from her jacket—dragging a slightly older looking man by the sleeve with her.

“I’m Triss Aldleaf. This is my brother, Trent.”

Trent strolled in behind his sister, tall and lean, with that brand of lazy confidence that only someone with no shame and too much charm could pull off. His sleeves were rolled, his collar askew, and his eyes roamed the guildhall like he was browsing a menu.

They landed on a striking female archer by the tavern’s counter—leather-clad, hair tied back in a windswept braid, and laughing with a crewmate over a tankard. Trent’s grin widened.

“Nice setup,” he said, nudging Arlen slightly as though they were old pals. “You get a lot of foot traffic here? Just wondering—for, uh, statistical reasons.”

His tone oozed nonchalance, but his gaze was still very much fixed on the archer’s confident smirk.

Triss didn’t even have to look up. Instantly, she reached over and grabbed a fistful of Trent’s ear, yanking it sideways like she was ringing a very specific, very personal bell.

“Ow—ow, ow!” Trent yelped, ducking with a flinch and hands raised. “Triss! Guildmaster present!”

“Then act like it, you depraved scarecrow!” Triss snapped, her voice just low enough for Arlen and Elena to hear. “We're here to apply for a job, not to catch feelings!”

“I was just familiarising with the place,” Trent muttered, rubbing his ear and stealing one last glance at the adventurer, who had raised an eyebrow and was clearly enjoying the show. “Good reputation is all about personal connection.”

“Your personal connections end with a restraining order if I let you talk too long,” Triss said dryly. “Now stand up straight and don’t touch anything shiny!”

Elena snorted behind her hand. Pip looked between them, wide-eyed and absolutely delighted.

Triss brushes down her blouse, regaining composure. “We ran registry and supply lists for three towns out west. I handled records, payment logs, guest complaints, and two near-brawls between rival knitting guilds. Trent did scheduling. And occasionally got ‘detained’ for excessive charm.”

Trent held up his hands in mock surrender. “I bring charisma.”

“I bring competence,” Triss said flatly. “We’re a package deal. He’s the shiny front door; I’m the lock that keeps people from looting the place.”

Arlen watched the whole exchange with quiet amusement.

He had only thought to hire one receptionist.

Maybe—just maybe, there is enough room for two.

====

The morning after’s sun cast a warm light through the guild’s front windows as Arlen rolled up his sleeves and stood beside Triss at the reception counter.

“Start by greeting them,” he said, gesturing toward the front doors. “Make eye contact, offer a smile. Most of them aren’t morning people, but a little cheer helps.”

Triss gave a sharp nod. “Got it. Smile, eye contact, feigned enthusiasm.”

Arlen let a chuckle. “Real enthusiasm wouldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll work on it.”

Her quill was already poised before he finished speaking.

A minor noble and his fussy attendant stepped up to the counter, and Triss handled the intake form like she’d worked there for years. She even slid the parchment back with a flair Arlen hadn’t expected.

“Not bad,” Arlen murmured. “Now, the trick is juggling that while five other things are happening at once.”

“Bring it,” Triss said flatly, as two farmers and a sweating courier stepped up behind the noble.

Meanwhile, Pip had taken full charge of Trent in the back.

“This is the ‘Urgent’ drawer. You don’t mix it with the ‘Local’ quests, or someone’s going to end up chasing rats instead of rescuing hostages,” Pip explained, dragging a box twice his size across the floor.

Trent crouched beside him, watching the boy work with the somberness of a scribe before a royal decree.

“And this pile?”

“Those are old. Rejected, failed, or boring. We don’t talk about those.”

“Like my dating life,” Trent muttered.

Pip raised an eyebrow. “You talk a lot for someone who’s not done sorting.”

“Right, right.” Trent chuckled and grabbed a stack. “Lead on, Tiny Boss Pip.”

Despite the gentle teasing and moments of floundering, there was real effort behind the day’s hustle.

Triss absorbed Arlen’s coaching quickly, refining the front desk flow. She’d even started improvising—adding brief notes to repeat patron records like “likes to argue about maps” or “has strong opinions about toast.”

Trent, for all his distractions, had an easy way with adventurers. He remembered names, laughed at their jokes, and redirected flirts with just enough charm to keep things friendly but professional—especially after Triss yanked him away by the collar the second time he lingered too long near a pair of mercenaries.

When Mira popped her head out of the kitchen to check on the tavern crowd, Trent tried to charm her too.

“Nice apron,” he said, leaning over the counter. “You could kill a man with a soup ladle in that look.”

Mira blinked. “Do you want to be buried in stew?”

“No, ma’am,” he said quickly, backing away.

“Good lad.” She winked and disappeared back into the kitchen.

====

By midday, Arlen leaned against the banister, watching the sibling pair fall into an unexpected rhythm.

Triss fielded inquiries with efficient grace.

Trent directed traffic between the quest board and the tavern with a smile.

Pip beamed at them both, proud as could be.

Elena passed by with her brewing satchel and a raised brow. “They’re a pair.”

“They are,” Arlen said. “And somehow, they fit.”

She smirked. “Don’t get soft on them.”

“I think I already have.”

====

By late afternoon, the buzz in Beacon Hall had mellowed.

Most of the day’s quests had been filed, assigned, or neatly tucked away, and Triss was seated behind the front desk flipping through a stack of parchment like she was judging it personally. Arlen approached with a tired but grateful expression.

“Not bad for your first day,” he said.

“I reorganized your intake forms,” Triss said, not looking up. “Color-coded by region, urgency, and hazard tier. Also made a new filing system for repeat clients with reference tags. It’s all intuitive.”

Arlen blinked. “Intuitive for who?”

“For someone with a functioning brainstem.”

“…Right,” the mage raised an eyebrow.

“Guess I’ll be asking you where everything is from now on.”

Triss finally looked up and smirked. “That’s the idea.”

Across the guild hall, Trent was helping a particularly flustered merchant with his travel pack, making sure his contract parchment didn’t crumple in the folds.

The merchant gave a relieved sigh, then slipped Trent a silver coin.

“For being agreeable,” the man said.

Trent blinked. “Wait, did I just get tipped?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Triss called out.

“It’s too late,” Trent declared, flipping the coin into the air. “I’m a professional now.”

Pip tugged on his sleeve. “That means you definitely owe me snacks.”

Arlen watched the scene unfold with a strange lightness in his chest. A weight he didn’t know he was carrying had started to lift—one good hire, one laugh, one sorted stack of papers at a time.

For the first time since opening Beacon Hall, he didn’t feel like he was sprinting to keep up.

Everything was falling in place.

And most importantly—he didn’t have to do it alone.

====

Dinner at Trail’s End was louder than usual, but in the best way.

Mira ladled steaming stew into wooden bowls while keeping a watchful eye on two arm-wrestling adventurers at the back table. The fire crackled in the hearth, and laughter echoed off the walls.

Trent was already telling an exaggerated story about getting tipped, using a spoon as a prop and embellishing the merchant’s moustache to ludicrous proportions.

Pip hung on every word.

Triss sat at the end of the table, sipping cider and feigning boredom. “He carried one bag. For five seconds.”

“It was a very heavy five seconds,” Trent said, clutching his chest as if wounded.

Arlen chuckled as he sank into a chair beside Elena, who had taken a rare break from her brewing to join them. She passed him a small pouch of herbal tea.

“You look more alive than usual,” she said.

“Because I delegated,” Arlen replied, raising his cup. “And because I have competent help now.”

“You’re welcome,” Triss chimed in dryly.

Mira barked a laugh from behind the bar. “Let them have this, Arlen Bright. It’s been a good day.”

As everyone dug into their food, the warmth of the room seemed to settle in his bones.

This wasn’t just a guild or a tavern anymore—it was a home.

For all of them.

“Tomorrow,” Arlen whispered to himself with a quiet smile.

“We keep going.”