Chapter 4: Names Not Written

Chapter 4: Names Not Written

Forten had never been inside the Guildhouse.

He wasn’t even sure if he was allowed to be. Most people weren’t. Even the Flamekeepers—Ferria’s iron-blooded elite—only entered when invited, and only through the south gate. Never through the main arch. Never alone.

Forten had done deliveries before. Oilstones, incantation sheets, once a box of delicate, rune-carved bones wrapped in black velvet. Always to the front gate. Always stopped at the marble steps by guards in sleeveless half-plate, arms crossed, eyes scanning like they’d been trained to detect unworthiness by smell. These guards didn’t ask for names—they just told you to wait.

Now he was inside.

And the Guildhouse did not welcome.

The air smelled too clean, like it had been filtered through old coin and older magic. Clean in the way only expensive spaces were clean, as if the dust had been warded away by intent alone. The walls were carved from dark stone veined with soft-glowing mana—pulsing slowly, like a sleeping heart. Ceiling arches soared above like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Glyph-lanterns floated midair in slow, deliberate orbits, casting pools of gold that never fully reached the corners.

People moved like whispers. Robed figures. Officials. Initiates in uniform trim. No one walked fast. No one talked loud. Every step was measured, every word precise—like the building itself demanded restraint. And so did Forten’s boots—they didn’t echo on the floor. They didn’t dare.

Forten adjusted his coat and kept to the edge, unsure if anyone could smell he didn’t belong. There were no signs, no kiosks, no directions—only knowledge you were expected to have, or the silence you earned for not having it.

This wasn’t a public building. This was a ritual space. A private club. A long-kept secret with a thousand eyes and no mouth.

And Forten had just walked through the wrong door.

The lobby felt too warm. A line of low desks stretched along the far wall, staffed by weary clerks muttering spell-encoded receipts to themselves. A creature with six limbs and too many eyes scuttled across the ceiling.

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No one looked up.

Forten hovered near the front, unsure which queue was for general registration, beast licenses, or spontaneous magical incidents. He stepped toward a kiosk labeled "Bonded Declaration" and immediately tripped the proximity charm.

Welcome to Bonded Declaration, registrant, it chimed. Kindly declare bonded type and threat classification.

Walter, stuffed into a too-small sling beneath Forten’s coat, peeked out and gave the magical interface a small wave.

The kiosk sparked.

Forten smacked it lightly. “Behave.”

The kiosk twitched again, a spark jumping between its glyph plates. Forten gave it a cautious glance, then looked around—no one seemed to notice. Or care.

“Uh…” He cleared his throat. “Bear?”

There was a pause. Then a chirp.

Error. “Bear” is not a recognised bonded classification. Please select from the following: elemental or arcane.

Forten squinted at the list.

Please select bonded type: Elemental or Arcane.

He hesitated. “…Elemental?”

The kiosk let out a judgmental chirp.

Error. No elemental resonance detected. Mana signature inconsistent. Please select an accurate classification or consult a Guild officer.

He sighed. “Arcane?”

Arcane classification requires summoning license and glyphmark authentication.

Another sigh.

Forten hovered over the “unknown” option but didn’t press it. He didn’t need more trouble.

Truth was, he didn’t even know the difference.

Arcane. Elemental. All just fancy ways of saying not normal, as far as he could tell. He kept his mouth shut. No point looking dumber than he already felt.

Forten approached the second kiosk.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Threat classification. Let’s go with… minimal.”

He glanced at Walter.

“No claws. Breathes air. Pretty harmless, yes?”

The screen pulsed once, like it was considering his optimism.

Minimal threat must be supported by a history of domesticated behaviour and/or compliance records.

Forten looked down again.

Walter gave a cheerful double thumbs-up.

And that’s when Forten noticed them—claws. Not fabric. Not foam. But actual claws, hidden beneath the stitched seams of his paws. They clicked faintly as he raised them—curved, matte black, and far too real for something made of stuffing. Not oversized, but surgical. Like scalpels disguised as teddy bear fingers.

“Okay. That’s not helping.”

A third panel lit up beside him with a low, ominous hum. Lines of arcane jargon began unspooling like a cursed scroll—terms he was sure had been invented just to humiliate people like him.

He stepped back.

Another kiosk chirped to life.

Then another.

Within seconds, he had accidentally activated three forms, all demanding validations he’d never even heard of.

His hands hovered uselessly in the air as the screens blinked in quiet, bureaucratic menace.

A soft voice behind him: “You know you’re filling these out backwards, right?”