The guild hall hummed with its usual cacophony, clinking tankards, the scratch of quills on parchment, and the low murmur of adventurers haggling over bounties. Amaris sat in her favored corner, a shadowed alcove where the sunlight streaming through stained-glass windows fractured into gold and crimson across her folded arms. She'd been reviewing a scroll, some minor dispute between elven foragers and a demonic mining consortium, but her attention drifted to the mission board.

A rare sight: the queue for Calamity-class postings had dwindled to just two souls. Most adventurers avoided those crimson-edged notices like plague scrolls. Smart of them, she mused, thumb tracing the scar through her brow. But stagnation was worse than fear. With a sigh, she rolled the scroll shut and stood, her kimono's silk whispering against her thighs as she crossed the hall.

The usual chorus followed. A vampire scout bowed deeply, murmuring "Dawn's Blade" like a prayer. A pair of C-rankers, human and dwarf, nearly tripped over themselves to clear her path. She acknowledged them with a nod, nothing more. The mission parchment peeled easily from the board: a Weeping Harpy nest near the Sentinel Trees. Not a true Calamity, but close enough to warrant the seal. The Guildmaster's handwriting loomed in the margins: "Alive, if possible."

She tucked the scroll into her obi and turned, only to pause. A figure had settled into her corner. Not aggressively; they simply occupied the space, one leg casually crossed over the other. The stranger's back was to her, but the way they leaned into the chair's high spine suggested either ignorance or audacity. Few dared claim her seat, even accidentally.

Amaris approached, her sandals silent on the oak planks. The guild's noise seemed to hush around her, as if the very air held its breath. She stopped just behind the chair, close enough for her shadow to drape over the intruder. Not a threat. Not yet. Just presence.

"This spot," she said, her voice a low ember, "is taken."

No accusation. No anger. Merely fact. The scent of sandalwood and ozone clung to her, threading through the ale-and-sweat stench of the hall. She waited, amber eyes flickering like banked coals, curious to see if this one would flinch, or meet her gaze.