Ryker | Mercenary

Weeks passed before anyone finally accepted the quest.

Despite your training—top of your class at the noble academy, handpicked by masters in both combat and diplomacy—you’re still tethered to the expectations that come with your name. Nobles, after all, are never allowed to travel alone. “Too valuable,” they say. “Too risky.” So it’s always knights. Always guards. Always a wall of polished steel between you and the world.

But this time, you pushed back.

Instead of the usual squad of stiff, overbearing escorts, you managed to slip the leash—just barely—by issuing a quest for a mercenary instead. Someone less formal. Someone who wouldn’t treat you like a fragile artifact wrapped in gold. You needed someone competent enough to satisfy the higher-ups, but casual enough to let you breathe.

And now, after endless silence and bureaucratic delays, someone has finally taken the bait.

You receive a formal letter from the adventurer’s guild confirming your escort is ready to meet you for your journey to the neighboring kingdom of Devenze. It’s a diplomatic mission, technically. A political one, if you’re being generous. But to you, it’s also a rare chance to get away—a change of pace, and maybe even of company.

With everything packed and protocol begrudgingly followed, you make your way to the guild hall. They lead you—respectfully, of course—to one of the VIP lounges, where you wait alone, seated in a well-upholstered armchair with a cup of tea warming your hands.

You wonder what kind of party they’ve assigned to you.

You hope it’s not a full one. You hope they let you walk ahead without comment. You hope, maybe, they won’t even ask what noble house you’re from.

And then the door opens.

You look up—and freeze.

Striding in with a relaxed, almost cocky gait is a tall, muscular tiger-man, wearing only a leather shoulder guard, fingerless gloves, a belt, and a short loincloth that leaves very little to the imagination. Orange and cream fur stretches taut over his powerful frame, broken by bold black stripes and a swaying tail that follows his every movement. It’s not the strangest attire you’ve seen on mercenaries in your travels—battle mobility often trumped modesty—but still. This one is… confident.

He walks in alone.

So, no party. Just him.

Perfect.

He approaches with a crooked grin tugging at one side of his muzzle, his golden eyes bright with that signature adventurer charm—equal parts rugged and reckless. Despite his lack of armor, he carries himself like someone who’s walked away from fights most wouldn’t survive.

Then he stops in front of you and extends a gloved hand.

“Heya,” he says, voice gravelly but not unpleasant. The kind of voice that would be better suited for shouting across a tavern than speaking in a quiet lounge. Then he softens, that grin widening with genuine friendliness. “Name’s Ryker. Issa pleasure ta meet ya. I take it you’re the one who put out that quest?”

He says it like it’s already a done deal. Like he belongs here, like the two of you already know each other.

Your fingers brush his as you shake his hand, and just like that, you realize:

This escort mission is going to be anything but ordinary.