Your party is trashing you

The guild hall's interview room is supposedly soundproof. The ward on the doorframe hums at a frequency you can feel in your teeth. The whole building smells like rain and old mana — it's been a wet season in Vegas, the Abyss vents steaming on the north skyline.

Triple Threat lost their last match by two points. A squeaker. Lyssa was distracted — staring at you between floors, her cold mask slipping for half a second before she looked away. You pulled the party through anyway. Two points. Without you, it would've been a blowout. Everyone knows this. Nobody said it.

You're walking back from the supply lockers when you hear voices through the hum.

"...really think {{user}}'s holding us back," Lyssa is saying — that new cold voice, the public voice. "Dead weight. Has been for years. We're exploring options."

A male voice — smug, preening. "Well. I've been told I'm a game-changer. Triple Threat with a real support? That's an NDL championship team."

"Exactly what we're thinking." Tink — bright and fast, the stream voice. Her hooves click on the floorboards.

Seraphine says nothing. She never says anything during these.

You push the door open. Four faces turn.

Alaric — handsome, armored, gleaming with easy confidence — grins. Tink's curly horns catch the light as her head snaps toward you. Lyssa's expression doesn't change. Seraphine's violet eyes betray nothing.

"{{user}}," Lyssa says. "We were just discussing the team's future. Making sure we're putting our best foot forward for Monday."

"Right," Tink adds, voice steady. "We're always looking to improve the roster. You know how it is."

Alaric is already on his feet. He crosses the room and his gauntleted hand lands on your shoulder — heavy, paternal, the gesture of a man who has never once questioned his right to dispense advice.

"Hey. Friend-o." His voice drops to sympathy. "This has gotta be rough. But look — you've had a good run. Semifinals? That's more than most. At some point you gotta ask yourself... are you helping them, or holding them back?"

He squeezes your shoulder.

"Here's the thing. If you stepped aside — retired, signed the release — the contract is void. They're free. You're free. Everybody wins." He nods, satisfied with his own generosity. "Do it for the good of the team. Go out with some dignity. Not everyone gets that chance."

Tink's tail has stopped moving. Lyssa is very still. Seraphine's gaze has not left your face.

No one says a word.

The guild hall's common room doubles as a tavern — because it's Vegas, because dungeon delvers like to drink, and because the guild masters long ago realized that a bar tab keeps party drama from becoming guild drama. Slot machines line the far wall, their mana-reels spinning in silent loops, runes flickering amber and violet. A jukebox in the corner plays something with too much bass. The air smells like old beer — someone upstairs is testing ward configurations.

You found a corner booth. Not hiding. Just not looking to be found.

The door opens. Closes. Footsteps — not the click of satyr hooves, not the frost-creak of a battlemage's boots, not the whisper of cleric's robes. Someone heavier. Someone who moves like they've never had to be quiet in their life.

"Thought I might find you here."

Gale slides into the booth across from you without asking. She's out of uniform — dark tunic, leather vambraces, chestnut hair loose instead of braided. The horse ears give her away, angled forward, alert, focused entirely on you. She doesn't look like a guild captain right now. She looks like a woman who's been waiting for a conversation and has finally run out of patience.

"Heard the interview." No preamble. No small talk. "I was in the hallway. Heard all of it. The 'dead weight' bit. The paladin telling you to retire." Her amber eyes don't leave your face. "Heard your party let him say it. Heard them say nothing. That's what I can't figure out. A support who pulls a forty-one percent win rate to seventy-three — and they're interviewing a paladin who couldn't clear floor three without a map. Either they're idiots, or they're lying. Either way, you deserve better."

She reaches into her tunic. Pulls out a folded parchment — the contract. Sets it on the table between you. Doesn't push it. Just leaves it there.

"Darkhorse. Full buyout from your current contract. We run a four-person party — me on vanguard, Rook on striker, Vale on heals and control. We need a support. We've been watching your film for six months." A pause. "I've been watching your film. Frame by frame. Your mana redistribution on the third floor against the Wraiths last season was the best single-floor support performance I've ever seen. Nobody noticed because the stream chat was too busy calling you dead weight."

Her ears flick — the first break in her composure.

"I don't do games. I don't do sock puppets. If you sign with us, you're our support. Publicly. Proudly. The whole league will know what you're worth." She leans back. "Or you can stay here. Let them keep you a secret. Let the paladin tell you to retire. I'm not going to beg. I'm just going to leave this on the table."

From somewhere behind the bar, a sound so soft it's almost lost under the jukebox bass: a hoof clicking. Once. Then silence.

Gale's ears swivel. She doesn't turn around. Her expression doesn't change. But something crosses her face — not quite a smile, not quite a threat.

"Seems like we've got an audience."

The guild hall hallway between the tavern and the team quarters. Bad place for a conversation. Worse place for three people to corner you against a wall of faded championship posters and a fire extinguisher that hasn't been inspected since the last Cascade storm.

Lyssa is in front. Tink is behind her, half-hidden, ears drooping. Seraphine has positioned herself at the hallway's mouth — not blocking the exit, exactly. Just occupying it.

"You met with Gale." Lyssa's voice is the public one, but it's fraying at the edges — frost creeping up her collar, uncontrolled, a tell she's had since childhood. "Darkhorse. We heard."

She says "Darkhorse" like the word tastes bad.

"So what's the offer?" She crosses her arms. The cold mask is up. "Full buyout? Starting slot? 'We see your potential' speech? Gale's been circling for months. She thinks she's subtle. She's not." A beat. "You said no, right? You told her you're under contract. You told her you have a run Monday. A championship run. With us. Your party."

Behind her, Tink is vibrating with the effort of not talking. Her tail keeps starting to wag and then stopping, like her body can't decide between panic and hope.

"Because you can't leave," Tink says, the words tumbling out. "You literally can't. The contract. Monday. We need — the party needs — " She's digging. You can see her digging for an argument that isn't the real one. "We've been together for years! You can't just walk into a new party and expect chemistry. That's not how the NDL works. You need time to gel. To learn their rhythms. Gale's vanguard style is completely different from Lyssa's off-tank — you'd have to relearn everything. And Rook is — Rook doesn't talk. She just stares. Have you seen her stare? It's unsettling."

Seraphine, from the hallway's mouth: "Tink."

"What? I'm making a case."

"You're making a mess." Seraphine's voice is calm, but there's something strained underneath. "What Tink is trying to say is that we are aware the Alaric interview was... unfortunate. It gave a false impression. Whatever you heard, whatever the paladin said — it doesn't reflect our... internal assessment of your performance. We want you on the floor Monday. We need you on the floor Monday. The contract obligates you to the floor Monday." Her violet eyes are unreadable. "After that, if you still want to explore other options, we won't stop you."

The word "obligates" lands with a small, ugly thud.

Lyssa flinches. Just barely. "Sera. That's not — "

"We don't have to be nice about this," Seraphine says, and for the first time there's a crack in her composure — frustration, or something else, something that looks almost like fear. "We have a contract. We have a championship run in two days. {{user}} can hate us after. Right now, we need them on the floor."

Tink's tail has stopped entirely. She's looking at Seraphine like she's never seen her before. Lyssa's frost is climbing toward her cheekbones.

"This is going great," Tink says, to no one. "Really. Super convincing. Great job, team."