Chapter 10 - Mischief at Beacon Hall

Steam curled from a wooden bowl of porridge as Pip, dressed in his little cloak and oversized boots, bit down his breakfast hastily.

Honey smudged across his cheeks like paint on a canvas.

“I gotta go soon,” he announced, barely pausing to breathe between spoonfuls. “Arlen promised to create a waterfall if I help him sort out yesterday’s paperwork!”

Across the table, his mother raised an eyebrow as she worked a needle through a leather saddle.

“Eat first. Adventure later.”

“I am eating,” Pip said, swallowing noisily.

His father, seated beside the hearth with a chipped mug of tea in hand, chuckled into the rim. “Remember when he couldn’t sit still long enough to feed the goats?”

“He used to chase fireflies with a wooden spoon,” his mother said softly, a small smile playing on her lips.

“Now he’s chasing dreams with a wizard.”

The two shared a quiet look. Not the kind burdened with worry, but the kind that saw something beautiful they hadn’t expected to grow quite so fast.

“I swear he grew up a year the day that guild opened,” his father murmured.

“He found something to believe in,” she replied. “Someone to follow.”

Pip had already shoved the last bite into his mouth and leapt down from his chair, snatching up his satchel and slinging it over one shoulder with theatrical flair. His other boot was found and jammed on in the same motion, leaving a faint smear of porridge on the toe.

He grabbed his wand like it was a sword and the front door was a castle gate.

“Bye! Love you! I’ll be back before dusk unless we find bandits! Or paperwork!”

The door slammed behind him before either parent could reply.

Outside, the sun had just begun its climb over the hills, washing Breezevale in its golden glow. The air buzzed with the start of another day—distant hammering, the cry of a rooster, carts rolling over dirt paths. And down that path ran Pip, cloak flapping behind him like wings, boots thudding as he made a beeline for Beacon Hall—his temple, his fortress, his dream.

His father rose and moved to the window, watching the boy disappear down the road.

“Just hope Arlen knows,” he said, quietly, “he’s got more than a guild to look after.”

====

Beacon Hall stood proud against the morning sun, its refurbished stonework catching the light like an old hero’s polished armour. Its quest board outside was half-filled with handwritten slips. A lone adventure had just plucked a notice which she was eyeing with interest.

The front doors were already open—Arlen always made sure of that—and inside, the warm scent of parchment, ink, and old wood greeted Pip like an old friend.

He stepped inside, boots squelching faintly with dew from the grass outside.

The hall was alive in its own quiet way. A pair of traveling adventurers sat in a corner scribbling notes. Someone was hammering something in the back. And near the reception counter, a man with muddy boots and a weather-worn cloak was speaking animatedly with Arlen.

Pip’s face lit up. “Morning, Arlen!”

Arlen didn’t respond.

He was hunched slightly, arms crossed, listening to the villager with that tired half-frown that had become more common lately. His hair was messier than usual, cloak rumpled, eyes distant even as he nodded.

The villager—probably a farmer—was gesturing at a crumpled piece of paper, something about wolf tracks or missing livestock.

Pip waited politely for a moment, rocking on his heels. Then two moments. Then three.

Still nothing.

With a slight frown, Pip stepped forward and tugged gently on the hem of Arlen’s coat.

That finally did it.

Arlen blinked down at him as if waking from a dream, then softened.

“Ah, Pip—sorry, didn’t see you there.” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Good morning. I’ll be just a minute.”

Pip beamed. “It’s okay! I was gonna help you with the papers again. Do I start with the quest records or the gold tallies?”

But before the words had even finished leaving his mouth, Arlen had already turned back to the farmer.

“Yes, if it’s the northern fields again, we’ll need to check the ridge trail. Might be a den. I’ll post it up and—hang on—what was the name of the one who saw it first?”

Pip’s smile faltered.

He looked down at the stack of papers—unsorted requests, payment slips, old contracts. The inkpot he usually used was dry. His little stool wasn’t even by the desk. No one had prepared anything for him.

He stood there for a long moment, grasping on his wand tightly, listening as Arlen spoke like he wasn’t even there.

====

At first, Pip waited patiently.

Every morning, he still bounced through the doors of Beacon Hall with his cloak fluttering and wooden wand tucked into his belt like a dagger of destiny.

He took the same seat by the worn old table near the reception, swinging his legs as he waited for Arlen to finish his conversations. His eyes were always bright, his grin unwavering.

And every day, Arlen greeted him the same way—smiling, warm, but tired.

“Just a little longer, Pip.”

And every time, that “little” turned into a lot. An hour. Two. A full morning gone. By the time Arlen would turn to Pip again, it would be with that harried look in his eyes and apologies spilling from his lips like loose parchment.

The truth was, Arlen was overwhelmed.

Between guild expansion, backlogged requests, bickering adventurers, budgeting, maintenance, and every soul in Breezevale wanting a slice of his time, he had none left to give.

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Somewhere along the line, Pip had been shuffled into the “later” pile.

“Special order—signed, sealed, delivered,” Elena prepared a greenish yellow potion for Arlen on most days. By his expression, it must have tasted horrid—a stamina potion perhaps, or a concentrated dose of caffeine.

Whatever it was, its bitter aftertaste jolted through his body like a lightning bolt—enough to get him going.

Meanwhile Bran, Mira’s apprentice cook would make it point to serve a meal to Arlen. Keeping him nourished, but keeping him in place—behind the counter, all day long.

Focused on work, and not on Pip.

Days turned to weeks.

The stool where Pip once sat remained tucked against the wall, forgotten. No one prepped his little inkpot anymore. Arlen barely noticed when he came in—sometimes not even a greeting, just more scribbling, more sighing, more villagers asking for solutions.

Eventually, Pip stopped waiting at the table.

He started watching instead from the closest table at Trail’s End, facing the guild counter.

Watching Arlen carry too much in his arms. Watching him nodded off to sleep every now and then. Watching the spark in his voice dim with every “urgent” request.

The boy's heart ached—not for himself, but for the man he admired more than anyone.

And so, Pip hatched a plan.

Not to hurt Arlen. Never that.

But maybe… just slow things down.

Just enough to make Arlen notice again. Just enough for him to rest.

Just enough to remember.

====

Pip started small.

Whispering around town that Beacon Hall was closed for renovations. He'd murmur it to gossiping old ladies at the bakery or shout it playfully to children in the street.

Then came the rumours of a ghost haunting the quest board, said to curse anyone who accepted a mission too soon.

Some adventurers laughed it off—but others gave the hall wary glances for the rest of the week.

One afternoon, Pip unpinned a handful of minor quests—lost sheep, dented pans, chicken thieves—and re-hung them upside down. Another day, he slipped behind the counter and scribbled fake delivery confirmations across three different ledgers.

He wasn't even sure what some of them were for.

But his masterpiece came the morning he snuck into the Trail’s End tavern.

Mira hadn’t opened yet, the big woman still scrubbing mugs with her sleeves rolled up and humming to herself. Pip tiptoed behind the counter and pinned up a very official-looking notice, complete with wax stamp (stolen from Arlen’s desk) and poorly forged cursive.

GUILD-FREE WEEK!

By decree of Beacon Hall, no quests or missions may be accepted in honour of Mira’s Birthday Bash!

Long live the ale!

When Mira found it, she burst out laughing so hard she nearly dropped a barrel.

Pip darted out before she could ask questions. Word spread anyway. Some travellers took the week off. One burly dwarf even brought Mira a cake.

But even as Pip’s mischief spread, he still peeked in on Arlen each morning.

Hoping.

Wishing.

Waiting.

====

The strange lull had crept in quietly.

Arlen noticed it first in the quietness of the board. The once-busy hum of adventurers scanning quests, arguing over rewards, or bartering for group compositions had dulled into awkward silences and shrugging excuses.

Fewer villagers stopped by to post requests. Some claimed they’d already “heard the board was cursed.” Others muttered that the guild was “under repairs” or “out on holiday,” like it was a bakery on festival week.

Arlen tried to laugh it off, chalking it up to rumours or miscommunication.

But a part of him—somewhere deep, behind the tired eyes and endless scrolls of numbers—felt uneasy.

It all came to a head one late afternoon when he caught a flicker of motion by the quest board. A small figure in a green cloak, arm stretched high with something clutched in his fingers.

Arlen squinted.

“Pip?”

The boy froze like a deer.

“Don’t run,” Arlen said quickly, stepping forward. “What are you doing?”

Pip gulped and began to back away, crumpled parchment half-pinned to the board.

Arlen closed the distance in a few quick strides, taking the notice from his hands. It was another forgery—this one a “Quest Board Closure Notice” with suspiciously large lettering.

Arlen's brow furrowed, exhaustion fraying at the edges of his patience. “Pip… why would you—?”

“You weren’t supposed to see that yet!” Pip yelped.

“Pip,” Arlen snapped, sharper than he meant. “Do you have any idea how much trouble this causes? People rely on this board. You can't just—just go making things up!”

Pip flinched as if struck.

His eyes welled up, and his face scrunched.

“I was trying to help!” he cried, his voice cracking as hot tears spilled over.

“You never stop working, and you look so tired and you never play anymore!”

His small fists trembled at his sides.

“You said you’d teach me fire tricks. You said we’d go see the Mistwood! I waited and waited and you just kept saying ‘later’—but you never mean it!”

He hiccupped through the sobs now, red-faced and sniffling.

“You forget to smile, Arlen. You forget about me.”

Silence fell like a stone dropped in still water.

Arlen’s anger vanished in an instant, the parchment slipping from his fingers. He looked down at Pip—really looked—and saw not a mischief-maker, but a child who missed his friend.

A child who saw him slipping away and reached out the only way he knew how.

Wordlessly, he knelt and opened his arms.

Pip stepped in and collapsed into his chest, sobbing against his robes.

“I’m sorry, Pip,” Arlen murmured into his hair. “I’m the one who should be apologising.”

He held Pip tightly, his voice thick with guilt.

“You’re right. I’ve lost sight of what this guild was supposed to be. It’s not just about paperwork and prestige. It’s about people. About promises.”

He felt Pip’s shoulders shake with one last sob before the boy clung to him like a lifeline.

“I’ll fix this,” Arlen said quietly.

“Promise I’ll make it right. But I can’t do it alone anymore.”

====

The following morning after their tearful reconciliation, the sun rose with a softness Arlen hadn’t felt in weeks.

Beacon Hall was quiet as he stepped into the main hall, parchment and quill in hand.

The walls no longer felt like they were closing in, and the air didn’t press quite so heavily on his shoulders. He approached the quest board outside and took a deep breath before pinning up a fresh notice:

NOW HIRING: GUILD RECEPTIONISTS

Looking for reliable, friendly, organized individuals to assist with guild operations. Must have a tolerance for adventurers, ink stains, and patience for long stories with short points.

Thirty-five silver a week, meals provided.

Inquire within.

—Arlen Bright, Guildmaster

For a long moment, he simply stood there, reading the words as if seeing them from the outside for the first time.

It was a small thing, this piece of paper, but to him, it felt like turning a key in a new door.

Beacon Hall wasn’t just a scrappy dream anymore—it was growing.

Not into the bloated bureaucracy he feared, but into something that could breathe. Something sustainable. Something shared.

It was only fair—even mighty Mira had hired helping hands. And with the contributions by Trail’s End and sales from Elena’s healing potions, coin was definitely not an issue.

Later that afternoon, he found Pip outside under the shade of a tall spruce near the pond behind the hall. The boy sat cross-legged, doodling magic circles in the dirt with a stick, his wooden wand lying beside him.

Arlen knelt beside him with a soft smile.

“Lesson time?”

Pip looked up, surprised. “Really?”

“I promised, didn’t I?” Arlen ruffled his hair, then sat back with his staff across his knees. “Let’s start simple—light and focus.”

He showed Pip how to cup his hands like a cradle, mimicking the stance a mage might take when shaping fire.

“No magic yet,” Arlen said gently, tapping Pip’s forehead with a knuckle. “But your focus? That’s where it starts. Magic’s more than sparks—it’s about intention, control. Like training your mind before your muscles.”

Pip nodded earnestly, imitating Arlen’s posture with serious concentration.

Arlen reached into his satchel and pulled out a smooth, ember-glass stone—one of the small, enchanted baubles used. He held it up, whispering a trigger word.

It sparked to life in a soft, golden glow.

“Now hold this,” he said, placing the stone in Pip’s palms. “Feel the warmth. Try not to think about making magic. Just... listen to it.”

Pip closed his eyes, brow furrowed in thought, as the stone hummed softly between his hands.

“Is it supposed to be singing?” Pip whispered.

“Sort of,” Arlen smiled. “When you finally awaken, it’ll feel like the whole world’s singing. This? This is the first note.”

Pip peeked at the glowing stone and grinned.

“I think I like this note.”

As the sun dipped low, the two of them sat by the pond, skipping small, enchanted stones across its surface. Each one shimmered with soft light, rippling across the water like stars falling into place.

With each splash, Pip grinned wider.

For the first time in days, maybe weeks, Arlen smiled not out of duty, but joy.

“Hey, Arlen?” Pip asked, watching one stone skip five times before vanishing beneath the lily pads.

“Yeah?”

“You’re still my favourite grown-up.”

Arlen chuckled.

“Let’s not tell Mira. She might arm wrestle me for the title.”

Arlen looked on at another ripple of water as stone met the still pond water.

Today at least, he didn’t feel like he was running out of time.

He felt like he had enough.