"Thank you for the kind offer," Cal said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he angled toward the exit. He found Lyraethis' eyes and gave her a smile that he felt conflicted over. "I've got to get going."
She took a half-step forward, still flushing with her fingers folded around the ceramic pot, but he was already leaving.
He nodded to Kasien and Astrin. "Good fights, both of you." His eyes met Astrin's for a fraction of a second, all business. "I'll be in touch about that armor."
He caught a motion at the edge of his vision as he turned to pick up his pack and jog after the retreating Veils… Astrin curling her hand into a fist.
Aurelian called to him before he’d covered half the gravel path.
"The nerve of it." The man spoke to the air itself, his resonant voice filling the space with self-ascribed authority. "An Aloi. A house that couldn't find its own crest on a map without a senior herald guiding its search. And yet he believes he has the station to make demands of the Veils. My grandfather's grandfather had Alois working his fields. That is the lineage from which this invitation originates."
Selara stared past him, tracking something unseen in the misty canopy far outside the manor as she bit back a sigh. "He requested a joint expedition into the Deadfall Dungeon. Tomorrow morning."
Cal fell into step behind them as they exited the estate grounds. "Requested," he repeated.
"A word doing considerable work."
"It is an order dressed in the borrowed clothing of politeness," Aurelian said, his chin lifting by a degree, "and it is an embarrassment to us both that we must…" He stopped talking, his head swiveling to register Cal. "You caught up."
"I jogged," Cal explained.
Aurelian gave him a curt nod and faced back to the path, lowering his voice to more reasonable levels. "Good. The point remains. We must attend."
The three of them walked toward the main road as the stone-and-timber manor receded behind them, and Selara shifted her attention from her brother's monologue to Cal.
"You'll be coming with us." She glanced back at him.
A D-tier dungeon? The assumption had been that he, an F-tier apprentice, would obviously be left behind. This sounds like a terrible idea.
"Are you sure that's wise?" Cal asked. "It seems… rather unsafe. Besides, my armor is currently held together by optimism and a few functional buckles. What are my odds of survival when I'm one strong breeze away from essentially going into the dungeon naked?"
With a dry laugh, Aurelian regarded Cal, over-enunciating each word and stretching the syllables patronizingly.
"Ido Aloi's party consists of three individuals who could individually clear that dungeon blindfolded. The Halmis probably could too, of course, provided they managed to locate their own appendages first, which I consider a legitimate open question." He straightened his cuffs with a forceful tug. "Add Selara and myself to that equation, and the endeavor becomes a tedious stroll through a damp corridor. You will be safer than a relic in the Imperial vault."
He paused.
"Assuming there aren't any aberrations."
Selara rolled her eyes and elbowed her brother in the ribs. "He means it's safe. Don't try to scare Cal. The Deadfall dungeon isn't powerful enough to generate aberrations. I don't even think there are any on record."
"I said what I said," Aurelian replied, wincing from her jab.
That was the most condescending safety briefing I've ever received. Pretty sure I've sat through mandatory corporate fire drills with more dignity… and yet, somehow, I actually feel kind of reassured. Maybe this will be a good trip?
Selara glanced at Cal. "Be at the Golden Mortar before first light, and pack for a few days."
She veered onto a side street that led toward the shop, Aurelian half a step behind her. With his arms clasped behind his back, he'd already resumed his quiet commentary on the failings of the Aloi lineage.
Cal stood on the main road and watched them go.
Right. A dungeon tomorrow morning. But before that…
He turned north, and followed the sound of a forge.
The shady mechanic tactic, he thought, as his boots carried him into the traffic of Deadfall's main thoroughfare. You never walk in and tell them you know the alternator is shot. You say, 'It's making a funny noise,' and let them try to sell you a whole new engine. Let them get comfortable. Let them think they're fleecing the clueless suburban dad who can't tell a torque wrench from a table fork. He shifted the pack on his shoulder, thinking about the cloth-wrapped ore sample at the bottom. The real victory was the look on their face when you mentioned, oh so very casually, that you'd already gotten a quote from a guy who used to build race cars.
He smiled into the middle distance as the forge's noise reached him, the hammer-strike carrying down the street.
Yorrin's Forge announced itself through every available sensory channel. The heat arrived first, a wave of dry warmth that pushed against his face ten yards from the open front. It was followed by the smell of coal smoke and quenched metal, with something subtler underneath—the ozone-adjacent scent of spiritually active materials being worked. The sound was a deafening clang that repeated every two seconds and seemed to vibrate through his diaphragm. Through the wide-open front of the structure, he could see the forge's belly glowing orange-white, the bellows breathing deep and steady beside it.
Stepping inside, he saw three younger men working at the rear of the forge, visible through the heat haze, each at their own station. At the main anvil stood Yorrin himself, hammer raised. He brought it down on a length of iron, a strike that sprayed sparks through the air.
Cal only waited for the hammer's stroke to complete, a departure from the patience he'd developed for the smith while working under Gareth. "Mornin', Yorrin."
The hammer came down once more. Setting it on the anvil's edge, the blacksmith turned and took Cal in quickly, his assessment lingering on the ruined cuirass.
"Half-bloo—," he stopped himself. "Mistress Veil's apprentice. What can I do for you?"
Cal reached into his pack and produced the piece of Ka-Vae'zhar from its cloth binding. Then he held the ore out, his brow furrowed in feigned uncertainty.
"Quick question," he said. "I came across this out in the Depths. It's got a weird warmth to it and an odd sort of density." Turning it once in his fingers to study its puzzling secrets, he looked up at Yorrin. "I know herbs, but I don't know ores. Is this worth anything, or did I just haul a shiny paperweight back to town?"
[Observation] was already running full tilt, his attention locked on the man.
And the expected tell was small, easily missed. Only someone watching for it would have caught the involuntary widening of the eyes in the first half-second the smith looked at the ore. The reaction lasted only a blink before gruff indifference settled back into place.
Yorrin grunted. Crossing to Cal in four steps, he took the metal from his palm without asking and flipped it over. The care in his grip betrayed the disinterest on his face.
"Decent enough," the blacksmith said. He placed the ore on the corner of the anvil and wiped his fingers on his apron. "I'll give you five gold for it."
Five gold. Cal kept his face neutral. Based on what Selara had told him, the ore was worth somewhere between twenty and thirty times that. Possibly more, given the rarity of Ka-Vae'zhar out here.
He pursed his lips and scratched the back of his neck.
"Five gold," Cal repeated, as though running the math. "Huh." A pause. "Funny. A friend of mine at the Guild, an old adventurer, took a look at this when I came back. Said any material that hums like this is serious business. Said I shouldn't let myself get fleeced."
For a longer moment, Cal stared at Yorrin, seeing if he could make the man sweat.
"Besides," he continued, his tone staying light, "this is just a small piece." Picking the ore back up off the anvil, he tossed it up and snatched it out of the air. "I know where there's a lot more of it."
The forge’s rhythm continued. A hammer on iron from one of the junior smiths, the breathing of the bellows. At the main station, that pattern broke. Yorrin had been cleaning a set of tongs while they negotiated—probably to busy himself so he wouldn't have to look at Cal. But on that last sentence, his fingers spasmed.
The tongs hit the stone floor with a clangor that rang off the walls. For a moment, it was the only sound in the forge. One of the junior smiths glanced over, startled, but Yorrin ignored them.
A vein pulsed along his forehead.
He bent and retrieved the tongs, setting them back on the rack. His expression hardened as he faced Cal and leaned forward, planting both palms flat on the anvil.
"Material like that," he said, his speech carefully bland, "is likely riddled with spiritual impurities. Not worth much without a proper refinery." He turned back to the anvil. "The quote stands. I'll pay you five gold for this weight."
Cal nodded slowly, stroking his chin as he considered the man's words. "Impurities. Is that what makes it hum like that?"
Yorrin remained silent as he watched Cal. I'm impressed, Yorrin, Cal thought, shaking his head slightly. But it's time to bring this to a close.
"Because Selara said that particular hum was a very good thing. She was fairly specific about it, actually."
He grinned.
Yorrin's broad shoulders tightened and eyes widened, searching past Cal to scan the empty street. When he looked back at Cal his shoulders dropped.
"Selara Veil saw this."
"She did."
Another scan of the street. His voice dropped. "Who else."
"Just me and Selara."
Yorrin stared at him, the smithy's clamor a backdrop to their silence.
Gotcha.
The blacksmith exhaled a long, shuddering breath that seemed to hollow him out. Pulling a stool from beside the anvil, he slumped onto it, his forearms on his thighs. For a moment he just looked at the forge fire. When he spoke again, his voice carried an old weariness.
"Seven years. Seven years at E-tier Adept in my craft." He rubbed his chin, the rasp of a calloused palm against stubble loud even in the smith's din. "Every piece I make, every technique I refine, it's just… not enough." His eyes moved to the ore in Cal's grasp, and the desire in them was fully unguarded. "The Illuminet control every scrap of top-tier material that comes into the village. None of it reaches a tradesman's hands. Not legally, anyway." A pause. "I've been stuck because I've been starved of what I need to move forward. Working with ore like that," he said, pointing at the prize, "is the only way I break through. The only way."
Cal took a moment to appreciate the win, and the wisdom of his mentor.
Then he pressed his advantage. "I have two conditions."
Yorrin looked up at him.
"The first is an apprenticeship."
The gruff dismissal reassembled itself. Yorrin straightened on the stool, his chin pulling back. "I have apprentices." He nodded toward the rear of the forge. "Boys who've been sweeping ash since they were old enough to. You have no experience, no foundation, you—"
"I earned my apprenticeship under Selara Veil for foraging," Cal said evenly. "And with Aurelian Veil for alchemy. They both decided I was worth their time after seeing what I could do." He let that sink in for a moment. "I learn quickly. Ask either of them."
Yorrin opened his mouth as if to respond again, then closed it.
Cal began to slowly fold the cloth back around the ore.
"Wait."
Cal stopped.
Yorrin worked his jaw, clearly having to build up to whatever he was going to say. His gaze darted from the ore, to the junior smiths, and finally to the street again.
"The ore," he said finally, his statement strained, each word a concession. "If you bring me enough to actually work with, enough for a real project, then…" He sighed. "Then we discuss the details of an arrangement."
Discuss an arrangement. Cal laughed to himself. Which means yes, in the language of men who would rather saw off their own arm than admit they need something from you.
"Agreed," Cal said. "But the project will be for me."
The fact that the rest of the ore vein was at the bottom of a collapsed cave system was a problem he’d deal with later.
This is exactly like the time I promised Jack I'd fix the treehouse, while conveniently having forgotten that I'd sawed through the main support beam the previous weekend. All confidence on the outside, blind panic on the inside, and a frantic mental search for a plan.
"The second condition," he continued.
Yorrin, who had begun to relax, went still again.
From his pack, Cal retrieved the fabric-bound bundle he'd carried since the Depths. It was more substantial than the ore sample, and he laid it on the anvil's surface before unwrapping it.
The E-tier spearhead caught the forge's light. The leaf-shaped blade lay against the cloth, its metal bearing a lustrous quality that seemed to draw the surrounding light inward. Even dulled by decades in the dark, the edge was clean.
Yorrin reached for it, his fingers hovering over the blade in a motion of professional reflex, and Cal felt a surge of Mana from the smith.
"Where did you find this?"
"Hidden in the Rootbound Depths on the corpse of someone long dead."
Yorrin lifted the spearhead and held it delicately, turning it so the furnace glow traveled down the blade's length. As he ran the ball of his thumb along the flat in a slow stroke, the professional hunger in his eyes was joined by respect.
"It's a Mycari alloy." His voice dropped to a murmur. "Old work. Pre-Dominion, maybe, given the construction." He tilted the head, catching the light at a different angle. "Look at the way the metal blends. Barely any surface aging, and the core density is extraordinary." As he spoke, his thumb found the channel running along the centerline, where etched glyphs made shallow grooves. "Simple piercing runes, but the craftsmanship is good. Whoever cut these knew what they were doing. It's part of the structure." Turning it again, slower this time, he murmured, "I've seen high-end Mycari work in the capital's auction houses, but never held a piece before."
He set it carefully back on the cloth and looked at Cal, who proceeded to lay out his last requirement.
"I want it on a proper haft. A complete weapon, worthy of its legacy."
The smith finally relented. "I'll do it. New haft, properly fitted. It'll take a day or two."
Cal extended an open hand across the anvil.
Yorrin looked at it for a moment before his calloused grip closed around Cal's. They shook once.
Leaving the Ka-Vae'zhar sample on the anvil beside the spearhead, Cal walked back out into the morning air. The forge's heat fell away behind him. Outside, the street was grey and damp with winter's chill, and somewhere above the clouds Aurum was trying its best to heat a day that didn't want to be warmed.
He had another potential mentor and crafting Skill to throw his Impartments at. Not to mention a pending weapon upgrade and armor replacement, as well as his first expedition into one of Veraxus' vaunted dungeons. Oh, and let's not forget he had an ore vein buried under a collapsed cave system that he’d promised to deliver without the faintest idea how.
One thing at a time, he thought. Tomorrow should be interesting.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Hey folks,
The day job is really starting to crank as the new year ramps up, and I've got some volunteer stuff I'm involved with that's coming to a head too. If any of you know how to magic up more time in a day, please let me know.
Also, I'm pretty stoked to finally start revealing the dungeons. I've had the lore on this stuff built since the beginning, so these next chapters will be fun for me. I hope you enjoy them.
Also-also, the line breaks actually copy/pasted in this time? Is Patreon finally reinvesting some of their sweet LitRPG dollars?
Cheers,
Jon