The carriage wheels crunched over gravel as Pavel Duskryn leaned back against the plush cushions, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the armrest. The interior smelled of polished leather, his jaw was set, his expression a mask of cold detachment, but beneath it, his pulse hammered hard.

  Stupid. Stupid, reckless, panicked fool.

  The words seethed in his mind, a litany of self-loathing that matched the carriage’s jostling rhythm. He had planned it so carefully—dispose of her in the dumps, let the rats and the refuse swallow her whole. A vagrant, too deep in her cups, too far gone to be missed. No questions. No traces. Just another nameless body lost to the mountain’s hunger.

  But then, he had panicked.

  The carriage had still been moving when he shoved her out; he should have waited, but the urgency had overcome him. The sack containing her body had hit the cobblestones with a sickening, wet thud, the sound echoing in his skull even now, landing near the sewer grate where the refuse piled high.

  I need to be more deliberate next time, no rash movements, no matter the pressure.

  His fingers twitched, imagining the scene unfolding in the alley. Had she been conscious? Had she screamed? Had some drunken laborer or nosy urchin seen the carriage, seen him?

  The thought coiled in his gut, sharp and venomous. If word spread—if someone connected the sack to him—

  No. He cut the thought off, grinding his teeth. No.

  The carriage slowed as it approached the manor gates, the ironwork groaning as they swung open. Pavel didn’t wait for the footman. He was out before the vehicle fully stopped, his boots striking the pavement with a crisp, controlled sound. A cold breeze swept across the terrace, carrying the scent of damp stone and the sharp, metallic bite of coal smoke rising from the slums far below. The air was thin and biting here in the upper tiers, yet the frost failed to penetrate his skin. His focus was already shifting, already adapting.

  The manor’s grand doors loomed before him, their brass fittings gleaming under the ever-glow lamps. He pushed inside, the heavy wood swinging shut behind him with a final, decisive thud.

  He didn’t bother with the stairs. Instead, he strode directly to the study, his movements precise, his posture unyielding. The decanter of wine waited on the sideboard, its crystal surface catching the lamplight as he poured a generous measure. The liquid sloshed into the glass, dark as blood, and he downed it in one swift motion. The burn was sharp, grounding, but it did little to steady the tremor in his hands.

  Pavel set the glass down harder than he intended, the crystal ringing against the wood. His reflection wavered in the windowpanes, pale and composed, the picture of a man in control. But his eyes betrayed him, wide and fever-bright, the pupils dilated with something far too close to fear.

  What if someone saw?

  The thought gnawed at him. He forced his lungs to expand and contract, demanding his mind return to the cold logic that had built his fortune. The coachman, a mute brought from the North, was the only risk. His tongue was a stump; his service, bound by iron. Knowing the price of a slip, he would remain silent as stone.

  The servants? Dismissed. The streets? Dark, empty. The alley? A place where the desperate and the drunk went to vanish. No one would ask questions. No one would care.

  Pavel exhaled, slow and measured. His pulse steadied, the panicked drumbeat easing into something colder, something calculable. He poured another glass of wine, this time sipping it as he paced the length of the study. The rug muffled his footsteps, the silence broken only by the occasional crackle of the fireplace.

  He had been careful. He was always careful.

  The elixir—yes, that had been a miscalculation, but an understandable one. The alchemist had sworn it was pure. A flaw in the batch, nothing more. An unfortunate accident.

  The wine settled in his chest, its heat unraveling the tight coil behind his ribs. He was not a man to be undone by a single night of chaos. This was a stumble, a brief pause in a much longer march.

  He set the glass on the mahogany surface and turned to the desk. Ledgers and letters sat in orderly stacks, waiting for his hand. He let his fingers graze the top page, tracing the names of merchant daughters. Their dowries and family ties were recorded in sharp, black ink. He looked at the list, and his mouth twisted into a thin, sharp line.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Svena had been useful, but she was replaceable. There were always more beautiful daughters, more ambitious fathers eager to bind their bloodlines to a rising house. He would find another. Younger, perhaps. More malleable. One who wouldn’t break quite so easily.

  The idea took root, sharpening in his mind like a blade against a whetstone. He would send a messenger to the central continent at dawn. Svena had succumbed to a sudden fever; the grieving widower required a new wife.

  Pavel allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

  The rhythmic rasp of steel on iron filled the workshop, a grating sound that usually signaled progress. Alph stood at the granite workbench, his shoulders hunched as he dragged the tool across a cooling ingot. Yesterday, the metal had spoken to him through his new skills, revealing its secrets in a map of glowing imperfections. Today, the iron remained silent, a stubborn, gray slab.

  Varrick leaned against a soot-stained pillar, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He watched the way Alph held the rasp, his grip too tight, his strokes erratic. The boy wasn't looking for the grain or the hairline fractures that marred the surface. He was staring through the metal, his eyes fixed on some distant, dark horizon only he could see.

  Varrick pushed off the pillar and walked to the bench, his heavy boots thumping against the stone floor. He reached out, snatching the ingot from Alph's station before the boy could start another pass. He held it up to the forge light, turning it slowly.

  "You missed a slag pocket on the left edge," Varrick said, his voice flat. "And a stress line running right through the center. If I put this in the furnace for a weld, it would shatter like glass."

  Alph blinked, his focus snapping back to the present. He wiped a streak of soot from his forehead, leaving a dark smear. "I’ll go over it again. I just need to find the rhythm."

  "Rhythm isn't the problem, lad." Varrick set the ruined ingot down with a heavy thud. "You haven't used Insightful Gaze once this morning. You’re working like a man who wants to be anywhere but at a forge. Your mind is out in the streets, wandering where it shouldn't."

  Alph reached for the rasp, his movements mechanical. "Nothing is wrong, Varrick. I didn't sleep well. The city is loud, and the transition to the new profession is... tiring. I just need to push through the fatigue."

  "Tired is one thing. Being a ghost at your own anvil is another." Varrick stepped closer, his bulk blocking out the light like a slab of mountain stone.

  "I said I'm fine," Alph snapped, his voice sharper than intended. He caught himself, lowering his gaze to the scarred wood of the workbench. "Just tired. I'll focus."

  "No, you won't." Varrick took the rasp from Alph’s hand and set it aside. "You’re done for the day. Go back to your room or go for a walk, I don't care which. But you aren't touching my iron until your spirit is back in your body."

  Alph opened his mouth to argue, but the look in Varrick's eyes—a mix of stern authority and a flicker of genuine worry—stilled his tongue. He gave a stiff nod, turned, and walked toward the rear of the smithy without another word.

  Varrick watched the boy disappear into the shadows of the hallway, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. He looked down at the ingot Alph had been butchering, tracing the deep, uneven gouges left by the rasp. The boy had awakened as an Apprentice Crafter, a gift that usually brought a surge of energy and purpose. But the forge-heart demanded more than just skill; it demanded a clear mind to channel the mountain's strength.

  Varrick figured the toll of the Awakening was hitting the lad harder than most, his young soul struggling to balance the sudden influx of professional power against the physical limits of his mortal frame. It was a common enough struggle for those who bypassed years of labor through a sudden spark, and if Alph didn't find his footing soon, the very Gift he’d received would burn him out before he ever struck a meaningful blow.

  Alph dropped into the wooden chair by his desk. He pressed his palms against the tabletop, feeling the coarse, cool ridges of the wood grain before locking his fingers together. His head hung low, the muscles in his neck pulled tight with a tension that had nothing to do with the heavy labor of the forge.

  No real rest touched him last night. Each time he edged toward fitful doze, the thick reek of wet soil and blood clogged his nostrils. That girl's final, hollow gaze would pierce through the darkness of his closed eyelids, a silent accusation that jolted him awake, gasping for air in the suffocating silence of the room.

  Alph let out a long, ragged breath, letting his shoulders sag as the weight of the day pulled at him. His body felt heavy, like a tide of lead settling into his bones.

  Is it possible? he wondered, his mind drifting toward the superstitions of this new world. Could a spirit truly linger?

  The thought took root, cold and prickly. He had been the one to catch the girl's final, rattling breath; he had been the one to lower her broken form into the dirt. Perhaps something dark had latched onto him in that graveyard, some spectral tether turning his rest into a theater of horrors.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, forcing the frantic pulse in his throat to steady. It was a foolish, desperate thought. There were no ghosts here, only the echoes of his own failure. The nightmares weren't a curse; they were a reminder. His own mind was refusing him peace because the man who had tossed that sack from the carriage was still breathing the crisp mountain air of the upper districts.

  He wouldn't find sleep until he found the culprit. He would do it sooner rather than later this time. Hardening his resolve, Alph stood up and walked out, his mind already planning on how he will stalk the nobleman's manor and gather information.