The cobblestones in Val Karok were slick, shining under a light rain that seemed to rinse away the night's dirt. Alph slipped through the maze of tight alleys, his footsteps barely making a sound, just a shadow blending into the darkness. The familiar clanging of hammers had stopped hours ago; even the forges over in the Western District were quiet, finally asleep.

  Stripping away the blood-soaked rags, he had stuffed them into a weighted sack and dropped it into the deep runoff canal, and, in haste, used Nature's Touch to cloak himself in the fresh scent of wild blooms. The spell concealed the lingering odor of blood and sweat, a bid to erase the tangible signs of the night's occurrences.

  He found a laborer’s modest dwelling, picking the simple lock with practiced ease. Inside, the sleeping man’s rhythmic snore filled the cramped space. Alph slipped past the slumbering form, filching a set of worn clothes from the straw-strewn floor. Shame nagged at him, though the few coins left as payment dulled the weight. A petty theft among grim deeds.

  Alph reached the rear gate of the Grimforge Smithy. The iron hinges groaned with a familiar, low-pitched protest. He slipped inside, the heat of the cooling hearths still radiating from the walls like a dying fever. He aimed for the stairs, his boots clicking softly on the stone, his mind already drifting toward the sagging cot in his room.

  “Where the hells have you been?”

  Varrick stood in the doorway of the main hall, arms crossed, beard bristling. The dim glow of the single lantern carved harsh shadows under his brow. "Ya vanished a full day," he said, voice gravelly with fatigue. "No word. No scrap of notice."

  Alph swallowed, tasting iron at the back of his throat. His tongue felt too heavy to lift. "Sorry," he said. The apology was rough, scraped raw. "Won’t happen again."

  "Look, lad." Varrick crossed his arms, his beard twitching, "I don't mind you taking time for yourself. But next time tell me before you disappear. I spent half the day wondering if you'd run off or gotten yourself killed in some back alley."

  Alph forced a shrug. “Just got caught up in… personal matters. I should have told you.”

  Varrick’s gaze lingered, but he didn’t press. “Get some rest, then. Dawn comes early, and we’ve got a rush order for a dozen pickaxes. I’ll need your hands steady.”

  “Yes, Master.” Alph nodded, his shoulders sagging with fatigue.

  In his room, he collapsed onto the cot without undressing. Raindrops tapped against the grimy window. His mind replayed the night’s events the fight, the escape, the smoke bomb, Nylessa’s face. But fatigue dragged him down like a heavy current.

  Downstairs, Varrick remained in the hall, staring at the stairs long after Alph’s door had closed. The dwarf’s hand rested on the haft of his battle axe, a habit when something troubled him. He shook his head and blew out the lantern.

  Alph stepped into the smithy’s main hall the next morning, tearing off a chunk of brown bread with his teeth. The exhaustion that had clung to him like forge-smoke the night before had vanished, replaced by the sharp clarity of a new day. The bread was stale, but it was food, and right now, that was enough.

  Varrick stood hunched over the workbench, scowling at a scrap of parchment, the order slip. He didn’t look up as Alph approached, just jabbed a thick finger at the stack of raw iron billets waiting near the forge.

  "Strip out the junk," he muttered. "Refine each piece till the metal's pure. No slag, no sulfur, clean enough to ring true before you even start hammering."

  Alph nodded, rolling up his sleeves. The billets still had a rough crust of impurities from the smelting process. He picked up the first one, letting his fingers trace the uneven surface as he activated Insightful Gaze. The flaws revealed themselves; veins of trapped slag and pockets of brittle carbon. He exhaled, then called upon Patient Refinement. The metal yielded under his touch, impurities rising like scum to the surface at a slow and steady pace. He scraped them away methodically, the rhythmic motion almost meditative.

  "Who ordered a dozen pickaxes in a rush?" Alph asked, curious.

  Varrick snorted. "Runner from the Archaeology Guild. Probably another empty hole in the mountain those old geezers found, convinced it hides some grand relic." He scraped at his beard, lip curled in scorn. Then shrugged. "Pay's good, though. Silver apiece. Guild coin spends just fine."

  Alph paused mid-scrape. A silver per pickaxe was steep—more than double the usual rate. He glanced at Varrick, but the dwarf was already turning away, muttering about checking the coal stores. Alph exhaled, watching the last of the impurities curl away from the billet in his hands.

  Alph set down the last purified billet just as Varrick stomped back in, arms loaded with fresh coal.

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  "Done? Good. Now the hammer." The dwarf jerked his chin toward the rack of blunt-nosed rounding hammers hanging on the wall.

  Alph picked one up, its weight surprising him—thicker than he'd expected, the handle worn smooth from decades of use. He closed his eyes, activating Tool Affinity, and let his fingers adjust their grip instinctively. The hammer shifted subtly in his grasp, its balance aligning with his wrist, the grain of the wood whispering against his palm like a living thing.

  "Feel it?" Varrick grunted.

  Alph nodded, rolling his wrist. The hammer responded effortlessly, barely needing thought to move exactly where he willed it.

  Varrick smirked and tossed a red-hot billet onto the anvil. "Then quit dawdling. Show it some work."

  Varrick emerged from the gloomy store room, clutching a chisel and a bundle of delicate rune-engraving tools. He grumbled, mostly to himself, about the vanishing mithril stock.

  “Blast it all, that old badger must’ve pinched them for his new contraption. Never anything where it should be.” He kicked a loose stone, sending it skittering across the floor. “Always digging, always tinkering. When’s he going to forge something useful for a change?”

  Alph ignored the familiar rant, focusing on the rhythmic clang of hammer on steel. This was a daily ritual, Haldrix raiding the store room, Varrick railing against it. The old man never seemed to hear his son’s complaints, or he simply did not care. Alph laid out the freshly forged pickaxe heads to cool, their metal shimmering with residual heat. He turned toward the stacks of cured timber.

  "While the heads are annealing, grab the wood for the hafts," Varrick said, the frustration still lacing his tone as he sorted through his rune tools. "Use Patient Refinement to draw the moisture from the timber until it’s just right, tough enough to flex under a strike, but hard enough not to snap."

  Alph picked a thick length of ash, its surface smooth and its lines unbroken. Shutting his eyes, he reached inward, probing for the dampness trapped inside. With deliberate care, he coaxed the water free, strand by strand, until he felt it was good enough.

  "Lunch," Varrick announced, his voice cutting through the rhythm of Alph’s work. "Take an hour. Eat, rest those eyes. You'll need them."

  Alph wiped his hands on his trousers, stepping away from the pile of perfectly cured wood. The scent of pine and seasoned ash clung to his clothes. He grabbed his meager meal of bread and dried meat, finding a quiet corner to eat.

  When Alph came back, Varrick was already standing at the anvil, holding a small chisel; it looked sharp as hell. A dozen shiny pickaxe heads were laid out in a half-circle near him; they felt completely cool now.

  Varrick picked up the first head, positioned it just so, and began to etch. The metal screeched under the chisel's bite, a high-pitched whine that set Alph's teeth on edge. Varrick's brow furrowed, a low grunt rumbling in his chest. A moment later, he swore under his breath, tossing the head aside. A small gouge marred the pristine surface, a ruined rune.

  He grabbed the next one, moving slower now. His breathing paused, then he let out a quiet sigh of relief. This one, a complex, sharp-edged symbol, gave off a faint shine as Varrick finished etching it. He repeated the process, sometimes smooth, sometimes breaking into muttered curses when a line went astray, until all twelve axe heads bore the same glowing rune. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his hands trembling slightly from the precise effort.

  "These," Varrick said, gesturing to the finished heads, "are basic durability runes. Once a mage imbues mana, they'll reinforce the metal. Six hours of heavy work, maybe, before needing a recharge. Keeps the edges from chipping, the steel from fatiguing."

  He set the chisel down, flexing his hands. "Now, your job. Fit the head to the handle. A tight fit. If your Insightful Gaze finds even a sliver of light between the wood and the iron eye, you haven't finished the job. You'll switch out the haft and find a suitable replacement. Go on."

  Alph grabbed the basket of cured handles, the wood feeling ready thanks to his skill. He picked up one of the pickaxe heads; it felt right, heavy and balanced in his grip. He chose a handle, slid it into the axe head's opening, and then leaned in close to check the connection. His Insightful Gaze kicked in. He saw it; a tiny, nearly invisible gap, just a whisper of light ruining the fit. He scowled and tossed that handle onto the discard pile.

  He grabbed another one. That fit felt perfect; the wood and metal just melted together, totally seamless. Good enough, he thought, setting it down. He kept working through the pile like that, his eyes focused, his hands moving fast.

  Out of the twelve, he found ten perfect matches right away. But two of the handles? Nope. He tossed those onto the discard pile, shaking his head. He dug back into the basket, pulled out two fresh pieces of ash, and quickly got them ready, doing whatever needed to be done to cure them. Then, without any trouble, he fitted them to the last two axe heads. Every single joint was flawless; the wood and steel were now one piece.

  "Not bad, boy," Varrick said, a rare note of approval in his gruff voice. "Only two replacements. That's a good eye." He picked up a finished pickaxe, examining the joint closely. His fingers ran over the haft. "Now for this part."

  Varrick picked up a different, finer chisel, tracing a delicate, spiraling line near the top of the ash haft. Little more than a faint scratch at first, it began to shimmer, pulling in light as Varrick worked.

  "What's that one?" Alph asked, leaning closer.

  Varrick grunted, still focused on his work. "That there’s a conducting rune. Doesn’t have to be on the pick—some mage could just slap the head and shove mana in. But this way?" He tapped the wood. "They grab the handle, and the mana just goes. Smoother. No wasted power, no half-charged junk. Keeps everything steady."

  He smirked, finally glancing up. "And hey—two runes for the price of one silver? Can’t beat that, eh? Hah! Good deal for ‘em, good profit for us because it's pretty easy to etch."

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