Alph finished sorting the last mithril ore, arranging the shimmering, pale-blue rocks by their faint internal glow. The air in the storeroom hung heavy with the scent of raw metal and dust. He wiped his hands on his apron, the task complete.

  He pushed open the heavy storeroom door. The main smithy was quieter now, the apprentices gone, the earlier commotion settled. Morna and her protectee had departed.

  Varrick hunched over the sturdy workbench, his thick fingers pressing a wide parchment flat against the scarred wood. The dying embers of the main forge cast long, dancing shadows over his face. His brow, a tight knot of muscle, pulled low over his deep-set eyes, almost hiding them in shadow. He chewed on the end of a charcoal stick, a low growl of curses rumbling from his belly.

  Stiff, heavy leather aprons layered over a reinforced scholar's garb bore heavy stains; evidence of decades spent hunched over the forge and the alchemy bench. Thick braids of iron-gray hair, bristling with faintly pulsing gold rings, framed a face where the deep lines looked hammered permanently into the skin. Beneath a formidable brow, amber eyes glowed with a deep internal light, and his right arm was sheathed entirely in articulated plates of worked brass.

  That has to be Haldrix. The familial resemblance to Varrick was unmistakable.

  Haldrix’s thick-fingered hand, scarred and capable, tapped a spot on the parchment. He muttered something under his breath, a low, rumbling sound Alph could not decipher, but Varrick nodded, a slight tension easing from his shoulders. Haldrix pointed again, his finger tracing a line, then looked up.

  Haldrix's eyes locked onto Alph, their amber glow deepening. The creases at the corners folded into a smile that carried surprising warmth.

  "Ah, the boy." His voice rumbled, resonating through the forge. "Good to see you putting in the work. Keep at it."

  A sharp nod emphasized his approval before his focus abruptly shifted. His gaze snapped back to the parchment, fingers twitching over the ink-work with intense concentration. The muttered calculations resumed, consuming him as he vanished once more into his diagrams.

  Varrick shook his head, the motion weary and practiced. His eyes locked with Alph's, conveying wordless instruction. A quick glance toward the bellows made his meaning clear, back to labor.

  Alph moved to the bellows, the steady groan and rush of air already a known cadence. His fingers closed around the leather handle, its grain worn smooth by years of use. The forge’s fire flared with each push, its orange glow flickering against the aged stone, painting the walls in restless light. The heat pressed against him, steady and sure, while the scent of burning coal and hot metal settled into something almost like comfort.

  The low murmur of voices cut through the rhythmic hiss of the forge. Alph kept his grip steady on the bellows, ears pricked toward the exchange between Haldrix and Varrick.

  "Mithril for the entire drill body?" Varrick's voice carried the rough edge of skepticism, his thick fingers tapping against the workbench. "That’s wasteful. Black iron for the frame, mithril tip—strong enough, half the cost."

  Haldrix didn’t look up from his sketches. "No. The whole body must be mithril." His brass-clad fingers traced the parchment, the faint hum of his prosthetic arm filling the pause. "The rune matrix requires conductivity. A mage will channel directly into the metal."

  Varrick exhaled sharply through his nose. "For what?"

  "That," Haldrix said, finally glancing up, his amber eyes narrowing, "is not your concern. Melt the ore. Process the ingots. I’ll adjust the blueprint, and then," his gaze flicked toward Alph, lingering just long enough to emphasize the instruction, "you and the boy will forge the components. A practical lesson in precision work."

  Varrick’s jaw tightened, the scar above his eyebrow twitching. He opened his mouth, closed it, then gave a single, grudging nod. "Fine. But we’re not wasting good mithril if the measurements are off."

  Haldrix’s lips curled, just slightly. "They won’t be." He picked up the parchment and walked off to his workshop beneath the main hall, dismissing them both as if the matter were settled.

  Varrick let out a long, heavy sigh, the sound carrying the weight of the whole smithy. He moved to stand next to Alph, his broad shoulders still tight.

  “Lad,” he rumbled, “that’s my old man. Haldrix Grimforge, you might’ve guessed.” He watched the path his father took toward the basement. “Don’t mind him, though. He’s getting on in his years.”

  “He still lives in his head,” Varrick continued, gesturing vaguely at the soot-stained walls around them. “Convinced his projects don’t drain every spare coin we sweat to earn in this rundown place.”

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  Varrick’s shoulders were not merely slumped; they were drawn tight, pressed down by the weight of his father’s impossible demands. Alph recognized the posture instantly.

  The old man treats him like a Tier 0 apprentice, not a Tier 2 fighter running the whole operation. The pressure was familiar, a dull ache Alph had carried in another life.

  A distant memory resurfaced on his mind; the heavy mahogany bench, the smell of aged leather and dust, the cold, accusatory glare of a man in a black robe.

  "You failed! You did not provide proper counsel to your defendant. 3 years of probation? I would have had him walk out with an apology from city hall!"

  The detail of the man’s face was blurred, something he had expected, but the words still stinged same as before.

  Alph pushed the memory aside. His hand settled on Varrick's slumped shoulder. "So, we're smelting the mithril ore now?" He looked at Varrick, his gaze steady. "It's my first time working such high-grade material. I'll need an expert's guidance." He held Varrick's eyes. "Will you guide me?"

  Varrick’s deep brown eyes widened, the surprise cutting through the soot-stained lines of his face. A brief smile flitted across his features, parting his bushy, iron-gray beard.

  "Aye, lad. Aye," he rumbled, his voice thick with a sudden, husky weight. He clapped a heavy, calloused hand onto Alph's arm, and the heat of the forge radiated between them. "Come on, then. Get to work."

  Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of sunlight piercing the high, arched window of President Urengal’s office. The air, thick with the scent of aged parchment and dry ink, hung still and heavy.

  Urengal, a lanky dwarf with a crooked nose and a monocle perched on his left eye, hunched over a sprawling map. His bald head gleamed under the faint light, strands of blonde hair clinging to his temples. He traced a gnarled finger across faded lines, a low hum escaping his lips.

  A sharp rap echoed through the quiet space.

  "Enter," Urengal barked, not bothering to lift his gaze from the ancient document.

  The heavy oak door groaned open, then clicked shut. Footfalls, light and precise, approached his desk. Urengal’s amber eyes, magnified by the monocle, flicked upward, peering over the rim of his spectacles. He saw Administrator Panchal, the guild representative who had visited Grimforge Smithy. Panchal stood ramrod straight, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow despite the cool interior of the Hall of Hammers.

  Panchal bowed, a crisp, practiced movement. "President Urengal. The materials were delivered to Master Haldrix as instructed. And the proposal was made."

  Urengal’s fingers stilled on the map. "And his reaction?"

  "Initial… disinterest," Panchal admitted, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "He seemed preoccupied with his own projects. But once I outlined the… scope of the opportunity, his attention sharpened. He seemed… intrigued."

  "Intrigued," Urengal repeated, the word a low rumble. "And his answer?"

  “He agreed,” Panchal said. “He will join the expedition to Titan’s Wound. At the end of spring, two moons from now.”

  Panchal paused, his brow furrowing. “Though, President, I confess I question the wisdom of this particular inclusion.”

  Urengal’s amber eyes narrowed slightly. “Elaborate.”

  “Master Haldrix is a Tier 4 Artisan, yes, but he has shown no inclination to advance further,” Panchal explained. “The other excellencies accompanying us are all Tier 5 Combatants, while he is a researcher. His presence feels, well, incongruous.”

  Urengal finally pushed away from the map, leaning back in his ornate, high-backed chair. The leather creaked in protest. He steepled his fingers, his gaze unblinking. "That is none of your concern, Panchal. Your task was to secure his participation. You accomplished it."

  Panchal shifted his weight, his discomfort evident. "With all due respect, sir, the Federation’s resources are not limitless. An expedition of this magnitude requires every participant to be at the peak of their craft. Master Haldrix is but one of many Tier 4 Artisans, even if we need the help of a Runesmith, there are far better candidates."

  A faint smile, cold and sharp, touched Urengal’s lips. "Your concern is noted, Panchal. However, since you completed your assigned task, I will offer you a piece of advice. Never, under any circumstances, antagonize Haldrix Grimforge."

  Panchal blinked. "Antagonize? Sir, I simply voiced a professional observation."

  "Do not ask why," Urengal continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It is a closely guarded secret. One you are not yet privy to. Now, return to your duties. There is much to prepare for."

  Panchal, clearly bewildered but unwilling to press further, bowed again. "As you command, President." He turned and exited the office, the door closing softly behind him.

  Urengal remained in his chair, the silence settling once more. He picked up a small, intricately carved stone, turning it over and over in his hand. A satisfied smile spread across his face.

  Oh Panchal, I wish I could tell you the truth of it. Even if we gathered every Tier 4 Runesmith in the upper city and pooled their collective talent, they wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to Haldrix’s pedigree.

  A rough chuckle escaped him, like stone scraping stone. Urengal adjusted his brass-rimmed monocle, the metal cool against his skin, and retrieved a charcoal stylus from the drawer.

  Bending over the map of Val Karok’s undercity, he inhaled the scent of aged parchment and distant forge-smoke seeping through the vents. His stylus moved in deliberate strokes, marking points near the Titan’s Wound as he weighed the dangers of the deeper layers.