The Bronze Hammer Tavern wrapped around Alph like a second skin the moment he crossed the threshold. Heat radiated from the central hearth in steady, predictable waves, carrying the rich char of roasted meat and the honeyed warmth of quality ale. The air tasted of smoke and craftsmanship, nothing like the Stinky Mole's damp rot and desperation. Here, the ever-glow lamps burned amber and steady, casting everything in a light that felt earned rather than salvaged.

  The bar top gleamed with embedded fragments of famous armor, each piece a testament to patrons who had walked these boards and left their mark. The clientele matched the space: skilled tradesmen in worn leather aprons, successful merchants counting coin at corner tables, the sort who discussed contracts over proper ale, not brawls over spilled drinks.

  Nylessa had claimed a booth in the back, already three mugs deep into Ruddvik.

  Alph sat across from her, observing the flush rising on her dark skin and the slight looseness in her movements as the malt's medium body coursed through her. Her grey bob caught the amber light as she lifted the third tankard to her lips and drained it in one go.

  His mug remained untouched in front of him, condensation trickling down its copper surface. He rested his fingers on the handle, unsure. He needed clarity for what lay ahead; she was intent on muddying the waters.

  Nylessa slammed the empty tankard down hard enough to make the plate of roasted lamb jump. The impact sent the dressing spilling across the wooden surface, a small chaos of meat and sauce spreading like a stain. She didn't seem to notice or care.

  "You know what the problem with Brynmal is?" Her voice had taken on that particular quality of someone three mugs deep, passionate and utterly convinced of her own wisdom. "It's too crisp. Too mineral. Tastes like you're drinking water that's been angry at a rock for a week. But Ruddvik, Ruddvik understands balance. The malt, right? It's got that caramel sweetness, the toasted biscuit notes, and it doesn't fight you—it works with you. And the dried fruit, the apricot especially, it lingers just long enough that you remember why you drank it in the first place, and then—"

  "The contract," Alph cut through her rambling with the precision of a blade through silk. "Details. Now."

  Nylessa stopped speaking. Her rambling ceased. Her eyes went distant for a moment, then narrowed to a slit. The tavern noise filled the space between them; the low murmur of patrons and the hearth's crackle.

  She smiled sheepishly, then reached for his untouched mug.

  Alph swatted her hand away. The movement was reflexive, practiced, born from weeks of her teasing during training. Her fingers retreated with mock offense, and she settled back into the booth with an exaggerated pout.

  Then she grabbed a piece of the roasted lamb and bit into it, chewing deliberately. When she spoke again, the slur was gone. Her voice had become focused, professional, stripped of the playful edge.

  "Tier 2 Artisan," Nylessa said, munching on her food. "He lives in a manor three leagues south, near the Karok foothills. Two bodyguards—a Tier 1 Shield Fighter and a Brawler. Both disciplined and dangerous." She swallowed hard. "The manor has a plant-maze around it, with mechanical traps in the corridors to keep out any visitors. He hardly ever leaves his study."

  Alph processed the information, fitting it together like pieces of a mechanism. The plant-maze. That was the reason she'd brought me into this.

  "You need me for the maze?" he said, wanting to confirm from her instead of speculating himself. With Nylessa, I can't leave any detail unverified.

  Nylessa nodded, reaching for another piece of lamb. "Your Druidic skills. Navigate it quietly, bypass whatever growth patterns he's cultivated."

  Alph contemplated. With nature affinity, I could cover a decent-sized maze. Can't expand it beyond three or four hundred meters, but a manor's grounds shouldn't be larger than that. "But, what about the mechanical traps you spoke of?"

  "You don't have to worry about traps" She chewed, then added, "But there's a secondary complication."

  Alph exhaled. I knew it.

  "The bodyguards won't leave the target's side normally," she continued, her voice steady despite the alcohol. "Which means I can't isolate him for a clean kill. So you might need to create a distraction. Draw one or both of them away long enough for me to move."

  The words lingered in the air, thick with meaning. The distraction role called for direct engagement. It meant combat. It meant a much higher risk, but still something he could manage on his own.

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  "Look, I'm not taking on two Tier 1 Fighters at once," Alph said, even though he knew he could handle it.

  "You going to finish that?" Nylessa asked, eyeing his drink. "If not, hand it over."

  She waited this time, actually asking instead of just grabbing.

  "About the guards, I'm not expecting you to fight them alone. Just get their attention. I'll handle the rest from the shadows."

  She narrowed her eyes at him. "You can at least take one of them. Don't even think about saying no."

  Alph sighed. "Fine. I'll be the pathfinder and act as a distraction."

  He slid his tankard across the table.

  Nylessa finished the lamb, happily drank the ale from the tankard, and stood, brushing crumbs from her leathers. The tavern noise swelled around them as she prepared to leave.

  "Tomorrow night," she said, her voice shifting into the serious tone they used for business. "Meet me at the base of Val Karok, outside the city walls. Show up armed, ready for a real job. Bring your own weapon; I won't lend you my precious dagger again." She touched the sheath secured at her hip.

  Alph gave a curt nod, his gaze tracking Nylessa as she moved toward the Bronze Hammer tavern exit. He let out a silent, weary sigh as the door swung shut behind her, the heavy wood muffling the sounds of the street.

  Alph was late; the realization settled on him like unwanted soot. A keg of Brynmal should do it. Varrick's favored Dwarven Ale provided the only viable apology. The purchase cost twenty copper, an investment in temporary peace.

  The city's warmth faded as they moved away. The Karok foothills muted all noise; only crickets chirped and the mountain wind whistled softly. Alph's breath formed mist in the chilly air as he reached the top of the rise, looking down at the manor grounds. The building sprawled beneath them, a shadowy figure against the even darker surroundings, its windows closed and dark.

  Nylessa crouched beside him, her leather armor blending into the shadows. The gear was high-quality, worn comfortably by someone seasoned in its use. Each buckle and seam reflected a trade honed through experience and necessity.

  Alph wore black cloth, simple and tight-fitting, clinging to his frame like a second skin. He didn’t choose it for tactical reasons or stealth; it was all he owned and could afford, a choice that kept him from appearing professional. The gap between them remained evident, even in the darkness.

  He studied the grounds below, extending his perception outward. The plant-maze sprawled around the manor like a living wall, its paths twisting in illogical patterns. Alph pushed his awareness deeper into the growth, mapping the corridors, dead ends, and passages leading to the manor's entrance.

  His perception fractured. The maze was vast. His limited range couldn't encompass the entire structure at once. The edges of his awareness grew fuzzy and unreliable.

  "Can't cover the whole thing," he said quietly, eyes locked on the maze. "Too big. My range won't stretch that far."

  Nylessa shifted beside him, her jaw tightening. "How far can you reach?"

  Alph traced an invisible line across the grounds. "One side. Best if we try all four sides first. Map out the shortest route."

  Nylessa let out a slow breath, her tone dry. "One side, huh?" A pause. The tension in her shoulders didn’t ease. "Not exactly what I was hoping for, but... beggars can’t be choosers, I guess." Her fingers twitched toward her dagger hilts, like she was already calculating how much extra time it would consume.

  Alph said nothing.

  "That is the flaw with variant professions," Nylessa said, her voice a low rasp that barely carried over the rustle of the leaves. "You have your hybrid abilities and your special tricks, but you cannot match a true path when it comes to singular mastery. A specialist always cuts deeper."

  She shifted, and Alph caught the smell of wet dirt and old leather from her gear. "My Uncle Sourash told me this; by Tier 2, a Circle Druid consecrates their territory, they turn the ground itself into an extension of their will. He said druids are only truly formidable inside their chosen domain until they hit Tier 4."

  Nylessa turned to face him, her brown eyes glinting with a faint red tint in the gloom. "But for you? Even after you reach Tier 2, you will likely fall behind. You will lack the depth of a real Circle Druid or a Shadow Rogue. Your focus is split too thin."

  The words landed with precision. Alph let them settle without correction. He smiled faintly in the darkness, a small curve of the mouth that Nylessa couldn't quite see.

  She didn't know. How could she? To her, his limited range was proof of a variant profession's inherent weakness, the price paid for hybridization. The logic is sound. The conclusion is wrong.

  The reality was far simpler than Nylessa grasped, I am merely an Apprentice Druid, still locked at Tier 0. His perception range failed him not due to any catastrophic cannibalization between his multiple paths; rather, he had simply not advanced far enough to transcend inherent limitations. Every single Tier 0 Apprentice Druid faces that identical, frustrating ceiling.

  Nylessa rose to her feet. Her hand moved with practiced fluidness to check the position of her daggers, the pommels cold against her dark skin.

  "We're moving now," she said, her tone sharp and commanding. "We'll circle the outer edge and stick to the quickest path. Don't stress about traps; I’ll show you how a shadow rogue works. Once we hit the manor walls, just wait for my signal. Then you’ll make your distraction."

  She didn't wait for acknowledgment. She simply moved, a shadow flowing down the slope toward the manor's perimeter.

  Alph followed, his perception already extending into the plant-maze, feeling for the safest paths through the twisted growth. Behind them, the Karok foothills receded into silence. Ahead, the manor waited, its secrets still intact.