The walk to Grimforge Smithy cut through Val Karok's waking streets, where the mountain air bit with altitude and early frost. Alph's breath misted in pale clouds as he climbed the terraced roads, his boots finding purchase on cobblestones slick with overnight condensation. The lower district's residential quiet gave way to the industrial hum of the forge quarter, where chimneys belched smoke and the distant clang of hammers on anvils created a rhythm that pulsed through the stone beneath him.
The shift was gradual but clear. Fewer shuttered windows and more open doorways spilled amber light and heat. The scent of coal smoke thickened, mingling with the metallic tang of iron and the acrid bite of quenching oil. Dwarven voices called out in gruff camaraderie as apprentices hauled crates of ore while journeymen inspected blade edges in the brightening dawn light.
The Grimforge door stood before him. Cold iron settled firm in his grip. Alph forced his shoulders down, drawing a steadying breath that tasted clean, not of salt and blood. The damp stench of the docks and the coppery tang of the kill receded. I am the apprentice now. He pushed the heavy iron door. Its familiar weight dragged at his shoulder. A wave of heat from the banked coals washed over him, mixing the scents of ash and metal dust. His eyes absorbed the dim light, mapping the anvils, the tool racks, and the massive shadow of the three-hood hearth dominating the workspace.
Then he saw Varrick.
The dwarf sat on his usual stool at the counter, broad shoulders hunched forward; thick-fingered hands rested idle on his knees. Varrick simply stared at nothing, fixed past the far wall as if the stone held answers he could not grasp. Alph saw the same expression once before, when he first stepped through these doors.
Varrick’s beard hung loose, stray strands escaping the usual neat braids; he had forgotten the morning ritual. The dwarf sat still, silent; his unnatural repose sent unease through Alph.
Something happen while I was gone?
The dwarf’s head snapped up. His eyes locked onto Alph, shattering the stillness. A boisterous grin split his beard as he surged to his feet.
"There he is!" Varrick’s voice boomed through the smithy, filling the space with familiar warmth. "The wandering apprentice returns! I was starting to think the Rock Goats had carried you off, lad."
Alph exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Just needed a few days,” he said, shrugging off his cloak and hanging it on a peg near the door. The memory of Gloomwater's docks clung to him—the Guild's initiation, the poisoned blade, the kill—but his steps remained light, unhurried, as though he'd passed those three days nursing ale instead of hunting a man.
Varrick’s calloused palm thudded against Alph’s shoulder. “Your business squared away?”
Alph met his gaze. “Handled.”
A grunt. Varrick didn’t push. “Fair. You’re back. That’s what counts.” He jerked his chin toward the hearth, already pivoting. “Smithy’s been too quiet. Need someone to bark orders at.”
"Did the work on the drill finish while I was away?" Alph asked.
Varrick shook his head, frustration furrowing his brow. “The old man still won’t approve it. Says the rune on the mold isn’t right,” he growled, his voice a low rumble of annoyance.
Alph frowned. “What’s wrong with the mold?”
Varrick’s palms pressed flat against the workbench, his weight shifting forward. “Heat-shift stabilization,” he spat, the words bitter. “Won’t sign off on the mold until it holds under his damn tests. And every failure? More coal wasted, more hours lost, more sweat poured into nothing.” His knuckles whitened against the wood.
“Speaking of the old man,” Varrick continued, bending to stoke the banked coals. “He was uncharacteristically vocal while you were gone. Kept asking where you’d gotten off to, specifically during his rune etching sessions.”
Varrick laughed, a deep rumble. “He said he was ready to teach you some advanced techniques, if you can believe it. I say you need a proper foundation first, not some fancy advanced rune etching. You haven't practiced normal durability runes. He wanted to teach you complex heat shift runes? Horseshit!”
Varrick’s tone was light, treating his father’s interest as an amusing quirk. Alph’s mind sharpened immediately, latching onto the implications.
Advanced rune etching. Haldrix, the reclusive Tier 4 Runesmith who never left his basement, specifically asked for him as an apprentice to teach. Getting closer to Haldrix offered a path to restoring his shattered mana core.
No. Not yet, my current concern is to achieve balance of my constellation. Alph weighed his priorities in his mind before concluding. I can't shift my focus.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Chasing rumors about an artificial core meant betting on uncertain research. Advancing his Fighter, Rogue, and Druid nodes to Tier 1 was a solid route with clear results. One was merely chasing a hunch, no matter how alluring. The other was about staying whole.
Alph noted the information for later and refocused on the task at hand. "I'll leave that to you as my master," he said, maintaining a neutral tone. "For now, I should help you restore order here."
He surveyed the smithy, noting the clutter that accumulated in his absence. Tools scattered across workbenches, half-finished ingots sat abandoned, and a fine layer of ash coated surfaces that needed cleaning. The visible disruption confirmed his woven presence in the smithy's daily rhythm.
Varrick followed his gaze and grunted. "Aye, it's a mess. Got distracted without you here to keep things moving."
“Right,” Alph said, rolling his sleeves higher. He grabbed a broom from the corner and started sweeping, the rhythmic scrape of bristles against stone grounding him. “Where do you want me to start?”
Varrick grunted in approval, already moving to stoke the forge back to life. “Anvil first. Then the tools. And for the love of the Titans, sort the ingots. I swear, if I have to dig through that pile one more time—”
Alph tuned Varrick out; his brain was already running, figuring out the next move. He would train, he would fight, and he would push until his nodes finally merged.
After that, he would finally get around to Haldrix's secrets.
The training hall stretched above them, vaulted ceilings arching into shadow, stone walls draped with faded tapestries depicting battles Nylessa couldn't name and didn't care to learn. The polished floor gleamed under the amber glow of ever-glow lamps, reflecting their distorted shapes like a mirror.
Nylessa felt at home here. The space breathed wealth and privilege, the kind of place where nobles practiced swordplay with instructors who bowed and scraped.
Little Raven, on the other hand, looked like a coal miner who'd stumbled into a palace. Beside him, Nylessa moved through the space as though she owned it, her grey hair catching the light, her dark skin luminous against the stone's pale grain.
"How is this possible?" Little Raven asked, his voice rough with genuine bafflement.
"Oh, that's a story," Nylessa said, her eyes brightening with the particular glee of someone who loved the sound of her own voice. "So, there was this merchant's wife. She hired me to kill her adulterous husband and… when on the job I happened to hit it off with his mistress, who is the current owner of this fine establishment. Since I helped her out of his clutches, she said I could use it whenever possible. By the way, did I tell you that man had not one, not two but three mistresses…"
"I don't care," Little Raven said flatly. "Can we just start?"
Nylessa's mouth opened. Closed. Her lower lip jutted forward in a pout that lasted exactly two heartbeats before her expression shifted. A smile spread across her face, predatory and delighted, as though Little Raven had just handed her a gift wrapped in silver ribbon.
"Right. Little Raven, let's start," she said, her voice dripping with amusement at some private joke. "We're going to work on Flicker today. It's one of the easiest Tier 1 skills; you should be able to feel the foundations pretty quick."
"My name is Alph, by the way," he said. "Calling me Little Raven all the time feels odd."
"Alph." She turned the name over in her head. Better than Little Raven. But was it true? "Is that the real name or another pseudonym?"
He shrugged.
"Alright, Alph it is," she stepped back, creating space between them. "But no Deft Movement. Since you want to learn a Tier 1 skill, you can't use the Tier 0 skill as crutch."
Alph frowned but nodded. He stepped forward, his stance shifting into something approximating readiness.
"Go ahead. Show me what you can do," Nylessa said, readying the wooden dagger in her hand.
Alph lunged forward. Without Deft Movement, his body felt wrong; his weight sat heavy in his legs, his steps clumsy and deliberate. His balance wavered mid-transition. There was no flow, no fluidity. He moved fast but couldn't find the rhythm.
Every flaw, every wasted motion, every muscle working against itself instead of in concert—I saw it all. Nylessa's internal critique was merciless.
He was halfway through the lunge when Nylessa's boot swept out, a blur of motion that caught his ankle and sent him sprawling. His body hit the polished floor hard, the wind driven from his lungs.
Nylessa's breath caught, then escaped in a burst of genuine laughter. The sound bubbled up from deep in her chest, unguarded and bright, filling the training space with something that felt almost cruel in its lightness. She could still feel the residual ache in her ribs where his fists had connected two weeks ago, but watching him sprawl across the floor like that, all coordination abandoned, all pretense stripped away—it was too good not to savor.
"Pathetic," she said, her grin widening until her cheeks burned with the effort of containing her amusement. The word carried no real malice, just the honest assessment of someone who'd spent years studying how bodies moved and failed to move. "You're absolutely terrible."
Alph's head snapped up. He pushed himself up on his elbows. "What was that for?"
She tossed the dagger up, caught it.
"Payback." A finger jabbed her ribs. "You cracked these good. And don’t play dumb—I saw you in that fight with the grave robber. Self-healing, yeah? So you can take what you gave."
Her grin turned predatory. "Let's see how long you last."
She spun a wooden practice dagger between her fingers, watching it flash in the light.
Are you interested in learning how Nylessa got the training hall access in detail :D ?
