The city thinned as we walked toward the wall.
Houses became less dense. Streets widened. Buildings turned more industrial—warehouse-like structures, fenced yards, stacks of materials. The air smelled less like food and more like wood dust, oil, and sun-warmed timber.
Bruen led me down a road where carts moved heavier and people's hands looked rougher.
Then we came to a large wooden house surrounded by a fence.
Inside the compound, logs were stacked neatly—tall piles of cut trunks, bark stripped in places, ends stamped with marks that probably meant something to people who weren't me.
Beside the house sat an open workspace with a roof and partial walls, no front door—just a wide open mouth where carpenters moved like ants around beams and planks.
Tools were everywhere.
Not magical. Not shiny. Just… practical.
A treadle-powered lathe sat near the edge—one worker pumping a foot pedal steadily while the spinning wood turned under a chisel, curls falling like ribbons.
A block-and-tackle hoist hung from a thick beam, ropes looped through pulleys to help lift heavy logs onto saw benches.
Two men worked a frame saw in rhythm—pull, push, pull—teeth biting through wood with a steady rasp.
Hand planes scraped along boards, smoothing them with long, satisfying strokes. Drawknives flashed as bark was peeled away. Wooden wedges were hammered into place with mallets, splitting logs cleanly.
It was loud in a different way than the guild.
No shouting. No bragging.
Just work.
Bruen stopped, gesturing toward the big house. "That's my family house."
I pointed. "So the workshop is… all this?"
Bruen nodded. "Workshop's here. House is there."
Then he added, "Let's go. Hopefully Mauve is here."
"Mauve?" I repeated. "Who's that?"
Bruen scratched his cheek once, like the question annoyed him because it meant words.
"He's… a guy who helps with wall runs," he said. "Brings logs from outside. Does escort work if he feels like it."
"If he feels like it," I repeated, cautious.
Bruen shrugged. "He's capable. But lazy when he's inside."
That sounded… dangerous and promising at the same time.
We stepped through the fence gate.
A few older workers looked up and greeted Bruen with casual nods.
"Bruen," one said. "Back already?"
Bruen grunted. "Dropped tools at Argus."
The worker winced in sympathy. "Oof."
Another worker glanced at me. "Who's the kid?"
"Trey," Bruen said.
I bowed politely. "Hello."
The workers didn't react like Argus did. They just nodded back and went back to their tasks.
We walked deeper into the compound toward the open workspace.
Bruen scanned the area, eyes sharp, then raised his voice.
"Anyone know where Mauve is?"
A worker near the saw bench wiped sweat from his forehead with his forearm.
"Mauve?" the man echoed, then laughed. "Not here. He's at the lumberyard. Outside the wall. Far side of Primrose Forest."
Bruen's brows lowered. "Restocking?"
"Yeah," the worker said. "He'll come back with a shipment."
Another worker added with a grin, "He's a snail in the workshop, but outside? Different person. Loves the open."
Bruen glanced at me.
I tried not to look too desperate.
"How long?" Bruen asked.
"Afternoon," the worker said. "He'll roll in when the cart's full."
Bruen turned to me. "We wait."
My stomach sank a little.
It was still late morning—around eleven. Afternoon meant hours.
My original plan to hit the guild board was gone now, swallowed by this detour.
But my goal was still the same. If Mauve could escort me outside the wall, waiting was worth it.
Bruen watched me like he expected me to complain.
I didn't.
He nodded once, as if that was the correct answer.
Then he said, blunt, "You can leave if you want."
I hesitated.
Bruen watched me like he expected me to complain, or to turn around and run back toward the guild the moment waiting became inconvenient.
I didn't.
Instead, I shifted my bag strap with my good hand and bowed a little—small, automatic politeness.
"Bruen," I said quietly, "can I… work here while we wait?"
Bruen blinked once. "Work?"
"I want to help if I can," I added quickly, glancing at the busy workshop. "Just until he comes back."
Bruen's eyes narrowed a fraction, not suspicious—measuring.
"You might not be paid," he said flatly.
My stomach tightened, but I nodded anyway. "It's okay."
Bruen didn't look convinced. "Why?"
I swallowed, then chose the safest truth.
"I want to learn," I said. "And… I don't want to miss the opportunity if he comes back while I'm gone."
Bruen stared at me for another beat.
Then he nodded once—short and final, like a hammer strike.
"Then help," he said. "One arm. Don't get in the way."
Relief loosened my shoulders.
"Yes," I said quickly. "I won't."
Bruen gestured toward the workshop. "You can sweep. Sort nails. Hold wedges. One arm."
I nodded quickly. "Okay."
Bruen led me to a corner where a pile of offcut wood and shavings had collected like a small hill.
"Start there," he said.
I grabbed a broom with my good hand and started sweeping.
It was… harder than I expected.
Not because sweeping was difficult, but because doing anything one-handed was like fighting your own body. The broom tried to twist. My ribs tugged when I leaned too far. My sling strap pulled against my neck as I moved.
I adjusted it with my good hand, annoyed. The strap slid back into the same uncomfortable spot like it was stubborn on purpose.
A nearby worker glanced over—an older man with sawdust in his hair and forearms thick from years of lifting timber.
"You sweep like you're duelin' the floor," he remarked.
I flushed. "I'm trying."
He snorted—not unkindly. "Try slower. Let the broom do the work. You're not choppin' a tree."
I slowed down, pushing in longer strokes instead of short angry ones. The shavings gathered more neatly, and the broom stopped fighting me as much.
"Huh," I muttered.
The worker jerked his chin toward my sling. "That arm's fresh?"
"Yes," I said.
"You fall off somethin'?" he asked.
I hesitated. Then chose the safest version of truth. "Training accident."
He grunted like that explained everything. "Figures. Guild kids. Always thinkin' pain means progress."
Bruen, passing by with a board on his shoulder, cut in without stopping. "It does."
The older man laughed once. "It does. But only if you still got all your parts after."
I kept sweeping, trying not to pull too hard with my ribs.
Another worker—a woman with her hair tied up and a measuring stick tucked into her belt—walked past carrying a stack of thin boards. She slowed, watching my one-handed struggle for a second.
"You're using the wrong grip," she said.
Before I could answer, she took the broom for half a breath and showed me—hand low on the shaft, angle shallow, using my body weight instead of my arm strength.
"Like that," she said, handing it back. "Don't twist your wrist. You'll make it worse."
I nodded quickly. "Thanks."
She raised an eyebrow at my sling. "You're here to work?"
"I'm… waiting for someone," I admitted. "Bruen said I can help while I wait."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You walked all the way to the outskirts just to wait for someone?"
"Yes," I said.
She let out a short breath through her nose. "Who're you waiting for?"
I hesitated only a heartbeat, then answered. "Mauve."
Her shoulders sank like the name carried weight.
"Ah," she sighed. "That loafing slouch Mauve."
I blinked. "Loafing… slouch?"
She waved a hand, like the explanation was obvious. "Capable guy. Too bad he's got the personality of a sack of wet cloth. Slow when there's no reason to move."
I frowned. "What's wrong with him?"
"What's wrong is he's lazy," she said flatly. "Extremely."
She adjusted the measuring stick at her belt, eyes drifting toward the road beyond the fence, like she could already picture Mauve not being here.
"The only reason the big boss keeps him around," she continued, "is because Mauve saved him once. Long ago. After that? He's here—lazing around whenever there's no outside-the-wall job."
She snorted softly. "Soon as there's a wall-run, he's suddenly awake. Otherwise? You'll find him leaning on something, staring into space like thinking is heavy labor."
I didn't know why, but that description made me curious instead of angry.
The worker's expression softened a fraction as she looked back at me. "Well… at least you're better than him."
I blinked. "Me?"
"Yes," she said, blunt but not cruel. "You're working. Work improves your body and your mind. And it makes you less useless than that lounging slacker."
Heat rose in my cheeks, but I couldn't stop a small almost-smile from forming.
"I'm trying to be less useless," I muttered.
"Good," she said, already walking away. Then she tossed over her shoulder, "Start by not sweeping the same spot five times."
Heat crept up my neck. "I wasn't—"
She didn't turn back.
Bruen's workshop didn't stop for my pride.
Still, the work was honest.
Wood shavings gathered into piles. Dust lifted and settled in shafts of light. The air smelled like fresh-cut timber—cleaner than the damp blacksmith shop, warmer than the guild's stew-and-sweat—and for a few minutes, my brain wasn't counting coins or measuring fear.
Then the rhythm broke.
A shadow fell over the pile I'd just swept, and I paused, lifting the broom slightly like I was waiting to be told I'd done it wrong again. One of the workers—hands rough, apron streaked with sawdust—looked down at the cleared space, gave a small approving grunt, and jerked his head toward a nearby bench.
"Alright," he said, like that was the closest thing to praise he offered. "If you're gonna linger here, make yourself useful somewhere else."
A worker handed me a small bucket of nails and pointed at a bench.
"Sort by size," he said. "Little ones there. Big ones there."
I did it.
It was slow, because my fingers kept bumping my sling and my grip wasn't perfect, but I did it.
Every time I finished a small task, Bruen gave a short nod, like that was praise in his language.
At some point, a worker asked Bruen, "You bring the kid to work?"
Bruen shrugged. "He wanted company. He's bored."
I stared at Bruen.
Bruen stared back.
Then, quieter, Bruen added, "He needs someone to go outside the wall."
The worker's head snapped toward me. His gaze slid from my sling to my face, like he was checking if I was joking.
"Outside?" he repeated, incredulous. "Why would a kid like him want to go outside the wall?"
Bruen shrugged, blunt as ever. "I don't know."
The worker squinted at me. "You plannin' to sneak a look at the Hendeca monument from the gate or something?"
Heat crawled up my neck. "No," I said quickly. "I… need to take a gathering quest."
The worker's brows rose.
I forced the words out, keeping them simple. "I can't go alone. I'm only G-minus, so the guild won't let me take outside-wall quests without someone higher with me."
The worker stared for a beat. Then he let out a low whistle.
"Kid's got guts," he said.
Or desperation, I thought.
He grinned. "Mauve might do it. Might."
"Might," I echoed again, because everyone kept saying that word like it was glued to Mauve's name.
The worker shrugged. "He's lazy when he's here. But outside? He loves it. Sometimes he'll take jobs just to have an excuse to step through the gate."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice like it was a secret.
"He'll complain the whole time," the worker added, amused. "But he'll do the work."
That sounded… like someone I could handle.
Someone who wouldn't ask deep questions.
Someone who would treat it like a job, not a mystery.
Hours passed in small pieces.
Sweeping. Sorting. Carrying light offcuts. Holding a measuring stick steady while an older worker marked a board. Fetching water.
I watched carpenters use their bodies like tools—strong arms, practiced movements, working in rhythm with wood and iron and rope.
Bruen moved through it all like he belonged, because he did.
He wasn't loud.
He wasn't playful like Milo.
He didn't chatter like Lina.
He just… worked.
And for the first time, I saw why.
This wasn't a hobby. It wasn't training for glory.
It was survival.
Not unlike gathering quests.
Just inside the wall.
Sometime after midday, the light shifted. Shadows lengthened. The air cooled slightly.
Bruen paused, looking toward the road beyond the fence.
"He'll be back soon," Bruen said, like he could feel it.
My heartbeat picked up.
I wiped sweat from my forehead with my sleeve and tried not to look eager.
Because the moment Mauve arrived would decide whether today was a success or a waste.
We waited.
Then—
A faint rumble.
Wheels.
A cart approaching, heavy and slow.
Workers looked up.
Someone muttered, "There he is."
Bruen straightened.
My stomach tightened.
The cart rolled into view beyond the fence—loaded with logs strapped down with thick rope. The horse pulling it was sturdy, patient, flecked with dust.
And walking beside the cart—one hand resting lazily on the rope, the other swinging loose—was a man.
He was an adult—late twenties, maybe. The kind of age that made him feel older in a way kids could sense immediately, even before he spoke. He was tall too, though still a little shorter than the Guild Master, with a broad-shouldered build that looked strong without being bulky. Dust clung to him from the road, and his sun-tanned skin made it look like he belonged outside more than inside. He wore a practical mix of leather and steel—scuffed, used, not decorative—and on his back rested a greatsword strapped in place like it was just another tool he didn't feel like carrying in his hands. His hair was messy in the careless way of someone who couldn't be bothered, and his eyes were half-lidded like he was always one step away from a nap.
But the way he moved was controlled—easy balance, aware of the cart, aware of the ground, aware of the world around him.
Lazy on the surface.
Capable underneath.
He yawned mid-step like bringing a cartload of logs from beyond the wall was the most boring thing in existence.
Then his gaze flicked toward the workshop.
Toward Bruen.
Toward me.
He raised a hand in a lazy wave.
"Oy," he called, voice rough around the edges, like an older sibling who'd seen too much and still didn't want to admit they cared. "Brought your precious wood back. You're welcome."
Bruen didn't smile. "You're late."
The man shrugged, unbothered. "I'm alive."
A worker laughed. "That's Mauve."
Mauve.
The name settled in my chest like a door creaking open.
Bruen looked back at me, expression still blunt, but there was something like a question in it:
Ready?
I swallowed.
My sling tugged.
My ribs ached.
My coin pouch felt too light.
But my goal was right there, dusty and yawning beside a cart of logs.
"I'm ready," I said quietly, mostly to myself.
Bruen nodded once.
Then he turned toward Mauve, voice steady.
"Mauve," he called. "There's someone who wants to talk to you."
Mauve's half-lidded eyes slid back to me.
He stared for a beat—taking in my sling, my small stature, my tired posture.
Then his mouth curved slightly, not quite a grin.
"…About what?" he asked.
Bruen didn't answer for me.
He just stepped aside.
And suddenly, I was the one standing in front of the open road, trying to figure out how to ask for help without sounding desperate—without saying too much—without giving anyone a reason to look at me twice.
Mauve waited, lazy and patient.
The cart creaked behind him.
The workshop kept working.
And the wall—far beyond the rooftops—felt closer than it had this morning.
Next words matter, I thought.
Then I opened my mouth.