The forge's heat still clung to Gideon's skin, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. The rhythmic clang of hammers echoed faintly from the back of Darric's workshop as Eliakim leaned against a support beam, arms folded.
"You're settling in fast," Eliakim said.
Gideon grinned, wiping his forearms with a rag. "It feels right. The tools, the heat… it's not just bashing metal. It's shaping it. I want to rebuild the axes—maybe fuse in the Golden Thief Bug's shell for something tougher."
Eliakim nodded. "Good. You've earned some coin now. Use it how you like—whether it's new gear, upgrades, or… whatever suits you." He pushed away from the beam. "But for now, focus on learning. I'll handle the other work."
"You're going back to the Guild?" Gideon asked.
"Yeah. They've got something for me—quiet work. Better I do it alone."
Gideon gave him a skeptical look, but didn't press. "Just don't get yourself killed before I finish this axe."
---
Outside, a familiar voice called out. The same young guild messenger from the day before was jogging toward him, waving.
"Master Eliakim! The Guildmaster says you're to come directly—" The boy stopped mid-sentence, his nose wrinkling. "…but, uh… sir, with all due respect, you reek. That sewer stench's got a life of its own."
Eliakim arched an eyebrow. "Noted."
The messenger grinned sheepishly. "Guild's orders—you're to buy a clean set before reporting in. They don't want the council chamber smelling like… yesterday."
---
The clothing shop was a narrow, well-kept place tucked along Greyspire's Merchant Row. Bolts of fabric in every hue lined the walls, and the scent of cedar hung in the air. The tailor—a brisk, sharp-eyed woman—looked him up and down before clapping her hands.
"Twelve years old, are we? I see wisdom in the eyes, but spirit in the shoulders. We'll dress both."
In short order, Eliakim found himself standing before a mirror. The new clothes were simple but refined: a fitted charcoal tunic with light leather trim, a sleeveless overshirt in deep hunter green, and trousers tucked neatly into well-worn boots. No enchantments—just sturdy, clean, and made to last.
He turned slightly, assessing the reflection. It was… balanced. A boy's frame, but a hunter's bearing.
"Looks good," the tailor said, satisfied. "Wise enough for a scholar, brave enough for a swordsman."
---
By the time Eliakim reached the Guild, the senior officer from before was waiting, leaning over a city map. "The last infestation didn't end in the sewers," the officer murmured. "There's a site outside the city walls where we've traced… residual energy. We don't want the locals panicking, so you'll go alone."
"Any idea what's causing it?" Eliakim asked.
The man's jaw tightened. "That's what we want you to find out. Be discreet."
---
Night had fallen by the time Eliakim slipped through the narrow postern gate, keeping low as he followed the officer's map. The moon's pale light turned the grasslands silver. Ahead, half-buried in the earth, was a ruined watchtower—its base cracked and leaning like the bones of a giant.
Inside, the air was cold and damp. He crouched, tracing a finger along the stones. Faint scorch marks… no, not burn marks—patterns. Sigils carved and blackened into the walls. The shapes twisted subtly, wrong in ways that made the eye want to look away.
And then he saw it—a smear of dark residue, rising faintly as wisps of smoke only he could see. It curled in the same strange way as the smoke from Varek, the dire wolves, and the Golden Thief Bug.
It's the same source, Eliakim thought, pulse quickening. Whatever's behind this… it's marking its work.
---
A faint scuff of stone echoed above. Eliakim's head snapped up. On the broken upper floor, a figure in a dark hood stood half-shadowed, watching him silently. The faint gleam of eyes met his for a heartbeat before the figure stepped back, vanishing into the night.
Eliakim's hand hovered near his dagger hilt. No pursuit. No sound. Only the whisper of the strange smoke curling higher, dissipating into the cold air.
He stood alone in the ruined tower, the feeling growing in his chest that the threads were tightening… and someone else was already walking the same path.