The next morning, Alph’s muscles screamed in protest as he stretched, each movement a painful reminder of his nocturnal efforts. He pushed himself off the cot, a low groan escaping his lips.

  His shoulders ached, his back stiff, and his hands, despite the calluses, felt tender. He was fortunate the Apprentice Crafter node provided the expertise to mend the nicks he made on the axe. Otherwise, Varrick would have questions.

  He made his way downstairs to the kitchen. Varrick sat at the rough-hewn table, a steaming mug cradled in his thick hands.

  "Morning," Varrick grunted, not looking up from his drink.

  "Morning." Alph poured himself a mug of water.

  "No new orders today," Varrick said. "Clean the smithy. Practice your skills."

  Alph inclined his head, careful to keep the movement measured and controlled, resisting the urge to slump into the rough wooden chair. A profound, palpable wave of relief washed over him; the rest was a necessity, not a luxury. He was far from recovered after the strenuous practice of the previous night, and any immediate labor would have had adverse effect on his sore muscles.

  A few hours of simple cleanup and practice is manageable, he figured he could recover using Nature's Mend later on after he get off of here.

  Alph scraped the last dry crust of bread from the wooden plate, its starch dry on his tongue. He moved to the forge floor, seizing the rough, stiff-bristled broom handle. Across the room, Varrick settled his thick mass onto a counter stool, pulling the dusty ledger open and beginning the meticulous calculation of monthly profits.

  The rhythmic scrape of Alph’s broom across the stone floor filled the smithy. Varrick’s quill scratched, a counterpoint to the rustling pages of the ledger. A sudden, insistent peal of bells shattered the quiet, echoing from the main door. The heavy oak swung inward.

  A dwarf, clad in surprisingly clean, if slightly ostentatious, administrator’s robes, strode in. Behind him, four apprentices, their faces strained, wrestled with several large, reinforced crates. The crates looked heavy, their wood dark and unyielding.

  Alph stopped, holding the broom up, a question already bubbling up in his head. He watched the group walk by, totally confused. Varrick’s head shot up; that deep, familiar scowl instantly creased his forehead.

  "Varrick Grimforge, I hope you are doing well," the dwarf administrator stated, his voice quite formal. "I require immediate audience with Master Haldrix. Lead the way." His gaze swept across the smithy, resting on Alph for a moment, his brows scrunched in apparent displeasure at the lack of enough men. "And instruct your apprentice to accommodate these materials; they are of the utmost importance."

  Varrick grumbled something low and indistinct, a sound like grinding stone. He slammed the ledger shut, his movements stiff. "Alph," he said, his voice tight, "move these crates to the storeroom. I'll take this guy to the basement."

  He gestured toward the dwarf with a curt nod, then turned and stomped toward the entrance to Haldrix’s underground workshop. Alph watched them go, then turned his attention to the imposing crates.

  Alph turned to the four apprentices, who stood awkwardly beside their burdens. "If you would bring them into the storeroom, please," he said, gesturing toward the back of the smithy. "Just stack them against the far wall."

  The apprentices exchanged glances, then hoisted the heavy crates. Alph held the storeroom door open, the dim space smelling of aged metal and dust. One by one, they carried the reinforced boxes inside, their grunts and heavy footfalls echoing in the confined space. Alph directed their placement, ensuring a neat, stable stack. The last apprentice set down his load, wiping sweat from his brow.

  "Thank you for your help," Alph said. "I can manage from here."

  The apprentices nodded, clearly eager to leave. They filed out, their footsteps receding down the main corridor. As Alph emerged from the storeroom, he saw a new figure waiting at the counter.

  She was a dwarven woman, her form compact but powerful. Tight brown leather armor hugged her frame, adorned with intricate silver accessories that glinted in the forge light. A white cloak, surprisingly clean, draped over her shoulders, secured by green shoulder plates. A velvet top hat, a style Alph recognized as common among Val Karok’s law enforcement, sat perched on her head. A badge, almost hidden by the brim, caught his eye.

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  She turned as he stepped into the light, her gaze sharp, assessing him from head to toe. A slight smile touched her lips.

  "You must be the new apprentice," she said, her voice a low rumble, surprisingly warm. "I am Morna. I am here to escort the guild representative."

  "I am Alph, Varrick's apprentice," he rasped, indicating the back. "He is with Master Haldrix."

  Morna did not look away immediately. Her sharp gray eyes lingered, assessing him with curiosity. The silence between them thickened, awkward and unbroken save for the distant ringing of metal on metal.

  Alph shifted his weight, wiping soot-stained palms on his apron. He felt compelled to fill the quiet, forcing a clumsy stammer into his voice to play the part of the nervous novice.

  "I, uh..." He gestured vaguely around the empty room, his movement stiff. "Do you... need a chair? Or water?"

  A door slammed from the back. Varrick emerged, stomping his steps, a dark cloud hanging over him. He muttered under his breath, "Guild rats, always so haughty, making trouble. Bunch of glorified shit-shovelers."

  He stopped short when he saw Morna, his scowl deepening. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something Alph could not name passing between them. Alph glanced at Morna. Her cheeks held a faint flush, a color that might have been from the forge's heat or something else entirely.

  Are those cheeks flushed because of the heat, or is it because of Varrick? He dismissed it as an illusion.

  "Varrick!" Morna’s voice, though still low, carried a surprising warmth. "It's good to see you."

  Varrick grunted, his arms crossed. "Morna. What brings the Chief Arrester of the 'Golden' streets to a humble smithy in the lower districts? And what are you doing with that guild rat?" He jerked his chin toward the door the administrator had disappeared through.

  Morna’s eyes darted to the closed door, then back to Varrick. She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "There was an assassination, Varrick. A foreign noble. The scumbag has a mysterious patron, and they are pressuring us to tighten security around other resident nobles."

  Varrick’s scowl deepened, his gaze flicking to Alph. He reined in his frustration, his voice dropping to a gruff command. "Lad, organize those crates in the storeroom. They're mithril ores, meant for my father's work." He pointed a thick finger at storeroom. "Use your skill to sort them. The brittle ones, the ones that need refining first, put them up front. The good ones, save for last. Go. Get to it."

  Alph gave a quick, sharp nod, his movements efficient as he turned and exited the main room. What does the Chief Arrester know about the assassination? His mind already raced, piecing together possibilities.

  Morna kept her sharp grey eyes fixed on the heavy iron-bound door of the storeroom where the young apprentice had vanished. The wood barrier shuddered shut, muffling the chaotic, metallic clang of the smithy into a low, persistent thrum, and a dense, coppery scent of old charcoal and cooling slag settled around her.

  She pivoted, her stocky, fit frame moving deliberately, and closed the space between herself and Varrick. He was already retreating, however, moving quickly to the dented oak counter where he usually weighed out metal for customers. He positioned the scarred wood barricade between them, a familiar, disappointing gesture.

  "Why must you persist in this, Varrick?" Morna asked, the usual, hard edge of command softening in her voice. She placed her calloused hand flat on the worn countertop surface, the rough grain pushing against her sensitive palm. "I’ve told you; I care nothing for family standing or reputation. Will you still deny me this?"

  Varrick responded with a low, guttural grunt, rubbing his dark brown beard with a thick, soot-stained hand. "I have explained this countless times, Morna," he insisted, his tone flat and firm, utilizing those harsh, clipped consonants she knew so well. "I am not looking for marriage, nor distraction. I have a genuine duty here." His heavy brown eyes, usually focused on her profile, flicked momentarily toward the silent storeroom. "I cannot allow the Grimforge name to perish on my watch; I won’t let the smithy be closed down or gutted by some damned high noble looking for cheap territory and paltry coins."

  Morna’s jaw tightened. The familiar, hard mask of her office settled back into place, erasing the brief vulnerability. She pulled her hand from the countertop, her fingers curling inward, as if retracting a misplaced offering. A sharp, fleeting pang of pain tightened her features, then vanished, leaving her face stern. "Are you truly pinning all your generational hope on that untested lad?"

  Varrick gave a sharp, definitive nod. "He awakened as Apprentice Crafter just days ago. He has the gift, Morna. He is a genius already familiarizing himself with the newly learnt skills. I saw him utilize Insightful Gaze yesterday; the boy needs little teaching or guiding."

  Morna blinked, momentarily surprised by the fierce conviction in Varrick's rumbling voice. "That is genuinely welcome news, Varrick," she replied, offering a stiff, purely professional congratulation that felt dry in her throat.

  But why did I catch that lingering scent of the wilds on him? It snagged at her keen arcana senses. Artisan Crafters always possessed an earthly connection, yes, but the boy’s faint aura felt more like damp, deep forest and raw vitality than pulverized stone or forge heat.

  A Tier 0 manifestation so heavily attuned to nature? Could he be a rare variant, she mused internally, trusting Varrick’s assessment of the awakening itself. Perhaps he simply misread the depth of the lad's true profession.