As I stepped into the tavern, my body aching and my pride more battered than my armor, the old oak door groaned open, accompanied by the sharp clang of a bell. A sign above the entrance read The Bronze Rooster, and true to its name, the door was adorned with a bronze plaque of a regal-looking rooster mid-strut.
The bartender, the first to notice my entrance, was an older man whose weathered face bore the marks of time. Dressed smartly in a neatly pressed vest, his snowy beard was trimmed with precision, contrasting the balding expanse at the crown of his head. His thick, expressive eyebrows shot up as he spotted me, yet his hands never paused. With the fluidity of a seasoned professional, he filled a mug of frothy beer and slid it across the counter just as I approached my seat.
“Morning, stranger,” the bartender greeted warmly, his kind smile framed by his neatly trimmed beard. “Don’t often see new folk strapping in for a morning drink, but you won’t find a better seat in town than right here. Welcome to the Bronze Rooster, son.”
Embarrassment tugged at me as I caught my reflection in the polished countertop. I looked like an underfed ghoul dragged through a battlefield, yet this gentleman treated me like any other paying patron.
“Thank you kindly, barkeep, but I haven’t any coin, I’m afraid,” I admitted, bracing myself for rejection. “Will you barter?”
He shook his head knowingly, a hint of sympathy in his eyes. “From the look on your face, son, you need this one. And seeing as it’s your first time stepping into my tavern, this one’s on me. You can settle the rest when you’re back on your feet.”
His generosity stunned me. For a moment, he wasn’t just a bartender—he was a beacon of mercy, a saint in a vest. I nodded my thanks, took the frothy mug, and downed it in one go.
If numbing my woes was a sin, then at least I’d found my house of the gods to confess in.
“Another?” the bartender asked, already tilting the tap to fill my mug.
“We’re going to be best friends if you can keep reading me like that,” I replied with a wry smile, setting the empty mug back on the counter.
He chuckled deeply, sliding the brimming mug back my way. “If I had a silver for every time someone said that, I’d own this whole street!” His laughter was infectious, a refreshing balm for my battered spirit. “So, what do I call you, son? Can’t start a tab without a name.”
“Adrian,” I said, taking a sip from the frothy brew. “New to town, trying my hand at adventuring. Figured this was a good place to start.” The lie flowed easily. Whether he saw through it or not, he gave no sign of caring.
“Adventuring, eh?” His expression turned pensive as he wiped down the bar. “Not too many of those types these days, what with the king’s lieutenant making his rounds. Keeps the streets clean, if you catch my drift.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Still, you might find a few jobs posted at the old guild hall. The kind of work that requires a little… discretion.”
Ah, wet work. I pieced it together instantly. The kind of dirty deeds too grimy for the guards or too sensitive for them to know about at all. Not my first choice for employment, but when in Demon Rome…
“Appreciate the advice, but I need to get myself a proper weapon first—preferably a sword,” I admitted, glancing down at the rusted excuse for a blade strapped to my side.
“A sword, eh?” He eyed the battered weapon with a raised brow. “Well, if you’re short on coin, I can’t imagine ol’ Quen will give you the time of day. That orc’s a tough nut to crack. Still, she’s got a soft spot for folks like you.”
“Like me?” I asked, raising a curious brow.
“Broke and desperate.” He grinned, then shrugged. “But she’s fair. If you can catch her in a good mood, she might give you a chance.”
I nodded, taking another sip of the lukewarm beer. It wasn’t exactly my drink of choice, but the faint buzz dulled the sting of the day’s humiliations. From guards with a love for pop quizzes to slimes that turned my own traps against me, it had been a series of low blows.
“What’s Quen like? Anything she’s partial to that I could, I don’t know, bring to warm her up to me?” I asked, attempting an innocent tone.
The barkeep’s eyes twinkled as he burst into hearty laughter, the sound echoing through the room as he slapped the counter. “You aiming to sweet-talk the smith? Oh, that’s rich, boy. She’d eat you alive!”
He wiped his eyes and then bellowed, “Oi, Climmard! Climmard! This guy’s a funny one just like you, aha!” as though he’d stumbled upon the joke of the century. I turned to see who he was calling. Perched on a stool in the corner, a man—or was it a demon?—met my gaze with an appraising look.
If the guards were a toll on my mental sanity, this guy was a straight-up bankruptcy notice.
I squinted at him, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. His face was painted stark white, brighter than my already pallid complexion, with angular black streaks beneath his eyes that made him look like some failed art project. His hair—please, gods, let it be a wig—was a ridiculous shock of bright red, styled into a chaotic mess that had all the charm of a roadside accident. To top it off, a pink feather jutted out at an odd angle, swaying with every movement.
The outfit didn’t help. He wore a gaudy black-and-white striped one-piece that screamed, “LOOK AT ME!”—and not in a flattering way. It was like someone had merged a felon clown and a mime, then tossed in a healthy dose of “circus reject.” Yet despite all that noise, I hadn’t even noticed him when I walked in. He was playing the guitar softly, his presence somehow muted until the barkeep called his name. Was he cursed to be ignored until someone acknowledged him? If so, that might actually explain a lot.
Our eyes had met. His expression shifted to one of mild surprise before he nodded at me with a theatrical flourish, inviting me over with a wave. I conceded the crown for the joke of the century for whatever sad story this clown had.
“Good luck, son,” the barkeep murmured with a knowing grin. “He’s an earful, that one. Now, as for Quen? She’s got a soft spot for my Chili Con Carne, extra spicy. If you mention my name and butter her up, I’ll fix you both a bowl for cheap.”
At that exact moment, my stomach let out a ferocious growl that could rival the howl of the Gray Wolf-Man from earlier. The barkeep raised an eyebrow, his grin widening.
“Seems your gut’s ready to barter before you are,” he teased. “Kitchen’s not open just yet, but I can get yesterday’s batch warmed up. Tastes just as good as the night before. Hell, maybe the spice will even add some color back to that ghostly face of yours.”
His cheerful persistence earned him a genuine smile from me, a rare thing these days. “Thanks, barkeep. Really.”
“Don’t thank me just yet. Quen’s got a sharp tongue to go with that forge of hers. Better hope the chili helps you out more than she chews you out,” he said with a hearty chuckle.
I gave him a nod of gratitude and turned my focus to the strange figure in the corner. Climmard, my would-be entertainer rival, was waiting.
As I made my way to the corner of the tavern, I took a moment to observe the room’s other patrons. Two rugged men, clearly adventurers—or at least aspiring to be—sat at a nearby table, engrossed in an animated conversation that involved wild gestures and occasional loud bursts of laughter. Their equipment, though functional, was mismatched and had the look of secondhand finds, suggesting they were just starting out or weren’t particularly successful.
Closer to Climmard sat a bespectacled young woman, her auburn hair pulled back into a neat ponytail that seemed at odds with the irritation etched on her face. She was dressed in modest but clean town garb, practical and well-kept. Her scornful gaze fixed on the bard with the intensity of someone long-suffering, like a spouse fed up with their partner’s antics. However, the small pile of parchment on the table in front of her, along with the quill she tapped impatiently against the wood, suggested otherwise.
Curious, I tried to catch a glimpse of her work, but she immediately noticed my attempt. Clicking her tongue in irritation, she hastily gathered the pages, stacked them neatly, and folded her arms protectively over them. Clearly, her scribblings—whatever they were—were not meant for prying eyes.
“Hey there, partner! Climmard’s the name, exposition’s my game.” The bard’s voice carried an air of breathy theatrics, every syllable trailing as if punctuated by the strum of his guitar. He gestured flamboyantly to the seat across from him, his painted face alight with unearned grandeur.
I hesitated, arms crossed as I regarded him with mild amusement. After the fever dream of the guards at the gate and the two beers that were now sloshing around in my empty stomach, I was ready for whatever absurdity this self-proclaimed entertainer had in store.
With a resigned sigh, I took the offered seat, leaning back as I addressed him. “Good morning. You called me over for something specific, or is this just a social visit?” My voice held a faint note of disinterest, though I was more intrigued than I let on.
Somewhere deep down, I knew better than to expect anything resembling a soulful ballad. My gut told me this was about to be more performance art than heartfelt music.
“I’m always eager to see a kind soul,” Climmard crooned, plucking a few dissonant, almost lazy chords from his guitar. “And wouldn’t you know it, yours just happened to be the one destined for this seat, the perfect audience for a tale such as mine.” His voice carried the practiced rhythm of someone who spoke more often for show than sincerity.
I raised an eyebrow as he continued, his words dripping with melodrama. “A stranger in a strange land, seeking solace, searching for wisdom. It’s the same old story, a melody I’ve sung countless times for the lost and wandering.”
“So you’re a bard, then,” I said, this time with a genuine flicker of curiosity. Despite myself, his theatrical demeanor was oddly captivating. “Forgive me for saying so, but with the... uh, outfit, I wasn’t entirely sure what you were going for.”
“Twice now I’ve struck out in this cold, unkind world,” Climmard murmured, his fingers lazily coaxing a mournful tune from the guitar strings. His voice dropped to a whisper, nearly drowned out by the lingering notes. “For years, I roamed as a traveling clown, determined to bring smiles to weary faces, to plant seeds of joy where despair had taken root.”
His tone turned somber as he continued, the weight of his story falling heavy in the room. “But one day, the cream pies lost their charm. The honking nose, once a symbol of delight, no longer sparked laughter. The world grew quiet... and so did I. No more honks. No more joy. And in that silence, I discovered my true calling.”
“And so you became a mime,” I ventured, already bracing for the absurdity. I tried to ignore the double meaning behind his words, but they stuck to me like the princess’s webs. I needed to assume her meant as an actual clown and not some joke of a fuck boy.
“You get it!” Climmard perked up, his strumming momentarily brighter. “But the art of mime… it’s a lost craft, a relic of a more graceful age. I didn’t know the nuances, the sacred unspoken rules.” His face turned grave, like he was recounting an ancient tragedy. “I performed the motions, imitated the act, but when I began faking the cries and laughter… I crossed an invisible line that no mime should ever dare to breach. Even if it’s unseen, a mime knows it’s there. I made a sound.”
His guitar echoed a melancholy tune, emphasizing the weight of his tale.
“So that’s when you became a bard,” I concluded, thinking I’d cracked the obvious.
“Not exactly,” Climmard confessed with a sheepish shrug, his fingers plucking a few hesitant strings. “I became a musician… sort of. Trouble is, I didn’t know how to play anything back then. For the longest time, I’d just carry this guitar around, telling tales and spinning yarns, hoping no one would ask me to actually play. The music? That came later—out of necessity more than anything.”
The self-deprecation in his tone almost made me feel sorry for him. Almost.
“That’s… incredibly tragic,” I said, forcing a meek smile. For a fleeting moment, I almost felt better about my own pitiful lot in life. At least I wasn’t a failed clown-turned-mime-turned… whatever this guy was now.
Climmard, undeterred, straightened his back with a flourish, striking a dramatic pose. “I am neither a clown, nor a mime, nor merely a bard. I have transcended such labels to become something far greater.” He paused for effect, his voice dripping with theatrical bravado. “I am this tavern’s corner entertainer, the guardian of tales, the herald of wisdom, spreading the vast and boundless knowledge I have gathered from my travels.”
“And it pays for your room since you’re broke,” the barkeep muttered, scrubbing a glass with the kind of disdain that only familiarity could breed.
“That too,” Climmard added absentmindedly, his fingers plucking an aimless melody as he seemed to drift into his own little world. Then, with a sudden blink, he remembered I was still sitting there and offered me a grin—a strangely defeated one at that.
“So, stranger,” he began, leaning slightly forward in a way that suggested a grand offer, “care to hear a poor fool’s tale? A couple of copper and I’ll spin for you a yarn of the world you’ve yet to know.”
“I don’t have any money,” I admitted bluntly, watching as his strumming faltered mid-note. His grin flickered, and for a brief moment, I thought he might boot me out for wasting his time.
“Oh,” he said, staring at me as though I’d just broken some sacred performer-customer pact. But after a brief pause, he resumed playing, his usual rhythm restored. “That’s alright. I’ve got a few freebies up my sleeve for situations like this. Come, gather round, and lend an ear. My tales are like answers to the questions you never even thought to ask.”
No one in the tavern so much as shifted in their seats. Seeing as I was already in front of him, leaving now would feel awkward, if not outright rude. Besides, after all the barkeep’s kindness, the least I could do was humor the man he clearly tolerated out of charity.
Climmard adjusted his posture, sitting taller on his stool as his fingers danced across the guitar strings with growing fervor. A low hum vibrated in his chest before he let it bloom into the beginnings of a melody. Despite myself, I felt my curiosity stirring—though that might have been the beer.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the bespectacled woman with the quill had drawn a fresh sheet of parchment, her pen hovering above it like she was ready to transcribe something profound. Her previously scornful expression softened into one of reluctant interest, though her eyes remained sharp, poised to dissect whatever Climmard delivered.
“There hails a pretty princess, who was royalty adorned,
Yet her father’s soldiers despised her, hearts full of scorn!
She broke all the laws, gave orders without cause,
And threw raucous loud parties that left the made maids forlorn!
O’ Princess Ichni, you were a witch, unwilling to find someone to hitch!
Yet rumors spread like her web, flowed in like the tides ebb,
That no one would marry the b-”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Ichni shrieked, bursting from my gauntlet in a fiery display of indignation. Her usually pale magenta cheeks glowed crimson, her translucent form vibrating with rage. “I threw one—maybe two—parties, and suddenly I’m the villain of the story?!”
The tavern froze. The barkeep dropped his glass mid-polish, the sharp clink of it landing on the counter punctuating the moment. The woman with the quill dragged her pen across the parchment with an audible screech, her eyes snapping to the floating ghost. Even the two adventurers in the corner stopped mid-laugh to gape at the scene unfolding.
Every pair of eyes in the tavern fixed on Ichni’s translucent, fuming form. Her chibi-like visage hovered menacingly above my arm, her small hands clenched into fists as though she could physically throttle someone. Even Climmard, who had been strumming his guitar with all the enthusiasm of a bard mid-performance, froze mid-chord. His gaze flitted between Ichni and me before his grin widened into something almost manic.
“Never,” he began dramatically, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye, “in all my years would I have dreamed of meeting a fellow entertainer of such unparalleled talent!”
Ichni and I turned to him in unison, shouting, “What?!” The synchronized outburst only seemed to fuel his glee as he let out a high-pitched squeal of delight.
“What skill! What artistry!” Climmard declared, his arms outstretched in theatrical amazement. “A spiritual ventriloquist, right here in this very tavern! How do you synchronize your lips and the ‘puppet’s’ voice so perfectly? And the sheer coincidence of matching my song! Oh, it’s genius! She’s a professional-grade dummy!”
“Who are you calling a dummy, dummy?!” Ichni bellowed, flailing as I tried to shove her back into the gauntlet. If her goal was to prove she wasn’t a puppet, it wasn’t working—at least not to Climmard, who looked utterly enraptured.
“Ahaha, apologies, Climmard! My puppet companion here gets a little cranky when she hasn’t had her morning… haunting,” I stammered, wincing as Ichni sunk her fanged ghostly teeth into my arm. A yelp escaped me, but I forced a grin, trying to salvage what remained of my dignity.
“That’s quite alright, my friend. And you are…?” Climmard prompted, his tone suddenly inquisitive.
“Adrian. Adrian the Puppet Master!” I blurted, my mouth moving faster than my brain. With one arm, I struggled to wrestle Ichni back into the gauntlet, the other gesturing grandly as if to emphasize my supposed craft. How does a ghost who weighs literally nothing manage to put up such a fight?!
“Let me at him, Adrian! I’ll rip out his throat and turn him into a proper mime!” Ichni screeched, writhing in my grip like an enraged, spectral ferret. I attempted what could only be described as a holy chokehold, though it was about as effective as trying to pin down a particularly slippery eel.
“You know, Adrian, it’s terribly rude to interrupt such an outstanding performance,” Climmard quipped, a hint of mockery in his tone. His eyes twinkled mischievously as he added, “That ‘puppet’ of yours certainly captures the princess’s likeness. And her portrayal of a thick-headed idiot? Absolutely uncanny.”
Ichni’s glowing eyes narrowed to murderous slits. I could feel the wave of vengeful intent radiating from her as she lunged with all the force her spectral form could muster, clawing at the air like a cat who’d just spotted a laser pointer. Before she could unleash her fury, I retreated hastily to the barkeep, who had a steaming soup-filled container waiting for me at the counter.
“This here’s for Quen. She’ll appreciate it, no doubt,” the barkeep said with a knowing nod, placing a small pouch atop the soup container. While I wrestled Ichni back into the gauntlet like a fisherman trying to reel in an unreasonably angry tuna, I managed a quick, grateful nod in his direction.
“Apologies, truly,” I muttered, my voice strained as I continued the futile tug-of-war. “Once the show gets going, it’s… difficult to call curtains.”
Ichni’s ghostly form began to retract into the gauntlet, as though my sheer willpower was corralling her like a particularly unruly hen. The onlookers stared, transfixed, as her ethereal frame scraped against the floorboards, leaving an eerie sound of grinding wood in her wake. With a final defiant shriek, she was sucked into the red gem with a resounding thwoomph. Even then, muffled curses and venomous threats echoed faintly from within. She needed a timeout, desperately.
“I’m Randy, by the way.” the barkeep said jovially. “ I’d say pleased to meet ya, but we’re good friends already if I recall?”
“Best friends until the tab’s cleared,” I quipped with a grin. “Adrian, as you heard.”
Randy shook his head in mild disbelief, his expression a mix of bemusement and sympathy. “You keep strange company, Adrian, but it’s not my business. Get yourself an adventurer’s card from the guild, and I’ll set you up with a room. Pay it off when you can.”
“That’s fair,” I said, offering a grateful nod. “I’ll let you know if Quen sings praises of the chili.”
“Oh! Before you go—here.” Randy grabbed a wooden mug, ladled a generous portion of steaming chili from the pot, and slid it across the counter. The tantalizing aroma wafted up immediately. “Might not hit the same without the spice or a spoon, but it’ll keep you going. Bring the mug back when you’re done.”
This man deserved to have both sides of his pillow stay perpetually cool, I thought. Randy’s tavern was practically a charity with a liquor license, though I couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that my debts might end up in the hands of some shady collector. Still, his genuine kindness shone through, and I bowed deeply with my mug of chili in hand.
“Thanks for everything, Randy. I’ll do my best to keep the theatrics to a minimum next time,” I said, layering my gratitude thick.
Randy’s hearty laughter followed me out into the street, the faint buzz of beer warming me from within while the chili con carne radiated its own satisfying heat through the mug. From the corner of my eye, I could almost feel Ichni’s piercing gaze boring into me from within the gem. I instinctively raised my arm, shielding my chest as if protecting myself from her inevitable wrath.
“You know, they say killing a bard is bad luck,” I sassed, taking a hearty sip of my chili before Ichni could launch into another tirade.
“You know what would really be unlucky?” Ichni retorted with malicious glee. “If that muso croaked in his sleep, choking on his own guitar strings. Talking about my romantic life, hmph!”
“You really didn’t want to get married?” I interjected, my tone casual as I navigated the cobbled street. The town was alive with the kind of understated bustle that comes with the early morning. Merchants wheeled carts laden with produce, their voices rising over one another as they advertised fresh apples, salted meats, and gleaming trinkets. A blacksmith across the way hammered rhythmically, sparks flying as he worked, while a baker swept the stoop of her shop, the smell of fresh bread drifting through the air.
Most of the townsfolk appeared human, their expressions ranging from focused to cheerful as they went about their business. Still, the occasional canine-kin guard stood out. I passed a humanoid bloodhound leaning lazily against the wall, his droopy eyes half-closed and tongue lolling out in a comical display. He gave me a slow nod, as though sizing me up before deciding I wasn’t worth the energy.
“It’s not that I don’t want to get married,” Ichni replied with a heated sigh. “It’s that every so-called ‘suitor’ who tried to court me sucked major ass. Every eligible noble had the creepiest questions—stuff like, ‘Err herr, do you fancy some bondage in your free time?’ or, ‘Uh huh huh, m’lady, where do the webs come from?’” She shuddered theatrically. “Blegh. One murakka after another, and I swear they all shared the same brain cell.”
“So, uh…” I ventured cautiously, my voice sheepish. “I guess that means spider-related trivia is a no-go for date night conversations?”
“Oh no, go ahead, ask away. I’m desensitized to it by now,” she groaned. “Six legs, two arms. No, I won’t eat you after the honeymoon. No, I don’t lay eggs. Yes, bondage is fun if both of us consent. Yes, I like making web hammocks, and no, I don’t paralyze my food and suck out the juice.”
“And… where exactly do the webs come out?” I asked, my curiosity admittedly piqued, though my attention drifted to a striking demon woman loitering on the corner just ahead.
“You already saw, Adrian! I gather it from inside my cheeks, then I can pull it out and use it,” Ichni said, her tone dripping with exasperation. “Seriously, how didn’t you notice? Or are you still stuck on the ‘barfing’ detail you so eloquently decided to call it?”
“I thought the appropriate term was, and forgive me if I’m wrong… a spinneret?” I replied, recalling a factoid from my old-old life. For a moment, Ichni grew silent, her tiny face contorted as she tried to process my meaning.
“I… Adrian! You absolute dimwit!” she finally shrieked, throwing her hands out of the gem in frustration.
“What? I said I was sorry!” I protested, coming to a stop as a donkey-drawn wagon rattled past, its wooden wheels groaning under the weight of stacked crates.
“The cheeks on my face, MY FACE!” she bellowed, her voice ringing loud enough to make a nearby bread merchant glance up, startled and searching for the wailing little princess.
Admittedly, my focus had drifted from the conversation as I scanned the bustling street for any sign of Quen’s blacksmithery. Though the town wasn’t massive, its winding streets and clustered buildings could easily confuse an outsider like me. The air was filled with the chatter of townsfolk haggling at market stalls, the rhythmic hammering of a distant forge we passed, and the occasional bark of a dog. Children darted between vendors selling fresh produce and wares, their laughter cutting through the din.
Finally, my eyes landed on a wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze, its surface painted with a simple yet unmistakable image of an anvil with a crude caricature of an orc next to it. Relief washed over me. Just beyond the corner, near where the demon woman continued her idle posturing, stood my destination. Smiling in anticipation, I adjusted my grip on the gauntlet and pushed forward, my boots clicking against the cobblestone.
“Adrian!” Ichni’s voice carried a sharp edge, her tiny hands tugging at my ear to pull the glove closer. “Are you even paying attention? It’s crucial that you understand—I do NOT pull webs out of my butt!”
“That’s, uh… enlightening,” I replied, my tone deliberately casual. Engaging further in this conversation was about as appealing as another chili-induced belch, which, despite its intensity, had filled me with a rare sense of warmth and contentment. Even Ichni’s protests couldn’t dampen the satisfaction from that meal.
“I mean it! The last thing I need is for even more rumors to spread! That clown in the tavern will twist my royal legacy into some third-rate musical mockery!” she fumed, and I could practically see her face pressed against the inside of the gem as her arms retracted, her cheeks puffed indignantly. “I am a refined princess, Adrian, and it is my sacred duty to maintain a pristine and delicate public image!”
Her words hung in the air with the unmistakable conviction of someone for whom death was a minor inconvenience in the face of tarnished reputation.
As I approached what I hoped was Quen’s blacksmith shop—the iron anvil on the sign was a good indicator—I caught a clearer look at the demon I’d been noticing earlier. She stood by the corner of the street like a work of art on display, her posture regal yet impossibly effortless. When her eyes met mine in a passing glance, I realized why I couldn’t stop stealing glimpses of her.
She was, without a doubt, stunning. Her skin carried a pale reddish hue, smooth and vibrant as though kissed by embers. Twin ram-like horns swept gracefully along her head, framing her long black hair, which fell in glossy sheets with straight bangs cutting sharply across her forehead. Her attire was a stark contrast to the modest dresses worn by the townsfolk. Crafted from luxurious silks, her dress clung provocatively, leaving little to the imagination, with a neckline that drew attention without apology. Around her neck hung a pearl necklace, each bead polished to perfection, centered with a crimson gem that glinted like a drop of molten ruby.
She wasn’t just beautiful—she exuded an aura of confidence and danger, like a jewel that belonged in a dragon’s hoard. I had to remind myself not to stare, to move forward before my curiosity—or my nerves—betrayed me.
I couldn’t tell if she was a succubus, an enchantress, or simply a heartbreaker by nature, but something about her presence sent my pulse racing in ways I hadn’t felt since I first clawed my way out of the grave. My heart, usually dragging along like a worn-out drummer, suddenly decided to play the battle march: THUMP THUMP THUMP. It took every ounce of my willpower—and the recollection of several holy scriptures—to keep my thoughts in check.
Remembering my last encounter with an alluring winged demoness, who had no qualms about nearly yeeting me into the afterlife, served as a useful warning. Not that my track record with dangerous women was sterling—there was Ichni, after all. But imagining the bratty princess in any romantic light was enough to churn my stomach and risk losing my hard-earned breakfast.
“Eh, Adrian? Why are you staring at that lady?” Ichni’s voice came alive with a blurry grin I didn’t even need to see. I could feel the smug satisfaction radiating from her. “What’s the deal? You into ladies of the night? Or are you one of those losers who thinks he’s a pick-up artist but only ends up paying for attention?”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“She’s just a hardworking woman,” I muttered defensively. “Probably earns her keep, judging by that pearl necklace.” I adjusted my pace, trying to look disinterested, but as I glanced her way a second time, I froze mid-step.
Her gaze had shifted, initially sharp with curiosity, but now twisted into an expression of revulsion as her eyes raked over my haggard appearance and rusted armor. The contempt on her face was palpable, like she’d discovered something unpleasant on the bottom of her shoe. Then, as if to drive the dagger further, she made an exaggerated gagging sound and turned away, retreating across the street with a flair that was equal parts disdainful and dramatic.
As I approached closer, the woman’s disdain seemed to reach a boiling point. She sidestepped gracefully to the opposite corner of the street, her silken dress swaying with the motion. With her back firmly turned to me, she produced what looked like a thin, intricately carved cigarette and lit it with an elegant flick of her wrist. Her stance was calculated, her body language screaming, Stay away. She exhaled a cloud of smoke, turning her focus to a passing couple. With a sultry purr, she let out a loud, suggestive whistle. The couple blushed furiously and scurried away, leaving her with a satisfied smirk.
“Hey, Adrian,” Ichni broke the silence as I trudged forward, pretending the interaction hadn’t happened. Her voice practically dripped with virulent glee. “How’s it feel that even a working girl wouldn’t touch you?”
Her words cut deeper than I cared to admit. It felt like she’d reached over, taken my own sword, and stabbed me in the back with it. My expression twisted into something that could terrify even the most stoic of onlookers. Refusing to dignify her jab with a response, I kept walking, my pride dragging behind me like a beaten dog. My silence only fueled her laughter, the impish sound echoing in my ears as I reached the blacksmith’s door.
The door to the blacksmith’s shop swung shut with a heavy clang behind me, its intricate metalwork catching the light of the forge inside. Heat wrapped around me like a stifling cloak, the kind of oppressive warmth I had grown accustomed to after countless visits to smithies during my old life as a Paladin. Blacksmiths and knights often shared a mutual respect, forged in the fires of battle and tempered by the understanding of how vital good equipment was to survival. While ideals sometimes clashed, especially with the more stubborn artisans, the appreciation for fine craftsmanship was universal.
The interior was a testament to meticulous skill. Swords of varying designs lined the walls like a warrior’s gallery, each blade showcasing a unique flourish or intricate hilt. Barrels brimming with simpler weapons stood at the edges, their plainness offset by their functional appeal. Shields, pikes, and other implements of war were scattered about, some resting on racks while others leaned haphazardly in the corners. Deeper in the shop, shelves groaned under the weight of raw materials—iron, copper, and ores I couldn’t immediately identify. Iron pipes twisted along the walls, their design both practical and oddly elegant. Open windows framed in steel trim allowed the suffocating heat to escape in fitful bursts, though the air still felt thick enough to cut with a blade.
At the heart of it all stood the forge, a towering stone structure alive with the soft glow of embers. The occasional crackle of fire punctuated the rhythmic clang of a hammer. Before the roaring beast of the furnace stood a hulking figure. Green-skinned and broad-shouldered, she was a picture of raw strength. Her coarse black hair was tied into a practical ponytail that swung with her movements. A long, tan leather apron protected her muscular frame, its wear and tear telling the story of a lifetime of hard labor. The tusks jutting from her lower jaw, coupled with the faint scars that etched her arms, marked her as an orc.
Her hands, encased in well-worn gauntlets, cradled a piece of iron ore as she examined it with the precision of a jeweler appraising a diamond. A pair of smudged goggles sat perched on her nose, their leather strap weathered from years of use. She hadn’t noticed me yet, entirely engrossed in her craft.
It didn’t take a scholar to see that this woman could crush me like a tin can if I gave her cause. I stayed put, marveling at the controlled ferocity of her movements, a curious blend of artistry and brute force.
“Hmm, not much shimmer to it… aye, barely any purity neither,” she muttered, her voice thick with a lilting, almost melodic brogue that rolled like a hammer on an anvil. “Eh, this one’ll make a doorknob at best.”
She clasped the ore tightly in her gauntleted hands, and what happened next floored me. Her arms began to glow, a fiery orange hue radiating from her forearms. A rune etched into her right arm flared to life, its intricate design pulsing as if it drew breath. The heat emanating from her hands was palpable even from where I stood, and the iron in her grasp began to melt away impurities like butter on a skillet. With practiced ease, she shaped the molten metal into a rough sphere before tossing it into the forge to finish the job.
“Wow,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. The single word slipped past my lips, and her head jerked up. Her keen gray eyes, previously hidden behind soot-smudged goggles, locked onto me with a calculating sharpness.
“Hmmm? Who’s this, then?” she rumbled, straightening up. Her height became all the more apparent as she loomed over the forge, her hands now casually brushing off molten residue as if it were dirt.
“Uh—” I started, but she cut me off with a grin that could have split an anvil.
“Well, don’t just stand there gawkin’ like a lost lamb! Come on in!” she said, motioning toward a nearby workbench chair. Her voice carried that same hearty accent, with every word ringing like it belonged to a storyteller or a tavern brawler. “I’m just temperin’ a bit o’ scrap. Open a window if y’ can’t take the heat!”
I obeyed without hesitation, pulling open one of the steel-framed windows. The faint relief of cooler air was a blessing, but the orc’s confidence and sheer presence were even more overpowering than the forge’s fire.
As I opened the window and took a step closer, I caught sight of her plunging her gauntleted hand directly into the fiery coals of the forge. Not a flinch. Not even a wince. Her hand moved with the precision of a craftsman, stirring the embers until they roared with life. The runes etched into her gauntlet glowed like molten gold, channeling an intense heat that seemed to energize the entire forge.
My jaw went slack. Holy shit. In all the chaos I’d seen since landing in this bizarre world, I still hadn’t encountered anyone openly flaunting such controlled magical prowess. Yet here she was, casually treating fire like it was her obedient pet.
“You’re not even using bellows! How in the world are you casting that fire magic?” I stammered, my voice almost cracking.
Quen raised an eyebrow as she pulled her glowing hand from the coals, steam hissing off the metal surface of her gauntlet. She looked at me like I’d just asked if steel could bend.
“It’s no magic, lad. It’s an Element,” she said matter-of-factly, her accent wrapping the word with an almost reverent weight. “Fire, in my case. You’d think a smith o’ my caliber’d leave heat to chance?”
Ichni popped up from my shoulder, her face lit with childlike wonder. “No way! An Elemental smith! I haven’t seen anyone work with fire like this in ages!” Her little hands pressed against my neck as she leaned forward to get a better look.
“An Element, huh?” I said, my voice catching as I recalled the word from somewhere deep in my past. Recognition tickled the back of my mind, but I wasn’t sure why. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard of Elements, but it felt… different now. Significant. And powerful.
“So, what brings ya, stranger. And… the wee one.” Quen’s gravelly voice carried a tone of suspicion as her sharp gray eyes flicked to Ichni, narrowing slightly. With a deliberate, almost theatrical motion, she plunged her gauntlet into a nearby bucket of water, steam hissing and rising in angry wisps. Ichni instinctively shrank behind me, her ethereal form shimmering faintly like she was trying to camouflage.
The orc sniffed, unimpressed, and turned her attention back to me as though a ghost was just another Tuesday for her. So, ghosts are normal here? I mused, trying to process this world’s bizarre levels of normalcy.
“Well then, what’s got yer sorry hides in my forge today?” she asked, her tone brisk as she snagged a cloth from her workbench and began scrubbing her hands clean, though I noticed the gauntlets stayed firmly in place. She grabbed a nearby chair, spun it with ease, and plopped it down across from me, motioning for me to speak.
I pointed shakily at her forge, still in awe. “You—you were shooting fire out of your hand just now! An Element! That’s… that’s incredible!”
Quen snorted, tugging her soot-streaked goggles up to her forehead. Her piercing eyes bore into me with the intensity of a jeweler appraising a tarnished coin. Whatever hope I had of making a strong first impression vanished as her lips twisted into a wry smirk. “Incredible? Lad, it’s just another day fer me. Don’t be gawpin’ like you’ve never seen a proper Element put to work.”
Her gaze lingered on me for a beat longer, then softened, almost like she was humoring a particularly clueless customer. Well, that’s fair, I thought bitterly. I looked like a corpse playing knight, but that was exactly why I was here.
Quen let out a bark of laughter, rough and hearty. “Caught yer jaw hangin’, eh? Ain’t often folk don’t know what a proper smith with a gift can do.” She flexed her fingers, the faint glow of residual heat still radiating from her hands. “But don’t go thinkin’ it’s all me. It’s these beauties.” She held up her hands, the gauntlets gleaming in the forge light.
“See this?” she said, tapping the metallic plates embedded in the palms of her fingerless gloves. “These ain’t no cheap bits. They channel flame from the core of yer Element. Amplifies it. Makes it steady, reliable.”
I leaned in, studying the craftsmanship. The gauntlets looked worn but sturdy, etched with intricate runes that shimmered faintly as they cooled. Her fingers were calloused and scarred, a testament to years of hammering steel into submission. There was an unspoken respect for her dedication to the craft, and I found myself nodding in admiration.
“That’s… incredible,” I said honestly, my voice tinged with awe. “Like a superpower, almost.”
Quen smirked, her tusks glinting as she planted her hands on her hips. “Aye, superpower if yer daft. It’s called skill, lad. You’ve heard o’ that, yeah? Takes years o’ blistered hands an’ burnt brows, but worth every cussin’ moment.”
Ichni perched on my shoulder like some mischievous, crimson-haired owl, her whisper tickling my ear. “You’re tellin’ me you’ve never worked with an Element? Seriously?”
The word struck a chord, one I hadn’t expected to hear in this world. Back in my old life—the Paladin life—Elements had been our equivalent of magic. Controlled and refined, they were the tools of the chosen. Prince Ramel, for example, was a Veteran-Class Earth Element wielder, just a step beneath the elusive Master-Class. Mastering an Element wasn’t a hobby; it was a grueling, lifelong pursuit, requiring compatibility, discipline, and access to one of the sacred shrines.
Hearing that word again sent a flicker of something—nostalgia, maybe longing—through me. I hadn’t even considered if this world’s Elements were the same as the ones I’d spent years training with. Could I still wield one? Would I even qualify in my current… state?
Back then, I was proud—arrogantly so, perhaps—to have achieved compatibility with Aether, the fifth and most revered Element. For us Holy Knights, it wasn’t just a blessing; it was an expectation, a marker of the finest warriors the light could muster. Aether wasn’t merely rare—it was sacred, and only the most disciplined were deemed worthy of its power.
I’d been Hero-Class, wielding the divine greatsword Chandrabolg with the kind of confidence that came from absolute faith in my purpose. Yet now? I wasn’t even Novice-Class. The truth stung, though I couldn’t explain why. Even without Chandrabolg, I’d been able to channel healing and smiting magic in my past life. But in this twisted, half-dead state, something fundamental was… missing. Was it my connection to Aether that had been severed? Or had the very rune that bonded me to it failed to follow my soul into this strange existence?
The thought gnawed at me, leaving a hollow ache that even my quest couldn’t quite fill.
Was this even my body? I had always assumed that when the Four-Lights—blessed be their eternal wisdom—dragged me back to this fractured existence, I had retained some semblance of my original self. This form felt like me, sure enough. My heart still pounded, though erratically, and my hands bore the same callouses I remembered earning in life. Yet, the doubts lingered. Was this the body I knew? Or some pale imitation pieced together from memory and necessity? Even the oath I swore to them should have restored some remnant of the Element.
It wasn’t as jarring as my first reincarnation—going from a bloated, slothful waste of space in my first life to a screaming, helpless infant in my redemption arc life—but the unfamiliarity dug deeper here. Back then, I had time to grow into something new. Now? Now, I was stuck with a shell that didn’t quite fit.
Then another thought struck me like a hammer on an anvil. Elements… shrines… the Four-Lights. What if they weren’t just the divine figures I’d always revered? What if they were connected to the primary Elements, acting as sages or protectors? Their forms—their colors—they weren’t arbitrary. The idea felt uncomfortably plausible, and it opened a door I wasn’t sure I wanted to walk through.
Maybe their story was more complex than even Ichni’s cynicism dared suspect.
Ichni snapped her fingers an inch from my nose, jarring me from my spiraling thoughts. “Oi, Adrian? Elements—heard of ’em? Why are you drooling?” Her tone flipped from irritation to mockery in a heartbeat. “You know you can’t eat them, right? Or… maybe you can? I wouldn’t put it past you.”
I blinked, trying to shake the fog out of my head. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard of them,” I muttered. “I even dabbled with one once, but that was before… you know.” My voice dipped, heavy with regret. “Before I came back from the dead.”
“Resurrected, eh?” Quen interjected, her gray eyes narrowing as she sized me up again. “Well, that explains why you look like a walkin’ corpse. Y’know, if you’d been shamblin’ in earlier like that, I might’ve just chased ya off with a poker instead.”
Her bluntness hit harder than her hammer could’ve. I glared at her, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I’m quite alive, thank you very much,” I growled, teeth grit. If I had to hear one more snarky comment about my undead aesthetic, I was going to lose it. Still, the stigma clung to me like grave dirt, no matter how vehemently I protested.
“Nah, no shame in bein’ undead. Plenty o’ folks like that around these parts,” Quen said casually, like she was remarking on the weather. Her sharp eyes caught sight of the container in my hands, and her nostrils flared. “Though I gotta ask… what’s that smell?”
“Oh, this?” I held the box out toward her. “It’s from Randy over at the Bronze Rooster. Thought you could use a bite.”
Her entire demeanor shifted in an instant. “FOOD?!” she bellowed, her voice hitting a guttural note that could’ve scared off wild beasts. Like a predator pouncing on its prey, she snatched the container with surprising agility. Before I could even process what had just happened, a spoon appeared in her massive hand—seemingly conjured from thin air. She pried the lid off and inhaled deeply, her expression an intense mix of curiosity and anticipation.
“Mmm. Hmm…” Quen’s voice dropped, her eyes narrowing as though she were evaluating a priceless artifact.
Noticing her hesitation, I reached into my pack and pulled out the small sack of special spice Randy had slipped in. With the enthusiasm of a child unwrapping presents, Quen snatched it from my hand and began pouring the pungent powder in heavy heaps over the food. The moment the first whiff of spice hit my nose, my eyes watered. The scent was so aggressive it felt like it could peel paint off a wall or even serve as a makeshift weapon in a siege.
As for Quen, the more unhinged the spice level, the happier she seemed. Whatever tolerance she had built over the years bordered on masochistic culinary genius. She wasted no time shoveling the now molten chili into her mouth, tears streaming down her face in a bizarre mix of agony and ecstasy.
“Mmph—mmm! Tha’s tha stuff!” she mumbled between bites, her voice muffled but filled with pure joy.
I quietly tucked the remaining pouch of spice back into my pack, vowing to try it another time when I was feeling particularly brave—or insane. Meanwhile, I let Quen have her moment, the room filled with the sound of her delighted smacking and muffled sniffling.
Quen wiped at her teary eyes with the back of her hand, still shoveling spoonful after spoonful of the fire-laden chili into her mouth. Her sniffles were like the whistle of a steaming kettle, and the way she powered through each bite suggested she might not have eaten in days—or maybe this was just her idea of a perfect meal.
“Blimey,” she managed to grunt through a mouthful, “tha’s proper spice! Jus’ what the soul needs. Good on ya fer bringin’ it.”
I offered a weak smile, trying to avoid getting too close to the chili’s lingering fumes. Even from this distance, they prickled my eyes and made me question the strength of my own stomach.
Quen pointed at me mid-chew, her calloused finger aimed as directly as her voice. “You,” she said, swallowing hard. “Name?”
“Adrian Legend,” I replied with a small bow. “At your service.”
Quen nodded in acknowledgment, her sharp tusks framing a toothy grin. She slid the bowl slightly toward me with a glint of mischief in her eye. “Name’s Quen. Cheers fer the meal. Fancy a bite?”
Her tone was casual, but the way her gaze clung protectively to the bowl made it clear: sharing was an offer of courtesy, not genuine intent. I glanced down at the steaming concoction, now more science experiment than meal, and felt my throat burn just imagining a single taste. My eyes were already watering from the spice cloud wafting my way.
“Uh, no thanks,” I said quickly, raising the empty wooden mug I’d brought. “I already had some earlier. It’s all yours!”
Quen gave a satisfied hum before pulling the bowl back toward her, diving in with renewed vigor.
Quen nodded with each bite, utterly absorbed in her feast, the contents of the bowl disappearing at a speed that could only be described as ravenous efficiency. It struck me that her nonchalance might have stemmed from the food itself; after all, someone who feeds you without strings attached rarely invites suspicion.
Whatever the case, she didn’t spare Ichni so much as a second glance, even as the little ghost hovered near my shoulder, glaring like she’d been insulted. Whether it was because of Ichni’s diminutive form or because her royal presence was utterly lost on the orc, no recognition flickered across Quen’s face.
Ichni puffed her cheeks indignantly, her crimson eyes fixed on the rapidly dwindling chili. As Quen scooped up the last spoonful, Ichni unconsciously mimicked the motion, licking phantom lips and swallowing air as though she could will the taste into her own mouth.
“You okay there, Princess?” I asked, arching a brow.
Realizing I’d caught her in the act, she flinched, her magenta face darkening to a vivid plum, the blush spreading across her cheeks like spilled ink. “W-what?! No! Mind your business, you scrawny murakka!” she stammered, her voice sharp but faltering under the weight of her embarrassment. She crossed her arms, her glowing skin betraying her indignation as she glared at me with the sulky defiance of a petulant toddler.
“Sure thing, Your Highness,” I murmured under my breath, suppressing a chuckle.
With a belch that could have been classified as an act of war, Quen wiped away the tears and snot streaming from her face with a rag so well-used it might as well have been her battle flag. The acrid scent of her chili-induced spice binge still lingered in the air as she finally leaned back, visibly content despite the mess she’d made of herself.
“Ahh, that hit the spot,” she said, plucking a stubborn piece of meat from between her tusks. “Yeah, I got blessed with the flame Element long ago, back when I was servin’ my time o’er at the Makka Makka Mines.”
Her casual tone was almost as impressive as the revelation.
“The shrines here are the real deal too, huh?” I asked, my thoughts wandering to what it might feel like to harness that kind of raw power. Fire-breathing like a dragon sounded like a useful upgrade.
Quen nodded, examining her gauntlet as if reliving old memories. “Aye, but that was a long time ago. That shrine’s been locked up tighter than a miser’s vault, thanks to ol’ Bernie. Lazy old cow.”
Ichni, who had been idly swinging her tail from my shoulder, perked up at the mention of the name. “Wait—Bernie? That hairy buffoon’s still running the mines?” she asked, her tone laced with incredulity.
Quen snorted, spitting the bit of meat she’d been working out straight into the forge. The sizzling sound punctuated her obvious disdain. “Yep. Still runnin’ the place last I heard. Doubt he’s gotten himself the sack yet, ‘specially since he’s got some poor oger to take the blame every time somethin’ goes sideways.”
Bernie. The name etched itself into my mental list of future headaches, even if I didn’t know the extent of what it implied yet. All I could do now was focus on the here and now—like the fact that I was armed with rusted junk and dreams of grandeur. A proper sword, a decent set of armor, maybe even a shield... all felt like pipe dreams at this point.
As if reading my thoughts, Quen clapped her massive hands together with a resounding clang, like a smith striking an anvil. “Well, ain’t you lookin’ like a beggar crashin’ a knight’s feast,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “That there’s some proper shite armor, sunshine. Held together with spit an’ sheer bloody-mindedness, is it?”
“I, uh… yeah.” I glanced down at my battered breastplate and then back at her, deciding it was best not to argue. “I need a sword, specifically. Your best one.”
Quen leaned against a workbench, her tusks framing a sly, toothy grin. “Best, eh? Well, ain’t you got a bit o’ taste!” she drawled, her words laced with pride. “Congratulations, luv, you’ve stumbled inta the only smithy in this realm that’s worth its weight in steel. I don’t just make weapons—I forge legends. An’ anyone says otherwise?” She let out a barking laugh, slapping her knee for emphasis. “They’re naught but a rusty nail tryin’ to call itself a blade!”
“Right, then.” I straightened up, brushing the dust from my battered armor as I prepared to pitch myself like a legendary hero—at least, one who didn’t look like he just crawled out of a ditch. Setting the tone for what I was about to ask was vital.
“I am Adrian Legend,” I declared, voice steady. “A Paladin on the path to reclaim my humanity and bring salvation to this world. A Seeker of the Lights.”
Quen froze, who was turned halfway to suggest a sword, before turning to stare at me like I’d sprouted a second head. Her lop-sided grin widened ever so slightly.
From my shoulder, Ichni erupted into peals of laughter, her magenta face flushed with unrestrained glee. “Oh, that’s rich!” she choked out between gasps. “The Seeker of the Lights! You absolute murakka!”
“W-what? It’s true!” I shot back, waving a hand at her in a futile attempt to silence her.
Quen, still leaning casually against her workbench, let out a deep, throaty chuckle. “Seeker o’ the Lights, eh?” she drawled, her accent rolling thick as molten metal. “Proper fancy-like. What next, ye gonna tell me yer here to save a damsel and slay a big ol’ dragon? Maybe write a ballad ‘bout it after, aye?”
I felt my cheeks burn as her words cut straight through my flimsy attempt at dignity. Before I could stammer out a defense, she held up a gauntleted hand, the rune etched into her forearm still faintly glowing.
“Right, right. ‘Course y’are, mate,” she continued, her grin softening just slightly. “But lemme ask ye this—what kinda coin ye got fer this shiny sword yer lookin’ ta swing ‘round, eh?”
“I…” I began, mustering as much humility as I could. This was the crux of the problem, and I hated admitting it. “I actually don’t have any gold.”
Quen let out a bark of laughter, sharp and guttural. “Gold? Oh, luv, I’d hope not! Carryin’ gold’s as good as paintin’ a target on yer back. I might’ve had to call the royal guards on ya!”
I blinked, utterly floored. Out of all possible reactions—pity, rejection, maybe begrudging charity—this was the absolute last thing I expected. “For having some change? How does that make any sense?”
Quen raised an eyebrow, looking at me like I’d just asked why fire was hot. “Gold’s been banned fer years, sunshine. Thought everyone and their gran knew that.”
Ichni popped out, her smug grin dialed up to eleven. “You really didn’t know? Even a murakka living under a rock would’ve heard about that one, Adrian.”
“Why do you keep assuming I know this stuff?!” I sputtered, throwing my arms up in helpless frustration. “I’m clearly not from around here!”
Ichni’s grin widened, pure mischief in her eyes. “Are you aware the sky is often blue?”
My temper flared, and I leaned toward her with a hiss. “Do you want to end up in a rummage sale?”
As the sparks between Ichni and me fizzled out, Quen rolled her eyes, moving toward a barrel of ore. She gave its contents a cursory glance before turning back with a huff. “Alright, enough drama. Let’s get to the point—how much silver do ya got?”
“None,” I admitted without hesitation, trying to keep my face stoic. It wasn’t like she could confiscate dignity I didn’t have.
Quen’s gray eyes narrowed, her expression as sharp as the blades on her walls. “Right… and metal ore? Got anythin’ shiny to barter with? I ain’t no bleeding charity, but I’m willin’ to make a deal.”
This was it. Time for drastic measures. I dropped to my knees, pressing my forehead to the dusty floor like a desperate pilgrim.
“In terms of metal ore, we have… absolutely none.” My voice was low, laden with what little shame I could muster. Ichni, ever the supportive companion, plopped herself on my back like a loyal house cat.
A suffocating silence blanketed the room, broken only by the steady crackle of the furnace. I dared a glance up, expecting the heat to be the source of the hissing sound, but no—it was Quen’s gauntlet, glowing hot as it scorched a molten line into the edge of her workbench. Her gaze bore into me with the intensity of a blacksmith tempering steel, and I suddenly felt like a rod about to snap under the hammer.
“Do I look like a bloody charity t’ you, boy?” she bellowed, flipping the table in one clean motion. Tools and shards of ore scattered across the floor with a deafening clatter, while I scrambled to plant my forehead back on the ground like it might shield me from her wrath.
“No, Lady Quen, of course not—you're just doing your job—” I stammered, but her sharp click of the tongue sliced through my words like a blade through parchment.
“Tch. Lady Quen. Yer damn right I’m doin’ my job! A damn fine one, too!” she snarled, her accent cutting through the room like a forge’s hiss. “And this job, lad, it don’t run on goodwill and daydreams. Didja really think ya could waltz in here an’ grab a sword for free?”
“Please,” I pleaded, my voice strained with desperation. “It’s vital I get a weapon. My duty to the Four-Lights—”
“Duty to the lights, my arse! Then ask yer precious lights for some bloody silver!” Quen hissed, her voice reverberating like a hammer striking iron. Righting the overturned table with one hand, she jabbed a finger in my direction, her tusks gleaming under the forge’s glow. “Don’t need no ‘illuminutty’ slag wanderin’ in, disruptin’ my work. Now git! Out, ya daft beggar!”
Before I could respond, a broom smacked me square in the face, jarring me back to reality. She wasn’t just chasing me out—she was sweeping me out like a pile of forge scraps. Ichni, ever the troublemaker, clawed at the broom with the vigor of an angry alley cat, her shrill protests mixing with the scrape of the bristles against the floor.
“Hey, stop that!” I protested, holding my ground until the broom’s handle rammed me with enough force to send me flipping backward. I landed sprawled on the floor a good two meters away, staring up at Quen’s imposing figure. Her gray eyes burned with such intensity they looked bloodshot, and I swore for a moment I might see smoke rising from her flared nostrils.
“I… I implore you… to reconsider.” My voice was shaky but firm, even as her calloused hand clamped onto my breastplate and yanked me clean off the floor.
The metal creaked under the strain of her grip, and I dangled like a rag doll as her fierce gray eyes bore into mine. “How about you reconsider yer ass out my shop?” she growled, her voice low and deliberate. “Give me one damn good reason why I shouldn’t toss ya into the street—or better yet, melt yer sorry hide down with that tin can you’re wearin’!”
“I’m… here because I need to be,” I replied, my tone flat but unyielding, meeting her glare with hollow resolve. For a moment, she searched my expression, her brow furrowed as if debating whether to follow through on her threat or grant me mercy.
With a sharp exhale, she dropped me unceremoniously back to the ground, my boots hitting the stone floor with a heavy thud. “Yer a stubborn git, I’ll give ya that,” she muttered, shaking her head. “But stubborn don’t pay the bills.”
“Just get out, ‘Paladin.’ There ain’t nothin’ for ya here,” she said brusquely, turning her back to me and picking up a set of tongs. “Hate to sound cruel, but this is a business, not a charity. King Malphas is expectin’ a dozen blackmetal spears by week’s end, and I ain’t got time to waste on freeloaders.”
Her words were final, cutting through any lingering hope I had. My eyes darted to the barrel of swords near the door. For a fleeting second, the thought of grabbing one and bolting crossed my mind, but I crushed it just as quickly. That wasn’t how I’d been taught to handle my problems—no matter how desperate I felt.
“How about just a plain sword? I’ll pay you back, I promise,” I said, hoping sincerity would carry the weight my wallet couldn’t. “I’m heading to the adventurer’s guild next. I’ll pick up a few jobs, earn some silver, and make it worth your while.”
Quen snorted, still focused on a chunk of metal she was shaping. “Talk’s cheap, luv,” she said, her words slow and thick like cooling tar. “Cheap enough even a broke sod like you can sling it around. But words don’t keep my furnace burnin’, now do they?”
I was crushed. The hopeful bubble I’d inflated—convincing myself I could walk out with a sword on credit—popped with a resounding thud. It’s not like I had an account with the Demon Finances Credit Union. Quen was right. Talk was cheap, and I had nothing but hot air.
“Adrian, how about you… pawn me off?” Ichni’s voice floated from my shoulder like an errant breeze.
I blinked, turning to her, completely thrown. “What?”
Ichni hovered midair, her ethereal form folding in thought. She looked conflicted, as though her suggestion had unsettled even her. For a moment, the forge fell silent; even Quen paused, her fiery temper seemingly cooled by sheer surprise.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, my voice sharp with disbelief. “I’m not pawning off my own ally. You’re worth more than that.” I pulled her aside, lowering my voice as though shielding her absurd idea from the world.
“Think about it,” Ichni pressed, floating closer. “This gauntlet, with the fancy ruby? It’s gotta be worth enough silver to get you something decent. Then you go, do your little ‘hero thing,’ earn some coin, and buy me back. Easy. I’d just chill inside the gauntlet the whole time—no one would even know.”
Her logic wasn’t entirely flawed, but I shook my head without hesitation. “Even if the king himself offered his castle in exchange, the answer would still be no. As long as you’re willing to stick by me, I won’t give you up. Not for money, not for anything.”
Ichni stared at me, her expression twisting as if my words were physically painful. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered.
I crossed my arms, unfazed. “Call me whatever you want, but a Paladin doesn’t abandon their own. That’s just how it is.”
Ichni gave me a look that screamed, “Can you stop being so dramatic?” but I pressed on anyway. “We don’t abandon the weak. We don’t leave our friends behind. We are the first to step forward when someone asks for help. And when we step forward—”
“We do so to leave a path for others to follow.” The interruption caught me off guard, and I turned to see Quen, her arms crossed and a flicker of respect lighting her eyes.
“Wait, how did you—?” I stammered, unsure how this orc smith knew the words I had once held so sacred.
Quen’s expression softened, her tusks framing a faint smile as she shook her head. “Somethin’ me old man used to say. Came from a storybook he read to us when we were kids, about a hero and his impossible quest.” Her voice held a wistful tone, as if the memory had caught her off guard too.
Her words left me momentarily stunned. The odds of a children’s tale sharing the same mantra my master had drilled into me seemed laughably small, yet here it was, spoken by a smith in a demon kingdom.
Coincidence? Or were there more threads connecting my two lives than I dared imagine?
Quen seemed to notice my lingering awe and gave a sharp, barked laugh. “Alright, Mr. Hero,” she said, her grin widening into something playful. “Don’t be sellin’ off yer ghostly girlfriend just yet. I’ll help ya out—though if yer both plannin’ on more holy vows, leave me outta it, yeah?”
“I’m not his girlfriend!” Ichni snapped, her face flushing a deep magenta. “I’m literally his prisoner!”
“Prisoner o’ love, maybe!” Quen teased, one of her tusks catching the light as her grin widened. “The way ya glare at him? Oh, you’re foolin’ nobody, squirt.”
Ichni’s blush darkened further as she whipped her head toward me, desperate for an ally. Her expression screamed, Do something! But I wasn’t about to let my shot at a sword get derailed. I shrugged nonchalantly and muttered, “It’s… complicated.”
Her face twisted in a mix of outrage and betrayal. “You murakka!” she shrieked, flailing her arms wildly. In her tantrum, she knocked over a nearby cup, its clatter punctuating her frustration, before retreating into the gauntlet with a loud thwoomp!
“’Til death do us part,” I quipped with a sheepish grin.
Quen burst into hearty laughter, clapping her hands like she’d just heard the best joke of the week. “Now yer talkin’ like a proper hero! Keep that cheek up, kid—it suits ya.”
“Better than this damned trash can I’m wearing!” I shot back playfully. She eyed me slyly at me at the remark, and a new sense of respect came between us.
“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.” Quen reached into one of the barrels near her workstation, pulled out a sword, and tossed it my way with an effortless flick of her wrist. I caught it midair, gripping the hilt tightly as I gave it a few practice swings. It wasn’t flashy or grand, but it felt solid—dependable.
“How much am I looking at for this?” I ventured cautiously, bracing for the worst.
“That’s on loan,” Quen declared, crossing her thick arms with a smirk. “Bring it back when ya can afford somethin’ proper. If yer keen on the fire Element like I got, there’s a blade tailor-made fer that, but it’ll cost ya more silver than you’ll see with your princess workin’ the streets.”
The mental image that conjured was so absurd I nearly dropped the sword. I’m starting to think that Quen had the wrong idea, like Ichni was going to sit on the streets and give royal ghost handies for sword money. I imagined myself, a holy pimp hiding in a barrel while Ichni tried catcalling and pedaling her ‘services’.
“Well, I’ll just have to take on the biggest job in town then, won’t I?” I replied, shaking off the ridiculous thought. Straightening up, I brought my arm across my chest in a gesture of sincerity. “By my honor, I’ll repay this debt.”
“Right, right, but don’t be skippin’ town on me now, Mr. Hero.” Quen’s grin widened as she tossed something at me—a flash of silver catching the dim light. I failed to catch it cleanly, and the coin smacked off my forehead before I snatched it out of the air. It was a silver coin! I bit down experimentally, confirming its authenticity.
“For yer meal,” Quen said casually, already returning her attention to her workbench. “Hand it off to Randy, and he’ll set ya up with a place to sleep fer a bit. Good man, that one. And don’t you dare go sayin’ I never did nothin’ for ya, y’hear?”
I offered a deep, grateful bow, a gesture I felt was becoming all too frequent. With my new sword secure, I straightened up, my determination renewed. The days of scraping by as a penniless wanderer were over. It was time to step forward and claim my place as a real adventurer.