(Dylan)

Dylan cradled the shotgun in one arm, its barrel angled toward the ceiling. The mace in his other hand swayed gently with each step, the weight barely noticeable. He appreciated just how light the weapons felt.

“None of the smithing armors will fit you, and we do not have time to resize them.” Wedge gave Dylan a sidelong glance, his eyes scrutinizing the chubby man’s frame. “Besides, it would likely be too heavy for you, anyway.”

Wedge swung the runelock door shut with a solid clunk and motioned for Dylan to follow as they resumed their search for armor.

They reached another unmarked door. Wedge gripped the handle and pulled it open with a grunt, stepping aside for Dylan to enter first. Dylan wondered if the big guy had memorized the entire place, or if there were magical signs only guild members could see. Or maybe it was just some other crazy magic shit.

Wedge stacked layer after layer of stringed quilts over Dylan’s free shoulder. Unfortunately for him, the armor was exactly as heavy as it appeared. He estimated the overall weight for his armor and weapons to be an additional twenty-five pounds.

“Don’t you have lighter metal armor, like the weapons?” Dylan adjusted the shotgun on his shoulder.

“We do, but you are weak and misshapen,” Wedge said, almost clinically. “Outfitting armor offers solid protection and will fit your proportions.”

Dylan motioned with his head. “These are just heavy quilts with strings along the side.”

“Correct.” Wedge nodded. “They will fit around your limbs and torso. We will tie the strings to secure them. The material is durable—softens blows, catches pierces on the mesh, and the fibers are cut-resistant.”

Dylan frowned. “It’s going to make me look fat.”

“It is not the armor that will make you look fat,” Wedge said dryly.

“Hurtful, but fair.” Dylan sighed, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “And it looks like it’s going to be very warm.”

“It will protect you.” Wedge shrugged and then added a nod. “Yes, you will be sweaty.”

“What about the shotgun shells?” Dylan shifted the weight of the armor on his shoulder, still adjusting to its heft.

“Ask Ni’ot. I am unsure what ammo your firearm uses. When the trial is complete, be sure to return everything to the armory.” Wedge said firmly as he met Dylan’s eyes.

“What if something gets damaged? Or, you know, I lose it?” Dylan was out of limbs to scratch the itch at the back of his neck.

“Equipment can be repaired and replaced,” Wedge said. “You are far more valuable. Use your equipment to make sure you do not get injured or worse.”

‘Been there, done that, didn’t even get a t-shirt,’ Dylan thought with a wry smile.

“What do I do with all this stuff?” He looked at the barrel on his right and then the mound of quilts on his left.

“Pack it up and bring it tomorrow,” Wedge instructed, already turning toward the door. “I will find you a belt to hold your mace.”

They exited the quilt room, and Wedge quickly secured the door behind them with a click. The echo of the closing door lingered in the air as they moved on.

“Ni’ot will be at the smithing studios,” Wedge said.

The big guy strode off toward the guildhall, his broad frame moving with purpose. Nathan had mentioned the crafting studios were on the other side of the guildhall—opposite the dorms. So Dylan turned and made his way back to his room, eager to drop off his gear.

He tossed the quilted armor onto the chair by his desk, their layers slumping into a heap. He propped the mace carefully against the wall next to his wardrobe, glancing down at the shotgun in his hand. Ni’ot would probably need to see it to figure out the shells, so he’d keep it on him. Hopefully, no one would mind him wandering the stronghold armed with a gun.

His stomach gurgled, reminding him he was overdue for a meal. He grabbed a loaf from the bed and unfolded the paper wrapping. As he walked, the act of moving helped distract him from the fact he was chewing over-salted cardboard.

Several guild members waved as he made his way toward the crafting studios. He couldn’t help but notice how every person he passed had weapons stowed in increasingly creative spots—one draconi even had a massive two-handed maul hovering in the air behind them.

‘Is that an ability or a magical weapon?’ he wondered, his gaze following the floating maul.

As Dylan neared the crafting studios, his thoughts quieted. Each building had a sign above the runelock door, marking the profession inside. He approached the door that magically read “Smithing”.

He knocked, and after a few moments, the door unlocked and creaked open, revealing a draconi wearing aviator goggles. Soot coated them from crest to toe, making it impossible to tell what color their scales were. A wave of oppressive heat billowed out from the door, and Dylan instinctively took a step back, the air scorching his skin.

“What do you want?” the draconi grunted, their voice rough as they wiped a hand across their sooty face, smudging it further.

Dylan had to raise his voice to be heard over the sizzling sounds from inside the studio. “I’m looking for Ni’ot!”

“She’s not here,” the draconi said flatly, already beginning to close the runelock door without a second glance at him.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Dylan slapped his hand against the runelock door, a sharp jolt of pain shooting through his injury as he strained to keep it from shutting. His fingers trembled under the pressure, but the door barely slowed.

“Can you at least tell me where she is?” Dylan strained as he fought to keep the door from slamming shut.

“Yeah, she’s out back,” a muffled voice called through the door just before it clicked shut, leaving Dylan standing awkwardly in front of the sealed entrance.

He circled the building, his footsteps crunching softly on the gravel path. As he approached the open area behind the studios, the sound of heated voices carried on the air. Two elves and a well-muscled crimson draconi stood around a forge, gesturing animatedly at each other. He recognized the draconi as Ni’ot—the woman he’d been looking for.

He scanned the area, recognizing most of the equipment. A large black anvil dominated the center, while a wall lined with dark crystal tools gleamed nearby—chisels, hammers, punches, a hand ax, and far more tongs than Dylan could imagine anyone needing.

Opposite the wall of tools stood a large obsidian ring, its surface etched with pulsing orange runes. The center of the ring was eerily empty, its dark void humming with latent energy.

‘Is that a Stargate?’ he wondered. Dylan didn’t know the names of either elf, and, as usual, gave them nicknames.

“I’m telling you, transmutation’s the best way,” Gal insisted. “You can forge the weapon, shape it—without the need of expensive tools, and then turn it into crystal.”

“Without expensive tools?” Guy balked. “Alchemist stones don’t exactly grow on trees.” He crossed his arms. “Plus, not everyone’s an alchemist, and Ni’ot keeps snacking on my metal bars.” He glared at the fiery draconi.

Ni’ot crossed her muscled arms. “Maybe stop crafting with snacks?” Her tail flicking playfully behind her.

“Or maybe just hide them better,” Gal shot back, smirking as they ganged up on him.

“Any tips on where he should hide them?” Ni’ot asked.

Gal laughed, shaking her head. “Not falling for it.”

Ni’ot shrugged her well-developed shoulders, continuing to smile.

“Yeah, well, maybe if someone let me use their demon core, I wouldn’t be stuck with boring old metals,” Guy grumbled, glaring between Ni’ot and Gal.

“Not gonna happen.” Ni’ot leaned back against the anvil, crossing her arms tighter, daring him to challenge her.

“Fine.” Guy flicked a pebble with his boot. “Guess I’ll start saving up for a shaping hammer, then.”

“Transmutation, displacement bonding, crystal shaping, molten injection molding—they’re all second-rate compared to having an ability that lets you make crystal weapons.” Ni’ot’s voice dripped with confidence as her tail swished lazily behind her.

Gal shot the obsidian gate an envious glance. “Most of us aren’t as lucky as you.”

Ni’ot straightened, her expression hardening. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it.” She held Gal’s gaze, her voice firm. “I’ve worked hard to influence my abilities.”

“Hop’lin says if you want a balanced powerset, you absorb all your orbs first, then use the glyphs,” Guy said, gesturing with his hands as if laying out a plan. “That way, they’ll pair with the orb that gives you the most synergistic ability.”

“Sure, if you’re okay with leaving your abilities to chance, that’ll work,” Ni’ot replied with a confident smirk. “But I’ve got a very specific powerset in mind. Now, off with you both.” She waved them away dismissively. Her gaze flicked toward Dylan, a mischievous glint appearing in her eyes. “There’s someone far more interesting I’d like to talk to.”

The elves grumbled as they returned to their stations, leaving Ni’ot and Dylan alone. She flashed him a toothy grin, sending a shiver of fear—and something else—down his spine.

“Hey there, handsome,” Ni’ot purred, her tail swaying lazily behind her. “Heard you had a rough night in the infirmary after dinner. Glad to see you’re back on your feet.”

‘Goddamnit, Dylan, this is not the time to get a muscle mommy kink,’ he thought, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat as he tried to shake off the awkwardness. “Wedge told me to come see you about getting shells for this shotgun.”

“Give it here.” Ni’ot stepped closer, holding out her hand with a raised brow. Her gaze locked onto his, unblinking and intense.

‘Oh my. So that’s how it feels,’ he thought, swallowing hard as he handed her the shotgun. Her body seemed to radiate heat—whether from the forge or just his imagination, he couldn’t tell.

She scrutinized the firearm. “I remember making this one,” she said, turning it over with a nostalgic smile. “It was one of my firsts. Fires a scale to the left, if I recall. Never got around to recalibrating the sight.”

The fiery draconi strode to the wall of tools, her fingers lightly brushing past a row of tiny, dangling wrenches. They chimed softly as she found the one she wanted, plucking it from the hook with a practiced flick. The wrench popped into the air, and with a quick motion, she caught it mid-flight. Her tongue peeked out from the corner of her mouth in concentration as she adjusted the front sight on the barrel

“There,” Ni’ot said with satisfaction. “Now she’ll shoot true.” She tossed the shotgun toward Dylan. “Catch.”

He nearly fumbled the shotgun, scrambling to catch it before hugging it awkwardly to his chest—though not before it smacked him in the face.

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” he muttered, rubbing his cheek.

“I wondered if you were the ‘Dylan’ on the trial list,” Ni’ot said, her eyes sparkling with interest. “Glad to hear you’re sticking around. Means we’ll have time to… get to know each other better.”

Dylan glanced away nervously. “Uh…”

“Relax, I’m not hitting on you,” she said, though a mischievous grin spread across her face. “Unless… you want to be hit on. I’ve still got that bottle back in my room.” She raised an eyebrow, hooking a thumb over her shoulder toward the dorms.

His cheeks flushed slightly. ‘Focus, Dylan. You’re here for shells, not… distractions,’ he thought, shaking his head.

“Can’t blame a girl for trying.” She shrugged. “Though I’m not sure we’d work out.”

“And why not?” Dylan asked, surprising even himself with the sudden curiosity. ‘Is she negging me?’ he wondered.

“Let’s just say… I don’t share well with others.” She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering. “While Meekan might be fine with it, I’d need you all to myself.”

Dylan blinked in confusion. “Wait, what about Meekan?

Ni’ot chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Oh, my sweet boy, it’s a good thing you’re so handsome.”

“So, uh… about those shells?” Dylan cleared his throat as he awkwardly tried to steer the conversation back on track.

“We’ve got them stashed at the armory,” Ni’ot said, her teasing grin softening as she motioned for him to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Dylan followed the fiery draconi out of the forge, the rhythmic clinking of tools fading behind them as they entered the quieter halls of the armory. Once back inside the armory building, she quickly led them to another unmarked door.

Ni’ot placed her hand on the nearby control slab and the door clicked open, the familiar whir of spinning gears and shifting rods filling the air. They found boxes of ammunition stacked on metal racks behind that door.

“You got firearms back on Dirt?” She asked. Her clawed hand ran across the box labels until she found what she was looking for.

“Yeah, my dad taught me how to use them,” Dylan said, his voice softening. That was before the fight, back when they still talked.

Ni’ot snagged a leather pouch, unzipping it. Then she opened a nearby crate, revealing rows of multi-colored shells.

“We’ve got three kinds of shells.” She picked up a yellow one and held it up between her fingers. “This one’s filled with small pellets—called light-shot.” She tossed it into the pouch with a casual flick of her wrist.

“Then there’s the mid-shots.” She lifted an orange shell between her fingers. “Larger pellets in these.” She dropped it into the pouch with a soft clink.

“And these beauties are heavy-shots, but I call them heartstoppers.” She held up a red shell, turning it over in her hand. “Just a solid slug—thick and weighty, exactly the way I like ‘em.” She tossed it into the pouch with a satisfying thud. “And trust me, you’ll know when you’ve been struck by a heartstopper.” Her gaze drifted toward Dylan.