The blue walls hummed and Kael stood beside his makeshift shelter, the orb glowing softly at his side. The day’s hush carried a sense of expectancy, as though even the forest had paused to bear witness.

Kael raised a clawed hand, beckoning into the still air. “Skrindle,” he called, his voice low yet clear.

The orb shimmered, and with a swirl of faint smoke and the flutter of bat-like wings, Skrindle materialized. He inclined his small, impish head in a sarcastic little bow, his sharp grin ever so slightly subdued. “At your service, Master,” he said, his tone bordering on playful mockery.

Kael exhaled, crossing his arms over his gray robes. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I still have that personal skill from my First Blood achievement to choose. I can’t rely on others anymore, no matter how carefully I plan. I need something to protect myself.”

Skrindle’s eyes glinted, and he snapped his fingers, producing a string of miniature fireworks that popped and crackled in the morning air. “Ah! Speaking of achievements, Master,” he said, floating closer. “There is… another matter.”

“Another matter?”

“Indeed. In all the chaos and excitement, I neglected to mention that you’ve two personal skill points waiting, not just one.” He clapped his tiny claws once more, sending another burst of miniature sparks dancing across Kael’s vision. “It’s thanks to Let’s Get The Gang Together, the achievement for joining a conclave. Congratulations… belatedly, of course.”

For a moment, Kael let his gaze settle on the orb, contemplating the potential held within. “And how do I go about this? Do I have a list of skills, or must I pluck them from the air?”

Skrindle’s grin broadened, and he snapped his fingers. The orb’s surface shimmered, revealing faint text in shifting runes, each line hinting at possibilities and power. “There are many skills, Master,” he said, his tone almost reverent. “Defensive magic, improved martial prowess, illusions, traps—whatever suits your style.”

“You need to understand what these skills are,” the imp began, his pointed teeth glinting in the morning light. “They’re moves and abilities you can call upon, each one shaped by you and strengthened by practice. Some are broad, covering a whole range of related techniques. Others are narrowly focused, granting but a single, potent trick.”

Kael glanced at the orb, seeing an endless list of scripts. “But there are… so many,” he said, his voice carrying a note of wonder. “Even the runes I’ve seen only show a fraction, don’t they?”

“A tiny fraction,” he agreed. “Skills are like a vast tree—no, a forest of trees, each one sprouting branches that lead to further branches and then to yet more. Countless paths, Master, each twisting in its own direction. You choose where to invest your time and points, eventually having a list of skills of what you can do.”

“In truth,” Skrindle went on, “all skills spring from two primal branches: Physical or Magical. From there, many branches spread out, each bearing further, smaller limbs.”

He paused, as though allowing Kael to envision the sprawling trunk and boughs. “Now, you see, Physical subdivides into three major branches: Martial, Body, and Commander. Each offers its own flavor of strength.”

Kael’s gaze sharpened with interest. “Explain them,” he said softly.

Skrindle’s grin widened, mischievous but solemn. “Ah, yes. Martial is the art of blades and fists, of honing your prowess in direct combat. Swordsmanship, fisticuffs, deadly flourishes—whatever your style, Martial polishes your offensive might. You become a living weapon, your every strike a refined statement of force.”

He snapped his clawed fingers, and the orb shimmered again, faint silhouettes of fighters danced on the orb’s surface—knights with swords, brawlers with spiked gauntlets, all swirling in a silent pantomime of violence.

“Then,” Skrindle continued, “there’s the Body branch. This changes you—physically, mentally—granting you superhuman traits. Thicker hide, sharper claws, greater speed or resilience. Even feats of regeneration.” He shrugged, his expression oddly reverent. “A Master’s body can transcend normal limits, if that’s your road.”

The orb shifted once more, showing ghostly outlines of Masters with monstrous attributes: horned shapes, elongated limbs, spines and scales, each a testament to the extremes the Body branch could reach.

“And the last of the Physical trifecta is Commander.” Skrindle spread his hands wide, tiny sparks flickering from his wingtips. “A path that focuses on your summons, your minions, empowering them with your will. You become the warlord, the general, able to improve the slimes—or anything else you summon—and lead them with an iron bond. Imagine them gaining traits they never had, your mind linked to theirs more deeply.”

Pictures of towering slimes, wreathed in subtle aura, formed in the orb—Commander illusions of monstrous armies obeying a single gesture from a robed Master. Kael felt a tug of pride at the possibility, the notion that his square’s defenders might become unstoppable.

Skrindle let the images fade, turning fully to Kael. “The deeper you go into any branch,” he said, “the more branches within branches you find—like a great old tree. Swords might split into dual-wielding or heavy blade mastery, leaps or flourishes, while body transformations might delve into your slime ally synergy, or your own monstrous enhancements. Commander might shape entire platoons of specialized summons.” His impish face glowed with excitement. “It’s endless, Master.”

Kael ran a claw gently across the orb’s surface, his gaze distant. “Physical or Magical,” he murmured. “Martial, Body, or Commander—on the physical side, at least.” A faint flicker crossed his lips. “And the magical side must be equally vast.”

“The magical branch,” Skrindle continued, his impish face serious. “A world of possibilities, Master. If Physical splits into Martial, Body, and Commander, then Magical is even more sprawling. You can find spells, enchantments, alchemy, beast taming, rituals, telepathy and anything you can even imagine if you go far enough down those paths.”

“All these skill branches,” he said, after a pause, “I can see the merit in each. A sickle improved by Martial. My own body swelled to monstrous size, like Vor, by Body. Or forging unstoppable minions with Commander.”

“And the magic.” Skrindle arched a small brow. “Potentially shaping your slimes with deeper elemental synergy—Alchemy might fuse them with powerful reagents, or Beast Taming could let you bind existing creatures to your service.”

Kael’s gaze lingered on his sickle, the curved blade catching a stray ray of sun. It had tasted blood before—Ryan’s, among others. The memory still unsettled him, though necessity had forced his hand. “I’ve grown used to this weapon,” he said, his voice introspective. “If I choose Martial, I could learn to wield it with more grace than I do now.”

Skrindle nodded. “Yes. Single-handed bladed weapons skill. A skill that hones your instincts with such blades—swings, thrusts, slashes, parries. It’s basic, but it gives you a foundation. According to my little notes…” He tapped a translucent finger to his temple. “…you’d be about on par with Ryan, at least in terms of general technique.”

“On par with Ryan.” Kael considered, his lips curving into a faint smile at the notion. The swordsman’s skill had been enough to nearly cleave him once or twice, but cunning and slimes had turned the tide. If Kael could match that skill, he might not need to rely on traps and minions alone.

Kael inhaled deeply, letting the forest’s scents—moss, damp leaves, and the faint tang of dew—calm his racing mind. “I have time,” he said quietly. “Time to choose carefully.”

Skrindle regarded him, a momentary flicker of respect gleaming in those impish eyes. “Yes, Master. A wise approach. But remember, you have the square to defend—others might not wait patiently for you to pick your path.”

Kael nodded, thoughts flicking to Terrance’s promises and the roiling uncertainty of the days to come. He felt the chill of the Ring of Frost on his finger, a steady reminder of how potent a single artifact could be in tipping the scales.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“This ring,” Kael murmured, his eyes fixed upon the faintly frosted band. “Where do such artifacts come from? How are they made?”

Skrindle floated just above Kael’s shoulder, his wings fluttering in short, quick strokes. “They can be found anywhere,” the imp answered, his tone dipping toward reverence. “Looted from old tombs, passed down as heirlooms. Or forged by those who possess skills. There’s a branch for that in the skill trees, if you’d call it Crafting."

Kael closed his hand around the ring, a new resolve forming. “Artifacts,” he whispered, half to himself. “They grant such power. We’ve seen what a simple ring of frost can do. If I could craft more—” His mind reeled with the possibilities.

Skrindle, as if following Kael’s thoughts, nodded eagerly. “You have two personal skill points, Master. The first can go to Crafting, if that’s your wish.” A sly grin curled the imp’s lip. “A wise move, some might say.”

Kael recalled his slimes, the cunning traps, and the precious luck that had saved him more than once. A more reliable edge was exactly what he needed. “Then I choose Crafting,” he declared, letting the words settle into the morning’s stillness. “I can pick my second skill later.”

Skrindle spun in a little circle, releasing a burst of tiny sparks into the air. “As you wish, Master.”

The orb at Kael’s side pulsed, brightening as if alive. A series of spheres swam into being, each one projecting an illusion of metal, flame, or shimmering magical essence. The largest orb depicted a colossal forge, roaring with molten lava, where half-formed weapons gleamed like newborn stars on an anvil of dark steel. Another orb showed crystals, fractured prisms refracting kaleidoscopic light. Each orb glowed with promise and power, connected by branching lines.

Then the lines began to melt away, like wax under a flame, leaving only the orb nearest to Kael. The illusions shimmered, collapsing into a single artifact of shadow and steel. In a sudden flash, the orb’s final image burst forth, condensing into reality at the heart of Kael’s clearing.

Skrindle floated higher, gesturing grandly at the object. “Behold,” he announced, his voice echoing with theatrical zeal. “The Arcane Anvil.”

Kael stepped forward, a rare flicker of astonishment in his eyes. Here, in the midst of moss and twisted roots, stood a thing of stern iron and hidden magic. The anvil’s polished top reflected the meager morning sun, while the runes carved along its sides smoldered with a subtle violet light, hinting at the power slumbering within. It was an abrupt contrast to the ragged clearing, as though a piece of a grand fortress had been ripped away and planted in the heart of the wild.

Kael ran his palm gently over the anvil’s dark surface, feeling a subtle warmth that belied the steel-black color. A curious tug of energy passed from the metal into his fingers, like the distant echo of some ancient forge’s heat. Skrindle hovered close, silently observing, wings fluttering in a quiet rhythm.

“Well?” Kael said, turning to the imp with an edge of impatience. “This crafting tree I chose—what exactly can I make?”

Skrindle brightened, as though tapping into an inner stash of knowledge. “Daggers are an excellent starting point, Master,” he said with a sly grin. “You’d need iron bars, of course..”

“Daggers, regular daggers?” Kael repeated, a note of disbelief coloring his voice. “Where are the grand magical weapons, the shimmering swords, the flaming staves? I thought crafting would grant me that power.”

“In due time,” Skrindle said, shrugging in exaggerated fashion. “You must crawl before you run, after all. Learn the basics. Follow the recipes”

Kael shook his head, his gaze drifting to the ring of frost still circling his finger. He flexed his claws in thought. “I have a better idea,” he muttered. “Something to enhance what I already carry.”

His eyes found his sickle, lying a few paces away, its blade dulled from repeated use and stained with the evidence of past battles. Without waiting for Skrindle’s reply, Kael strode over and lifted the sickle in his free hand. The metal felt cool in the morning air, as though anticipating his plan. Gently, he slipped the ring of frost from his finger and, with a slow deliberation, slid it over the sickle’s pommel.

At once, a sheen of ice began to creep along the metal, crystals snaking over the grip and across the curved blade. Kael watched in fascination as shards crackled with a faint hiss, forging themselves into jagged, razor-edged patterns that glinted in the dawn light. He gave an experimental swing, and the weapon’s weight felt changed, yet not unwieldy.

A wave of excitement coursed through him. He held the newly frosted sickle aloft, marveling at the lethal beauty of the ice-laden steel. “Look at it,” he breathed, the words near to reverence.

Skrindle flitted nearer, eyes widening. “Master, that’s— You just— That’s not quite—” He clapped a clawed hand to his forehead in exasperation. “This isn’t in the rulebook! You can’t just jam an artifact onto a weapon and call it done.”

Kael shrugged, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Seems I can.” He gave a swift downward slash at the air, the motion sending a faint flurry of ice crystals spiraling away. “And it works.”

He turned to his imp companion with a triumphant air, cradling the sickle at his side. “I’ll name it… Kael’s Sickle of Ice.”

Skrindle groaned, pressing his other hand to his face in a universal gesture of dismay. “You can’t be serious,” he moaned. “That name is… embarrassingly unimaginative.”

An impish sparkle lit in Kael’s eyes. “Fine,” he said with mock gravity. “We’ll call it Kael’s Sickle of Icy Doom instead.”

Skrindle groaned louder, as though physically pained by the words. “You really are terrible at names, Master.”

Kael chuckled, letting the cold gleam of his new weapon speak for itself. “Judge me by my deeds, then,” he said lightly, though a note of pride threaded through his voice. With a final flourish, he spun the sickle once more. The ice rasped against the crisp air, a sharp promise that his forging—and his ambition—would not be bound by conventional rules.

With his new ice-forged sickle set aside—still faintly steaming with residual cold—Kael turned to Skrindle, curiosity dancing in his gaze.

“What about armor?” Kael asked.

Skrindle hovered closer, his translucent form bobbing as he spoke. “That depends, Master,” he said, his tone a thin thread of caution. “If you’d follow the… proper guidelines of crafting, your first set could be something like leather armor. Or a magical robe, if you’re keen on enchantments.”

Kael snorted softly. “And to forge that magic robe, I presume I need something ridiculous like a phoenix feather or—”

“Unicorn hair,” Skrindle interrupted, his wings fluttering. “Yes, that would be the standard requirement. At least one strand, to weave the primal essence of mythic beasts into the cloth. Not exactly easy to come by.”

“Right,” Kael said drily, folding his arms. “Unicorn hair. That’s not exactly growing on trees. Another of these rules I’m apparently meant to follow?”

Skrindle sighed, looking a little resigned. “So you’re not going to follow the established process?”

“Not exactly,” Kael said, letting a faint grin curl his lips. “Rules can be… flexible. We have to improvise.” His eyes flicked to the trio of slimes clustering by the anvil’s side—small, quivering creatures in varying shades of green. Jello stood nearby, while Mush nursed the last chill of its icy transformation. But nearby, there were three other slimes named Slorpy, Goober, and Flubs.

With a low, slithering wobble, the three slimes oozed forward in uncertain arcs. Kael crouched, the idea forming swiftly in his mind. “All right,” he said softly, nodding at each in turn, “climb on.”

Skrindle’s mouth opened in a silent question, but Kael ignored the imp. One by one, the slimes slid up Kael’s legs and settled beneath his robes, their gelatinous masses molding to his frame in strange, undulating shapes. He felt a faint shiver of cool dampness, but nothing more.

“Hardened up when a blade strikes,” he murmured. “Like Mush did. Harden, slow, and absorb the blow. Understand?”

A chorus of quivers responded—Slorpy, Goober, and Flubs gently compressing against his torso, as though in compliance. Kael stood, adjusting the fall of his robes. It felt peculiar, the weight shifting in curious ways. But the sense of protection, of living armor literally wrapped around him, glinted in Kael’s eyes.

Skrindle, hovering above, watched the scene with growing dismay. “Master,” he managed at last, “I’m not certain—”

“Slime armor,” Kael proclaimed, cutting him off. He ran a clawed hand over his chest, feeling a muted wobble from the slimes beneath. “I doubt the crafters of old had a recipe for this but we’ll make do.”

Skrindle slapped a tiny hand over his face so firmly that the force propelled him into a midair backflip, his wings sputtering in exasperation. “This is so far outside the rules,” he groaned. “You can’t just— Gah!”

Kael only grinned, giving his robes a small tug to hide the lumps of slime squirming beneath. “Rules be damned, Skrindle,” he said, half under his breath. “The next intruder won’t be expecting this. And if we find unicorn hair later, we can follow your precious guidelines.”

Skrindle hovered at Kael’s shoulder, wings stirring fitfully, unable to hide his restless energy. “So,” the imp said, his voice edged with a question he’d asked more than once, “are you going to do normal crafting at all, Master? Or is slime armor your final masterpiece?”

“Of course I will. But I don’t have the ingredients for anything significant yet,” he admitted. He ran a claw lightly over the black steel of the anvil. “Iron, leather, unicorn hair…all out of reach for now. I’ll do things your proper way if it becomes necessary.”

“Do you know where Masters usually get those materials? They dig them up. Iron from the earth, leathers from creatures hunted. And so on.”

“That’s tedious,” he muttered. “A lot of manual labor—digging out veins of ore, skinning beasts for hides. I should’ve kept Stone and Ryan around, forced them to do the grunt work. Now that they’re gone, it’s all on me.”

Skrindle’s wings fluttered with near-silent exasperation. “That’s the life of a Master of the Square, isn’t it? You want resources; you work for them.” He folded his arms, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “No shortcuts.”

Kael gave a noncommittal grunt. “We’ll see about that.” He paused, then shifted his gaze to the orb. “I haven’t picked my second personal skill yet. Maybe I should do that. If I’m to dig for iron, best I gain the strength or speed for it. ”

Skrindle’s wicked grin showed a flash of pointed teeth. “You have that Ultimate Deadly Sickle of Evil Death anyway—what need do you have for any more weapon skills, Master?”

Kael barked a short, genuine laugh, caught off-guard by Skrindle’s jibe. “I was trying out names,” he said, attempting to wave off the joke.

Before he could continue, the forest dimmed. A faint flicker caught Kael’s eye. He turned to see the part of the square’s walls changing hue—a ripple of crimson swallowing the blue.

“Someone’s just entered,” Kael said, voice hushed with exasperation. “Barely a day of peace.”

Skrindle made a small, theatrical bow. “The life of a Master, Master.”

“So it is.”

******