“No,” the Armory said.
Arwin blinked. He looked from the shield to the whorls of red mist rising up across from him. His head tilted to the side. “What do you mean, no? Why not?”
“Do you recall feeding me a training dummy?”
“Well, no. Can’t you just smack me or something?”
“And take the damage myself?” Irritation tinged the Armory’s voice. “No. If you desire a training partner, then either feed me something that I can use to replicate a training partner or find someone else. I am not your beating block. I am more than a mere tool. I am the Infernal Armory.”
Humble, are we? I suppose that’s fair enough, though. No sword is going to want to be used like a butter knife.
“Point taken,” Arwin said. He looked down at the shield in his hands, then dismissed it with a thought. “I’ll look into finding a training dummy to feed you. Do you happen to know what time it is?”
“It is evening.”
“More than enough time to get a little more work in,” Arwin mused. He rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. “You have enough energy to get one more quick piece of work in?”
“Your definition of quick and mine do not align.” Red mist swirled past Arwin and forced him to turn to track the footsteps tracking through it. “Nor do our desires. I do not enjoy driving my resourses down to the bone.”
“Don’t be lazy. Do you have enough energy or not? I’m not trying to kill you here, but I’d like to try and make a kitchen knife for Lillia now that I know Cursed items aren’t completely evil.”
“Why would you ever take a class if you believed that there was a chance it would be completely detrimental?”
“I was unaware that my own forge was going to start getting judgy.” Arwin’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “It was a calculated risk.”
“You thought Cursed items sounded strong and took the class because it was more unique than normal Dwarven Smithing.”
“I may have done that, yes. But it wasn’t just because it sounded cool. I need to take risks to get ahead.”
“But it also sounded… cool.” There was something disconcerting about the way the infernal Armory said the word cool, as if it were a child testing out a new word for the first time.
“Just tell me if you can help make the knife or not,” Arwin grumbled. “But it did sound cool. Are you telling me Cursed items don’t sound at least a little cool? Especially now that we know they’re more like gambling rather than just evil?”
“Which of those questions do you want me to answer? You said to just answer if I could make the knife, but then added a second request afterward.”
Arwin’s eye twitched. “When did you become a sarcastic teenager?”
“I can make the knife so long as you do not get overly caught up in minute details and waste too much energy. As to the second question — I do not care what I make so long as I can make something. My purpose is to create. That is all. The identity of what I am used to create is irrelevant to me so long as you continue to push us toward greater feats.”
Well that totally isn’t a concerning take on things. No morals whatsoever. Then again, the Infernal Armory is hardly a completely benign entity. It’s always been a little bit unsettling at absolute best. I think I’d be sorely mistaken to assume this thing is some kind of saint. The damn thing is powered by a zombie heart, after all.
“Perfect,” Arwin said. “Let’s see what materials we’ve got then. I want to try to wrap this up before dinner.”
***
Tironal’s fingers drummed away relentlessly at his wooden table. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck and rolled down his back, soaking into his fine clothes. His office was dark, two cups of tea sat before him, both untouched. He swallowed and tugged at his collar.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
A man stood in the darkness leaning against a bookshelf, his arms crossed. A metal mask covered the lower half of his face. The upper portion was concealed by a heavy nest of gray hair that camouflaged matching eyes beneath it.
Light reflected off the metal guild badge depicting nothing but a straight line carved across his chest. Even though Tironal couldn’t make out the man’s face, he was more than aware of the gaze burning into his forehead.
“There has been no progress,” the man said.
“I promise you, we’re searching as hard as we possibly can,” Tironal said. He splayed his hands out over the table, half to show that he wasn’t reaching for a weapon. The last thing he wanted to do was give the monster before him a reason to draw arms. “We cannot do anything more without stopping our normal processes. That would be—”
“Idiotic, yes.” The man cut Tironal off before he could finish his sentence. “I am not a fool. Such a change would be entirely too evident, and whoever took my Dungeon Heart would immediately flee — not to mention I suspect your guild would be crushed by the Dawnseekers when you lost so much momentum.”
“There’s more than just the Dawnseekers to concern ourselves with,” Tironal said. His hands tightened. “The Montibeau family’s heir returned to their estate and has managed to stabilize them. They aren’t a significant threat as they are now, but more competition means even more ways things can go wrong.”
“You misunderstand me. I do not care about your guild or the struggles it faces. They are of your own making. I know you desire to keep it in one piece, and at the moment, its purposes suit mine. Do not confuse that for me caring about your guild. You will find the Dungeon Heart.”
“I will endeavor to pour more resources into this,” Tironal promised, his jaw tightening until it ached. “My spymaster, Charles, will dedicate all the time he has left to aiding you. We will manage without him for the time being.”
The assassin watched Tironal impassively for several long seconds. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“Very well. I will return in time to meet him. Ensure he has something useful for me. I am displeased with the amount of time that I have already wasted in this worthless city. There will not be a third chance for you to prove yourself.”
Despite his position, a flicker of anger rolled through Tironal. He’d spent years building up the Ardent Guild. Thousands upon thousands of gold invested into its growth. Into its people. The guild wasn’t the strongest merchant guild in existence, but it was his creation. The manifestation of his years on this world, and the culmination of the desires of everyone under his banner. It was the path into the future that they had fought to claim.
“Is that a threat?” Tironal asked, his fist tightening. “I have done nothing but attempt to aid you. I was not responsible for the death of your apprentice. I do not mean to challenge the Setting Sun, but—”
“It is not a threat, Tironal. I have no plans of taking action against your guild,” the assassin said flatly. “That is not how I operate. You may feel threatened by my presence, but if I wished your guild to be destroyed, it would already be gone. I do not threaten you. There are simply other pathways to what I desire beyond relying on your incompetent men. If they accomplish what you cannot, then I will pay them rather than you. And I am a very, very wealthy man. I do not suspect a merchant guild will last long if one of its competitors suddenly becomes richer than it. Do you understand?”
Tironal swallowed. “Yes. I understand.”
“Good,” the assassin said.
Then he was gone.
Tironal slumped in his desk and ran his hands through his hair, letting out a groan. This wasn’t how he’d planned the move into Milten to go at all. Things had gone completely wrong at every single turn, but he couldn’t stop now. There was too much invested on their success.
If he wanted to keep the momentum the Ardent Guild had picked up and ensure they properly established themselves in Milten, had to find the Dungeon Heart — or someone who he could pin its loss on.
***
Twelve slipped into a dark alleyway, leaving the Ardent guild behind him as he strode to his next meeting. Tironal was worthless. Anyone with a spymaster of any true worth would have already located the Dungeon Heart.
The item was hardly lacking in power. If Twelve had been present with his true body, then it would have taken him mere minutes to track it down. Unfortunately, he had nowhere near the amount of time to spare sending his true form for what was, in the end, nothing more than a side mission.
Losing the Dungeon Heart was infuriating, but there were worse fates that could come to pass if he failed in his other duties. He had a duty to more than himself. The rest of the Setting Sun had tasks far more important than a magical item, even one as strong as this one.
Fortunately, Tironal is far from the only one with an active information network in Milten. His time has already come to an end.
Twelve came to a stop at the end of the alley. A woman clad in rags looked up at him through a mat of ragged, dirty hair. She held out a mug with a few small coins resting at its base.
“Alms?”
“You are not a church,” Twelve said. “Where is your puppet master?”
The old woman’s lips split apart in a toothless grin and she lowered the mug. “You don’t look like a beggar to me. He did say he’s lookin’ to keep expanding and that he’d give bonuses for ‘ferrals, or something like that. That what you are?”
“A referral? Perhaps. I seek audience with him. Where can I find him?”
“He’s got contacts at the Devil’s Den,” the old woman replied. She clambered to her feet. “I’ll take you.”
“No, you will not. The name is sufficient.”
The woman’s brow furrowed. She took one look into Twelve’s eyes, then swallowed and wisely sank back into her spot on the floor. “Just tell ‘im that Magda sent you, yeah? I want my bonus.”
Twelve didn’t respond. He was already gone.