Spittle and rage spewed forth as yet another avenue closed. The boy had gone missing and there wasn't a trace. Haekril slammed down his hammer sending it through his workbench and into the floor, where its large flat head sent cracks spiralling out.

Otis had been missing for two weeks and not a single recon team had a scrap of information.

"You know as well as anyone, the games outsiders play... even if he survives, what's left behind might wish it wasn't. Torture, trial by combat, soul siphons, mana-batteries, experimentation. They don't know mercy, Tiera. The boy is new to this world, too new."

Turning his gaze toward the remains of his bisected workbench, four glinting daggers were visible within the wreckage. Crusted with blood, only one stood out from the rest. Haekrill plucked it from the splintered remains, his large fingers swallowing the blade. He turned it over in his hand, marvelling at the talent on display from such an inexperienced craftsman.

"He survived before and I pray he survives again."

From the very moment Otis had been exposed to this world, his experience had been one of pain and struggle. Haekril remembered how he had turned up in his singed clothing, only just healed from his rescue. The Veil should have been the safest place for him but here too he'd had to fight for his survival. Worse yet, the scarlet blood proved that in every likelihood Otis' kidnapper was human and low enough of a level to still be wounded by such forgework. Cults used a variety of constructs but embalming or hydraulic fluids were most common in those. Anything or anyone else wouldn't have been injured by Otis' low-level creations, regardless of how well he had forged his weaponry. Otis had been betrayed by the people he had pledged his own service to. It was a slap in the face to them all.

"He's a fighter. I-I just wish that there was something more I could tell you. Whoever stole him from us passed through too many rifts for us to track," Tiera reiterated the same information Haekril had heard every day for the past two weeks.

"If the more advanced fate weavers had the time to glance at the blood, surely they would know but they didn't and they can't, I know."

"I want to find him just as much as yo-"

"Don't try to placate me, girl. You might but where are the others? I know the boy's a fighter but that just means he'll suffer for longer if he's not found."

Haekrill used his thumb to lightly scrape at the coagulated blood, chipping red from the blade. If he got his hands on the perpetrator of this kidnapping, the bloody mist would be recreated in a much more visceral way. Perhaps, if the fledgling boy were allowed to continue his growth, the walls would have been able to streak the walls with blood already. However improbable the outcome, Haekril allowed himself a wry chuckle.

"Hmpf, if you had let us bring him into the fold as we had wanted he might still be here."

"If you had coddled the boy, he wouldn't have the potential you see in him now!"

The two levelled a heated stare, the space between them unsettled as mana reacted to their heightened emotions. Haekril had seen Tiera grow, he had seen the forgemasters craft her prosthetic arm. He didn't hold ill will for the Knight but he couldn't abide by her empty words. He knew the recon teams had stopped looking for the boy, if they ever even began. It wasn't Tiera's fault, he knew she had the best in mind for the boy, but he couldn't help but stare at her with disappointment. For all her cunning and ruthlessness on the battlefield, she was too naive when it came to those she called family.

"I will not- I will not be blamed for this. If you had seen combat, you might have saved him. Do not speak to me as though I am just a girl. I am a Knight and I have sacrificed more than enough to deserve at least a little courtesy."

Tiera refused to be blamed for this, not by others... not when it's all she had thought herself. Even within their keep, he had been suffering. In the last reports she had, it said how mana-toxicity had built up to a visible level. In his last moments here, he had been in pain and afraid. Every time she came to report on a lack of sightings, she had to walk past where he was taken, where he had fought and injured his opponent, despite an obvious level advantage.

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There was nothing left to say from the recon team's reports and she was clearly not wanted within this particular. Turning from Haekril, wood and metal groaned as the tension between the two was released. Only Tiera's retreating footsteps disturbed the heavy silence left in its wake.

It had taken all her might to hold back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her, as she walked away but she was thankful she did. Returning with a haul of broken weapons one of the boys working for the smithy rounded the corner, red-faced and grimacing. The boy had none of her seniority and would fear insulting someone so many levels above him but she was a Knight, she had her dignity to maintain. She would not let her composure falter.

Walking through the enchanted halls of The Veil she chose to make it a long walk. Ignoring the enchantments' itching will to transport her at speed, she walked as a normal woman might. It was the first time she had voluntarily refused the near-instant teleportation of the labyrinth walls in almost a decade now but she needed space, she needed time. Left alone, she tried unsuccessfully to think of anything but Otis and her own perceived personal failings.

In Tiera's wake, Percival felt physically sick as his haul of weapons ground against the stone floor. Transportation trips had been a good way of training his physical attributes and had allowed the forge to operate near-constantly but he had been waylaid on his way to the smithy. This stop had pushed him to his utter limits. Approaching an aggravated Haekril, he hoped not to face the man's wroth today.

It was well-known that something had happened that involved the blacksmith but unknown exactly what that something was. Days had turned to weeks and the man's frustration had only grown. Spying the workbench smashed in twain, Percival wasn't surprised. Hammers, workbenches, and thick plates of armour had all suffered the same fate.

Swamped in his own exhaustion, Haekril's thanks sounded hollow through his pounding heartbeat. Feeling too sick to think straight he followed the blacksmith's blackened hand pointing to the table for his reward. Perched upon another workbench sat a newly forged breastplate. Polished to a shine, the leather padded armour was the finest piece someone of his standing could hope to receive. Only fifteen, he would surely outgrow the armour but it would allow him to take harder and more frequent hits in his training. The fledgling battle-mancer would be unmatched in style and endurance until it broke or he outgrew the custom armour.

Behind him, unseen, Haekril unfurled the crushed metal remains of a helmet and plucked out a scroll. His usually steady hands were shaking from nervousness and pain. He had taken on his old apprentice brother's work in order to conduct their own reconnaissance. Not since his days as a novice had his hands been so badly blistered and worn. Across his hands, thick callouses lay torn and swollen. If the scroll brought good news then the pain would have been worth it; the alternative... he couldn't stomach the thought. Removing the leather binding and revealing its contents, he couldn't stop a smile from gracing his lips. Percival was sure to notice but he didn't care, this had to be him. He was sure of it this time. They had found the boy; they had found Otis.

The scroll held a memory imprint of an arena battle. Imprints weren't as good as photographs nor as reliable, especially if the memory was older, but it was near impossible to restrict. If you were looking to smuggle snapshots out it was far easier than trying to take videographic proof. Despite the thousands of people in the crowd, despite the obscured features of the young fighter, ignoring that he was better built than Haekril remembered him being, he felt certain that this was Otis.

Attached to the still image, was a note; each description giving greater credence to Haekril's certainty that this was their kidnapped prodigy. The boy had used simple strikes and no offensive mana attacks. He had been introduced as, now, a level 2 mage and newly awakened late bloomer. The level was one higher than Otis had been but it was to be expected if this wasn't his first trial. When the young combatant had entered the arena, he had done so battering his shield. Each strike worked to condense his amour and shield. It wasn't likely to be a combat ability, not till at least level 5 was anyone granted such specialised skills. No, this was a blacksmith, there was no doubt. Regardless of the other similarities, it was exceedingly rare for a blacksmith to be used as a fighter. Haekril was convinced that this was Otis.

"He's a fighter," someone said.

It was unknown who or where the voice came from, as they had all thought the same thing as a crowd had quickly formed out as the other smithies surged to see the news. They were all aware of their guild's new clandestine activities and just as desperate to find their forge brother. This wasn't just a sad realisation of the boy's fate but a statement of fact. The Earth-born boy was a survivor.

They had made the decision to search for the boy themselves almost immediately. Whilst others had faith in The Veil, they all knew what it meant to follow a different path and what the attitude towards Otis would have been. For weeks they had felt the burden of stretched resources and the ever-greater demands of their services. Only now it felt worth it.

"It's time we get our boy back," Haekril rasped.