🎵: Dash of the Daring, Rise of the Iron Will, Babel's Harmony, Whispers of the Unseen

The dining hall was quiet that evening, filled with the sound of disappointed sighs and the occasional clink of coins changing hands. The dirty looks from those who'd gambled their month's wages on other contestants distracted me from my meal. A grumpy guard walked past, muttering to himself, his face flushed with frustration. "They were counting on me, you know," he grumbled. "And now I'll be hearing about it every day until next payday." The weight of the betting losses seemed to hang over the entire hall, with several others casting resentful looks my way, their expressions a mix of disappointment and frustration.

"Sorry about your children's feet!" I called after him, immediately regretting my attempt at humour when he turned around with murder in his eyes. Thankfully, my recent flying lessons had taught me the value of a quick exit. I grabbed my plate and slid out of the dining hall as quickly as possible, my heart pounding. I could hear a few muttered comments about me, but I was too focused on getting away to listen. Another day, another set of questionable choices.

When I arrived at the kitchen for my evening punishment detail, I found Jay perched on a counter like some sort of coin-counting gargoyle, surrounded by stacks of money. He looked up at me with that familiar twinkle in his eye that usually meant I was about to become the butt of a joke. The kitchen was bathed in the flickering light of a lantern; the shadows stretching long and making Jay's grin seem even more mischievous.

"Ah, our ambitious young Romeo arrives!" Jay announced, gesturing dramatically with a handful of coins. "You know, most people trying to catch a glimpse of Captain Reed employ traditional methods–flowers, dinner invitations, maybe the occasional awkward love letter. But you..." He paused for effect, "You crashed through three floors of a building like some sort of deranged human wrecking ball. I must say, I'm impressed by the originality."

"I wasn't trying to–" I started to protest, but Jay was on a roll.

Jay hopped off the counter, landing with a surprising amount of grace for someone in his late fifties. He paced back and forth, his arms waving animatedly as he continued. "Tell me, was it worth it? Did you see anything interesting during your architectural renovation project? Perhaps a glimpse of our dear Captain in all her glory?" He leaned forward, looking entirely too interested in the answer.

"I was unconscious," I mumbled, feeling my face grow hot.

Jay clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Rookie mistake. Next time, wear a helmet. Maybe some padding. Actually, full plate armour wouldn't hurt. Though it might hurt the building less..." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I could probably get you a bargain on some second-hand armour. Mind you, it might have a few dents, but that would just add character–"

"Jay!" I interrupted. "I wasn't trying to peek at Captain Reed!"

"Of course not," he agreed, not sounding convinced at all. "You were simply conducting an impromptu inspection of the building's structural integrity. Very thorough of you. The captain just happened to be there, presumably investigating in the nude why part of her ceiling had suddenly developed a recruit-shaped hole."

Before I could defend myself further, Jay hopped off the counter with surprising agility for someone his age. "Now then, we have work to do. Only four nights left of pot duty, and we need to get you to Uncommon 4 in traps and lock-picking." He gestured to the mountain of dirty pots waiting for us. "Don't worry, we'll multitask. Nothing helps focus the mind on lock mechanisms like scrubbing burnt porridge off the bottom of a pot."

"Joy," I muttered, reaching for a scrub brush. I eyed the towering pile of pots and pans, most of them encrusted with various substances that looked like they had been there since the dawn of time. Jay's grin widened as he handed me the dirtiest one of the lot, the blackened residue on the bottom challenging me to even try scrubbing it clean.

"Speaking of betting," I said, trying to change the subject from my architectural exploits, "congratulations on winning big by backing me to win the event."

Jay's eyebrows shot up so high they disappeared into his hairline. "Lad, the odds against you were so astronomical, they needed a new numbering system to calculate them. Even the town drunk wouldn't have bet on you–and he once wagered his own shoes that he could teach a chicken to juggle."

"But I won!" I protested, feeling slightly offended.

"Yes, by technically not being knocked unconscious while performing an impressive impersonation of a human spinning top, followed by your attempt to reach orbit." Jay chuckled. "Though there was one clever investor–that young boy who bet his entire month's allowance on you. Can't imagine what possessed him to do that." He paused, giving me a knowing look.

I felt my face flush, remembering the kids' eager face. "So, where did you make your money, then?"

Jay's grin widened to disturbing proportions. "Oh, I bet on something far more predictable–that you'd cry the loudest during the ordeal. Those odds were practically guaranteed!"

"I did not cry!" I spluttered indignantly.

"Oh, really?" Jay cleared his throat and adopted a high-pitched, squealing voice: "'MOMMY MAKE THE SPINNING STOPPPPpppp!'" His impression was disturbingly accurate.

"That wasn't crying," I muttered, attacking a particularly stubborn pot stain with renewed vigour. "That was a perfectly reasonable response to being turned into a human windmill."

"Of course, of course," Jay agreed, clearly relishing his amusement. "Just like how your impressive soprano performance of 'I want to get off this rideeeee' was actually a bold artistic choice."

"You know what? I think these pots need my full attention now. Complete silence required for proper cleaning technique."

"Oh, don't be like that," Jay said, tossing me another pot. "Look on the bright side–you've single-handedly funded the kitchen's new equipment budget for the month. Though perhaps we should invest in some softer pots, just in case you decide to make another aerial visit..."

Hiding in the pantry seemed preferable to four more nights of this. Somehow, I doubted Jay would let me live it down even then–he'd critique my hiding technique too.

"Oh, and one more thing," Jay added, his voice suspiciously casual. "I may have started a small betting pool on whether you'll manage to crash through any more buildings this week. So if you could give me some advance notice before your next architectural adventure, I'd appreciate it. For purely academic reasons, of course."

I glared at him, but he just smiled innocently and handed me a crusty pot. "Now then, about those locks..."

"Right then," Jay said, finally wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, "let's get some actual work done. We need to get those skills up before your punishment detail ends." He gestured to a row of increasingly complex-looking locks laid out on a nearby table. "These beauties are your practice for tonight."

"You mean before your punishment detail ends," I corrected gently, raising an eyebrow. "Only four more days, right?"

Jay flashed that insufferable smirk of his. "Hey now, I'm providing valuable mentorship here. You get the practice, I get out of grunt work - that's what I call a win-win. Besides," he added with a wink, "you're way better at this than I'll ever be."

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Between scrubbing pots, I worked on the locks. The first moderate one gave me trouble—took three attempts before I heard that satisfying click. Jay watched with that irritating patience of his, occasionally offering cryptic advice like "Listen to the pins, not your fingers" and "The lock knows when you're nervous." His eyes seemed to glint every time I struggled, which only added to my frustration. It felt like the locks could sense my hesitation and conspired against me.

"Three more moderate locks to go," he noted, marking something in his ever-present notebook. "And you're still way behind on experience. Maybe try picking them while doing a handstand? That might count for extra points."

I ignored his suggestion and moved on to examining the traps he'd set up around the kitchen. The first moderately complex one nearly took my eyebrows off—apparently, Jay's definition of "moderate" included spring-loaded kitchen knives. I barely ducked in time, and the knife embedded itself in the wall with a thunk that made me swallow nervously.

"That's one moderate trap detected," Jay said cheerfully. "Only two more to go. Oh, and you still need to actually try disarming one of the simple ones. Maybe start with something that won't maim you?"

I chose what looked like a relatively harmless tripwire setup. "This one seems safe enough."

"That's what the last trainee said," Jay mused. "Before the incident with the flour sack and the honey pot. We never got all the sticky dough off the ceiling..."

Despite his warnings, I carefully began working on disarming the trap. The wire was taut, connected to... something in the shadows. I squinted, trying to see what lay beyond the dim light of the kitchen. Just as I thought I had it figured out, there was a soft click.

"Um, Jay? Was that supposed to happen?"

"Probably not."

The resulting chaos involved three pots, a shower of dried beans, and what I'm pretty sure was an entire shelf of preserved lemons. The floor was a chaotic mess, and I smelled like a misplaced recipe. Jay burst out laughing, doubling over and nearly dropping the pot he was holding. "Now that's what I call a culinary catastrophe!" he managed between fits of laughter, his eyes gleaming with amusement. By the time the dust settled, I was covered in an aromatic mixture that made me smell like a badly organized pantry. My clothes were sticky, and the beans had somehow lodged themselves in places I didn't think possible.

"Well," Jay said, surveying the mess with obvious amusement, "you successfully attempted to disarm a simple trap. Emphasis on 'attempted.' That's one requirement down, at least."

I sighed, picking beans out of my hair. "How many more moderately complex traps do I need to detect?"

"Two more. Though at this rate, focus on the locks first. Less chance of ending up smelling like preserved citrus." He paused, sniffing the air. "Actually, this might be an improvement over your usual aroma after dodge training."

The evening continued with a steady rhythm of pot scrubbing, lock picking, and trap detecting, punctuated by Jay's running commentary on my technique (or lack thereof). By the time we finished, I'd picked another moderate lock and detected one more complex trap, though both achievements came with their share of mishaps and Jay's increasingly creative analogies about my competence level. He seemed to enjoy making comparisons to mythical heroes who somehow failed epically.

"Not bad for one evening," Jay concluded as we wrapped up. "Tomorrow we'll work on the remaining requirements. Try not to crash through any buildings before then—it's harder to pick locks with broken fingers."

I just nodded, too tired to come up with a comeback. Besides, I was pretty sure I still had a lemon stuck somewhere down my shirt. Jay gave me a mock salute before heading out, leaving me to deal with the last of the pots. I took a deep breath, trying to wash away the lingering embarrassment, and focused on scrubbing. At least I'd made some progress, even if it wasn't exactly smooth sailing.

Progress for the Evening:

Lock-picking:

* Moderate locks picked: 2/3

* Lock-picking EXP: 70/100 (gained 45 EXP)

Find/Create Trap:

* Simple trap disarm attempt: Completed (disastrously)

* Complex traps detected: 2/3

At least tomorrow couldn't be worse. Though knowing my luck, Jay probably had an entirely new set of "moderate" challenges waiting. Likely involving more citrus. I dreaded what kind of creative torture he would come up with next, but I had to admit, there was a part of me that was looking forward to the challenge. Even if it was just a little.

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The next morning, I dragged myself to Captain Reed's office, still aching from yesterday's "training." She sat behind her desk, looking remarkably composed for someone whose bathhouse I'd accidentally destroyed while she was showering.

"Sit," she commanded, not looking up from her paperwork. I complied, trying not to wince as my bruises protested.

"About yesterday-" I began.

"Koren and Mac explained," she cut me off. "Though I'm not entirely convinced launching yourself through a building was completely accidental, they vouched for you." She finally looked up, her expression stern but not entirely unsympathetic. "However, actions have consequences. Once Jay's done with you in a few days, you'll be taking over his pot duty for two weeks."

I nodded, relieved. Given what I'd been imagining, pot duty seemed almost merciful. Though knowing Jay, he'd probably made the pots extra difficult to clean just for me.

"Dismissed," she said, returning to her work. "Try not to destroy any more buildings on your way out."

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Later that morning, I limped into the translation room, already late for my session with Myra. She looked up from her work, eyebrows raised.

"So?" she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice. "What's the verdict?"

"Pot duty," I replied, carefully lowering myself into my chair. "After Jay's done with me."

"Could be worse," she said, sorting through some scrolls. "Everyone was taking bets on what your punishment would be. Guard Lok was hoping for latrine duty."

"Not that I'm complaining about being assigned translations with you," I said, settling into my usual spot, "but you seem unusually... tense today."

Myra's quill scratched gratingly against the parchment, a testament to her irritation. "I do not know what you're talking about."

"Really? Because you've been glaring at that same document for ten minutes, and I'm pretty sure you just wrote 'ridiculous dodge-happy recruit' in the margins."

She finally looked up, dark circles under her eyes suggesting she hadn't slept well. "Do you know how many gold pieces I lost betting against you in that area-of-effect dodge event?"

"Ah." I tried not to smile. "You bet against me?"

"Everyone bet against you! It was supposed to be a sure thing!" She jabbed her quill in my direction. "Who actually dodges an area attack by accidentally flying through the air? Do you have any idea how many translation supplies I could have bought with those winnings?"

"If it helps, I didn't exactly plan the flying part..."

"It doesn't help." She turned back to her work, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'dancing disaster' under her breath.

We settled into our usual rhythm after that, Babel's Harmony guiding us through the complex web of hidden messages and coded references. The work was important—something about supply routes and guard rotations that set off warning bells—but I couldn't help noticing how Myra winced every time I shifted in my chair. Her focus was off, and she seemed to struggle with some of the more difficult translations.

"Just how much did you bet?" I finally asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

"Let's focus on the translations," she replied primly, her quill flicking across the parchment. "Though if you could avoid blacking out during your next public display of unexpected acrobatics, I'd appreciate it. I have my eye on a precious set of translation crystals."

"I'll try to fly more convincingly next time."

"See that you do." But there was a hint of a smile now. "And Brendan?"

"Yes?"

"If you ever tell anyone I bet against you, I'll make sure all your future translations involve nothing but tax records and weather reports."

As threats went, it was surprisingly effective. The last thing I wanted was to spend my days poring over the most mundane documents imaginable. Though I couldn't help wondering if perhaps I should start a betting pool of my own—specifically on how many times I could make my fellow translators question their financial decisions. Myra's irritation had a certain charm to it, and I couldn't deny that her reactions were oddly entertaining.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of coded messages and subtle threats about future translation assignments. The tension between us gradually eased, replaced by the comfortable silence of two people who had fallen into a rhythm. At least we were making progress on both fronts—the investigation was moving forward, and Myra had mostly stopped muttering about 'physics-defying recruits' every time she looked at me. Occasionally, she'd even throw in a begrudging compliment when I deciphered a tricky code, which felt like a small victory.

As the hours wore on, the stack of untranslated documents grew smaller, and Myra's mood seemed to improve. She even offered me a cup of tea during a brief break, though her eyes still held a hint of exasperation. "Just... try not to do anything ridiculous before the next event, alright? I need to make back my losses somehow."

I raised my cup in a mock toast. "I'll do my best to be as unremarkable as possible."

She snorted, shaking her head. "I'll believe it when I see it." But there was genuine warmth in her voice now, and I couldn't help but smile. For all her grumbling, Myra was an invaluable partner, and I was grateful to have her on my side—even if she bet against me.

By the time we finished for the day, I felt a sense of accomplishment. We had made significant progress, and despite the rocky start, Myra no longer seemed ready to strangle me with her quill. As we packed up, she gave me a tired smile. "Same time tomorrow, Brendan. And remember—no more flying."

I gave her a mock salute. "No promises.