“Those ladies are bloody terrifying, lemme tell you. I once saw one of them with their orange ribbons strangle a Steelhide Boar…with the ribbon. Terrifying, I tell you. Bloody terrifying.”

- Orion Cadet (Concerning the Order of Artemis acolytes)

Soot stung my eyes as I laid on the charred wooden ledge of the stairs. Smoke poured from the steel plated door that now swung on one of its three hinges. Behind it, blackness swallowed up any light that might’ve otherwise illuminated the path ahead.

“What in the seven hells was that?” I demanded of the smoke. To no one’s surprise, I didn’t get an answer. That was, until a few choked gasps echoed out from the hallway. I gathered my wits and took in a deep breath. Inwardly cursing Coldor for his games beyond the grave, I stepped into the darkness. I fumbled about, feeling ash stain my fingers as I felt along the metallic wall for direction and stability. After a few painfully dark steps, my foot caught on a prone form. I knelt and touched cotton and leather. A chest heaved raggedly beneath my palm. I tried to mentally activate my gauntlet, but this time nothing happened.

Not again!

I grabbed the person’s collar, then froze. I wasn’t completely sure I knew which way I’d come from. I knew what felt like behind me, but there was no difference in the pitch black. Determined not to leave this poor fellow to their fate, I strained and began to drag their form down the hall…Or up it, I wasn’t totally sure. Anywhere was better than right there in the thick of that hells-damned smoke. My neck muscles strained at both the weight of the form and the oxygen that craved to escape my lungs.

I didn’t let it.

The moment I began to drink in this foul air, I knew I would cough and keel over like this one had.

Seconds slugged past. My vision started to turn red along the edges. I dropped the person and fell to the floor with a defeated exhale.

I couldn’t do it. I went the wrong way.

I would die in the void—this smoky abyss—with an absolute stranger.

Wind curled along my body as my consciousness slipped away with it. It moved in great droves, sucking up the smoke around me like some insatiable beast. The sound was as deafening as the wind was turbulent. Within seconds, the hallways were completely clear, save for the generous new coat of ash it had gathered. But that too soon disappeared as whatever controlled the wind finished its brutally efficient work.

“What the HELLS happened here?!” A booming voice demanded far too close to my crumpled body. I groaned, blinking at the sudden light encompassing me. In front of where I had fallen, a stout dwarf with a beard singed in several places scowled down at me.

No, not at me. At the other person beside me.

“This is no time for naps, boy. I don’t care how good you are. This forge isn’t for lazy dolts like yourself!” The dwarf practically screamed. Next to me, a thin elf stirred, his leather apron retaining several char marks despite the wind’s attempt at cleaning it off. The dwarf released a lever he’d been holding, and the wind dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. He held out a gruff hand and I took it. He yanked me up with startling ease but then ignored me entirely to squat by the stirring elf-boy.

He was my age, possibly younger. Yet, despite that, he had the clasp atop his apron of a journeyman-class enchanter, but it had three stars under its symbol. The dwarf was easily double our age, and twice as stocky.

“Sorry, are you Bracer?” I asked the dwarf, convinced he was in charge of this place. He grunted and I caught a few of his people’s curse escaping his thick mustache before he turned rudely to me.

“Nay, you gawking twat. That would be the honor of this idjit.” He gestured down at the young elf. “What’d you want him for?” The dwarf asked harshly.

“He has my Shardclaw.”

The dwarf squinted at me. “You?” He spat on the ground, his projectile missing the elf’s ear by an inch. The squat enchanter grunted in annoyance. “You’re the one who killed the alpha Shardclaw? Bollocks! Bollocks, I say!” He spat again.

“You can ‘bollocks’ all the good day long, you görnaching, brittle boned, little gnome. I killed it. It’s mine. Now, get out of my way, or I’ll show you how I did it!” My voice was hoarse from the smoke, but it only added to my bravado. The elf groaned and slowly rose to his feet, interrupting my tirade.

“Gorg, what in the blazes is going on? Did it work?” He asked in a bright and high voice that sounded a bit like my mothers.

“Hells, no, boy! It didn’t work! Don’t you remember the big BOOM?! Or being dragged around like some newborn pup by this ballsy twat?” Gorg gestured at me with a devilish grin.

“Only an unimpressive dwarf has to rely on something as flimsy as his genitalia to prove his veins run with hot magma,” I answered with a rude gesture. He guffawed and his grin turned to something far more relaxed.

“I like you!” He yelled, and got a startled yelp from the elf named Bracer. Inwardly, I sighed with relief.

Thank you, Sir Sire. Your strange encyclopedias save the day once again.

It was considered poor form to be polite with a dwarf that insults you, according to that enigmatic gentleman’s books.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“What are you here for?” Bracer asked me quietly. There was something in his eyes that unsettled me. It was like he didn’t see me at all, but rather what I could offer him.

Ambition. And not the good kind.

I made my decision.

“I’m actually here for Gorg,” I answer simply. Gorg guffawed again and slapped his knees with a mighty smack that echoed a bit in the hall.

“Are ya now?” The short dwarf demanded. I stood tall and put both hands on my hips. My bracelet clinked slightly and he noticed. “Oooh, fancy that. Haven’t seen that crafter’s work in many scarlet moons. Fine! I’ll take care of your Shardclaw in exchange for a glance at that there gauntlet!”

“Shardclaw?!” Bracer demanded, realization hitting him as I put out my hand to clasp Gorg’s. We embraced our forearms. “That’s supposed to be MY commission, you thieving—”

“Hey, now!” I cut in before the elf could get going. He steamed in my direction, indignation written clearly along his furrowed brow. “Who saved you from the smoke just now?”

“I don’t know. Who?” Bracer shot back. He mirrored my stance and placed both hands on his slender hips. I spared a glance for Gorg, and he simply rolled his eyes like this was some regular occurrence.

“Me, you tall wheat sprig. Now, I didn’t actually sign anything that said you could commission my Shardclaw, now did I?”

“But the Headmaster said that—” He started.

“Did I?!” I pressed, hoping I was right about all of this. After a pregnant pause, he shook his head, his lip curled in disgust and resignation.

“No,” he finally said.

“Great! I choose Gorg. I have a feeling he won’t blow my stuff up.” That got a wince from Bracer and a low giggle from the dwarf.

“That I won’t, you fine lass! That I won’t. Right this way!” Gorg practically skipped down the hall with me in tow. Bracer glare at our retreating forms the entire way.

After nearly a minute of walking through twists and turns, and past dozens of compact rooms filled to the brim with crafting tables and tools, Gorg led me to his humble abode. It was a surprisingly organized and well-cleaned space, with a stool on either side of his sturdy wooden table. We sat across from each other, and Gorg’s cheeky grin turned into something more serious.

“Thanks again for that, lassy. Needed a win against that smug görnach. He’s been touting about all the best commissions since he won the favor of our dear old headmaster.” Gorg spat into a tin at the corner of the room. “Now, about that Shardclaw.”

I nodded. My leg began to tap a frantic beat against the lip of the table as my nerves finally caught up with me. This was happening. I was about to get my first enchantment, and it was before my first hunt!

“I’ll admit it, Gorg. This is my first true enchantment.” I didn’t say more, confident he could read between the lines.

“Aye, that’d be true. You stink of the outside, and I’m not just referring to the forest you caught that dead Shardclaw in.” He sniffed dramatically. “You reek of hope.” The thickly shouldered dwarf shrugged apathetically. “Don’t matter much, though. Lemme break it down for you. You can get a direct enchantment onto the attuned monster part, or I can transfuse it to something more catered to your tastes. You’ll lose some of the potency if you go that route, but you guarantee it’s something you’ll actually use.”

“Do you know what the direct enchantment would go on?” I inquired, dozens of images flashing through my head as we sat at that well-lit crafting table. He pulled out a thick stone that looked like it weighed more than my entire body, but he touted it about as if it were paper. He pressed several runes on it, then grunted something in dwarvish I didn’t catch.

“Just a moment, young lass.” He hopped off his stool and hobbled out of the room. I waited, taking in the various instruments of his craft until he came back a few minutes later. With him, a few people in the iconic purple uniforms of Harvesters carried a bag that was darkened with ichor I recognized.

“They prepared the attuned part and I managed to snab a few of the extra pieces just in case,” Gorg offered as his explanation. The two Harvesters eyed me briefly but quickly ducked out of the way and left when Gorg shooed them off.

“Damned carrion, those lot,” he muttered in annoyance before he turned his attention toward me. “So, what’ll it be?”

In front of us, one of the largest talons from the beast now lay strewn on the table. Next to it, a few large crystals that might’ve been a part of its thick hide shimmered in the everglow lamplight.

“I can make a pretty amazing dagger with that talon, or I can transfuse it onto a sword…or axe.” Gorg’s voice turned hopeful. I looked up from the shiny materials and witnessed a boyish desperation glimmer behind his sunken eyes. I glanced down at my right wrist.

“Can you make a gauntlet?”

He hid his disappointment well, but I didn’t let it alter my course. Sir Sire was right. This gauntlet needed a brother. Plus, it seriously sucked to only punch things with my right arm. My shoulder was killing me.

“Aye, that I can. But we have no gauntlets in stock. Rarely do. Most of them require tailoring to even be moderately useful in enchantment. Halistair’s academy may have deep pockets, but not that deep. You got coin?” Gorg looked like he already knew the answer.

“I’ll fund it,” a voice from the open corridor spoke. We both turned to see a woman with several deep scars across her face and a bright orange ribbon tied up in her hair lean against the bulky door frame. “Put it on our tab, Gorg,” she said with a nod. My head swiveled between the two of them as something unspoken passed me by. Gorg returned the nod and grinned at me, trying to appear jovial despite the worry in his eyes.

“Who the hells was that?” I demanded of the aged dwarf.

“Best I don’t say, if you don’t already know,” he admitted with a helpless shrug.

“Thea, on me,” the scarred woman demanded from just outside.

“Go on, lass. I’ve a few preparations to make a’fore we get started.”

Numbly, I rose and exited the cramped workspace. Back in the hall, the woman pulled open a dark room and stepped in like she owned the place. For all I knew, she might’ve. She had the three red stripes along the back of her uniform that marked her as a third-year, but I knew from recent experience that uniforms could be deceiving. Hesitantly, I entered the room. She stood behind the door and closed it quickly.

“Thea Shade,” she said coolly.

“Yes?” I asked, my heart racing.

Does this have to do with Kaelin? Does someone else remember him? Or does this have to do with my Shardclaw?

“Do you know who I am?” She demanded. Her voice was terse, but not cruel. It was like she preferred any task besides conversation. I could relate.

“No,” I drew out the vowel as I took the moment to stare her up and down. Beside the scars and orange ribbon, there wasn’t much to identify her. She was a few years my senior and yet looked like a seasoned Orion. She was the real deal, strong and confident and deadly, like a naked blade. Compared to her, I felt like my discarded hunting knife during the entrance exam:

Useless.

“That’s alright,” she answered with a sigh. Then, with a smirk that barely reached her eyes, she said six words that would change my life forever.

“We are the Order of Artemis.”