The dragoness suddenly leapt past Dave and reached for the old, leather bag hanging from his chair.

"What are you even muttering about?" Remicra demanded, her gold-violet eyes focusing intently upon Dave's pale, sweat-slicked face as she excavated the contents of the bag.

"Uhm?" Dave blinked as he struggled to make sense of the sudden moodiness that had engulfed his partner.

"Magisteel!" Remicra bellowed triumphantly as she pulled the ancient shard of metal from his bag, holding it aloft like the spoils of a hard-won battle. The shard glinted in the dim light, its iridescent surface reflecting the red glow of the runes, as if mocking Dave's feeble attempts at subterfuge. "You were hiding high quality magisteel from me! Did you think I wouldn't smell this out?"

Dave's eyes widened, his heart seizing within his chest like a broken clockwork mechanism, as he realized that the object of Remicra's fury was not his dalliance with the foxkin server, but rather his inadvertent acquisition of this apparently rare and precious substance. It seemed that his act of absent-minded metal-harvesting had triggered a veritable tempest of draconic excitement that he had mistakenly interpreted as wrath.

Dave visibly deflated, his shoulders slumping and the tension draining from his body.

"Where did you get this?" Remicra demanded, brandishing the shard of metal at Dave.

Dave proceeded to regale her with the tale of his intrepid journey to the mountains, replete with metal bugs that safeguarded the hidden lake, metal trees and the warship Sangria, entombed within the cerulean depths of a mysterious sinkhole, a testament to a bygone age of arcane splendor of Shandria.

"An arcane skyship?" Remicra exhaled, her eyes wide with excitement. "An entire ruin teeming with magisteel?! By the Gods! Do you have any inkling of the implications of this?!"

"You can forge metal weapons without relying on the materials owned by Lord Burgundy?" Dave ventured, hazarding a guess. "This metal's particularly valuable, huh?"

"Yesss," the dragoness exhaled, a sigh that seemed to reverberate with the weight of untold possibilities. As she spoke, her scales underwent a startling transformation, the dark red hue giving way to a brilliant, iridescent violet. "Steel imbued with the essence of magic, made light and sturdy enough to lift skyships is a rare and costly commodity."

"The only problem is that it's underwater," Dave said with a note of concern, his brow furrowing. "Guarded by metal bugs and metal fish. Knowing my luck there's probably a giant, metal squid in that lake too."

Remicra frowned as she weighed the potential risks against the promise of untold rewards.

"I might be able to excavate more shards like this one from the side of the mountain," Dave suggested.

"Very good, you will do that then," the dragoness nodded, her approval a regal benediction, bestowing direction of a newfound quest for Dave.

She cradled the shard of magisteel close to her heart, as if it were a fragile bouquet of flowers. "I can sense that this shard is of the highest quality, throbbing with magic like a heartbeat. To start off, I'll replace your bamboo-Bakelite arrowheads with it. I saw that lots of them shattered or cracked."

"Thanks," Dave murmured.

"Now, what were you saying about foxes?" Remicra inquired. "I was far too excited by this little gift of magisteel to pay attention."

With a sheepish grin, Dave began to recount the remainder of his day, as he and Remicra ascended to the cozy sanctuary of the upstairs loft. Their voices, a nocturnal duet, wove together the threads of their shared experiences as they chatted about their day.

As the night deepened and the storm outside abated, Dave finally succumbed to the siren song of slumber, his body swaddled in the warm embrace of the dragoness's loft, and a soft, contented smile playing upon his lips. The trials and tribulations of the day seemed to dissolve into the shadows, replaced by the promise of the magisteel-filled future.

. . .

While the rain continued its serenade, Dave allowed himself to become lost in the hypnotic rhythm of his dreams, drifting to elsewhere.

In the labyrinthine recesses of his mind, he found himself transported to a detective’s office that seemed to straddle the boundaries between the past, present, and future. Here, the rain from his reality seeped into this dreamscape, transforming the cityscape outside into a melancholic chiaroscuro tableau, the neon lights of the metropolis painting vibrant, prismatic streaks across the rain-soaked glass.

The room was an amalgam of old and futuristic, with concrete walls and metal cabinets juxtaposed against gleaming, technological marvels. The silver-haired, green-eyed detective occupied the room, armed with an enigmatic smile directed at Dave.

"Busy day?" Sherlock inquired.

"Yeah," Dave replied, sinking into the plush embrace of a comfortable leather armchair.

His gaze drifted past the detective towards the azure capital [G] emblem that stretched down into the words "Good Directorate Inc" emblazoned across the steel-and-glass facade of a towering skyscraper looming in the distance like the eye of Sauron. The G logo seemed to float above the city like an omnipresent guardian, watching over the world below with a mixture of benevolence and scrutiny.

"What do you make of Cedez?" Dave inquired. "You mentioned that she could be of use, but I'm eager to hear more of your deductions."

Sherlock steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair, as if preparing to embark upon a grand intellectual expedition.

"She is, without doubt, a most fascinating character," he began. "I reckon that our enigmatic vixen harbors secrets far deeper than her amiable facade would suggest."

Dave leaned forward, transforming him into a rapt audience member, eager to absorb the musings of his clandestine compatriot.

"Her ability to secure leave from her duties at the Cambria Snail Cafe with such ease is telling," the detective continued, the G logo casting its cool, cerulean hue upon his silver tresses. "It leads me to deduce that she may, in fact, be the true proprietor of the establishment or at the very least, Murdoc's trusted business partner."

Dave nodded.

"Furthermore, her linguistic prowess is but one facet of her arsenal," Sherlock resumed his mental dissection of the enigmatic server. "She also possesses an extraordinary olfactory acuity, a talent not to be underestimated."

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

"How did you figure that?" Dave asked.

"During your encounter, she made a jest concerning your dragon," the green-eyed phantom mused. "I suspect that her quip was not merely a metaphorical allusion to conquering a dragon as a mere sword-armed adventurer. Rather, it was her subtle way of intimating that she sniffed the blacksmith’s scent upon your person and is more than capable of challenging Remicra in a battle of wits."

"Ah," the ex-programmer murmured. "That one definitely went right over my head."

“Cedez did say that she knows many in Shandria,” the detective nodded, his dark glasses reflecting his companion’s face. “It is possible that the vixen has an innate skill that helps her remember people by mere smell.”

"Should I place my trust in her?" Dave inquired.

"She indeed presented herself as amiable and helpful, both in her interactions with you and the denizens of the cafe," the detective conceded.

"However, one must not overlook the shadows that lurk behind the facade of sweetness. Her concealed nature suggests that it would be wise to exercise caution when divulging sensitive information, particularly with regards to your unique abilities in Phantomancy."

Dave absorbed the detective's counsel, his thoughts swirling like the eddies of a turbulent river, as he weighed the risks and benefits of aligning himself with the beguiling foxkin. With a solemn nod, he resolved to heed the advice of his trusted companion.

"Any suggestions for getting more magisteel from the crash site?" Dave inquired.

"Consider who, among your acquaintances, possesses the requisite skills to harvest metal from its current location," Sherlock stated.

"Ah, well, Remicra is good at sniffing out metal," Dave pondered. "However, she is bound to the smithy... and I can't think of anyone else capable of safely retrieving the magisteel from the depths of the lake..."

“Oh?” The detective asked. “What about your… bathhouse experience?”

Dave’s mind suddenly clicked with a revelation, and he turned to face Sherlock, his eyes wide.

"Mermaids!" he exclaimed.

"Indeed," Sherlock affirmed, a wry smile on his lips. "You might consider enlisting the aid of one of the mermaids to assist you in extracting the metal from the lake. I couldn't help but notice that when she hugged you, her magic enabled you to stay underwater without suffocating for quite a while. It stands to reason that a mermaid's enchantments could infuse oxygen directly into your bloodstream."

"Ah!" Dave's face lit up. "I hadn't even realized that! That’s great... if she could maintain the effect long enough..."

"You could become a diver yourself," Sherlock interjected, nodding sagely. "Venture to the bathhouse once more and engage with the mermaids. Seek one who may be willing to collaborate on your endeavor."

"Just one problem - I'm not particularly great at conversations with strangers," Dave sighed. "Especially if I want them to work for me. It won’t be easy to persuade a mermaid to put on Bakelite armor, accompany me through the wilds to the lake, and then dive into its murky depths alongside me."

Sherlock's green eyes narrowed as if to pierce the veil of uncertainty that clouded Dave's thoughts. "Who did we just discuss?"

"Cedez!" Dave declared.

"Indeed," Sherlock concurred. "If anyone can convince a mermaid to join you on your daring expedition, it would be her."

"Your guidance is, as always, much appreciated, Sherlock," Dave thanked his ghostly companion.

. . .

Dave awoke to the gentle caress of dawn's first light, as golden rays splashed down onto his face, chasing away the lingering vestiges of his dreams.

He opened his eyes to find Remicra sitting in her usual spot in front of the rose window. The dragoness was cradling the shard of magisteel in one hand while her other deftly combed her glittering ruby hair.

"Did you sleep with that?" Dave asked, a hint of jealousy tinging his voice as he regarded the metal shard that the dragoness held in her tender embrace.

"I don't think you realize how hard it is to find arcane magisteel," Remicra replied.

"Go on then, explain," Dave yawned, stretching languidly.

"Magisteel of this grade is infused with precise runic microstructures. These microstructures slowly absorb magic from the environment to reinforce and replicate themselves," the dragoness explained, her voice imbued with a passion born of her deep-seated reverence for the ancient art of forging.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it slowly gets stronger and more magically malleable over time," Remicra elaborated. "This shard is centuries old."

"So it's like wine? Magisteel gets better with age?" Dave mused.

"Only an incredibly high-level forgemancer is able to integrate runic magic at a level necessary for the formation of permanent high-grade magisteel," the blacksmith shook her head. "This skyship must have belonged to a high lord or an archmage."

"From what Cedez told me," Dave pondered, recalling the foxkin's words. "Shandria had skyships. Perhaps Sangria was a flagship?"

The possibility hung in the air like a tantalizing secret, a fragment of history yet to be unveiled.

"Perhaps," Remicra conceded, a wistful expression painting her delicate features. She appeared as though she yearned to escape the confining walls of the smithy to unearth the metal with her own formidable claws.

"We'll get all the metal out of the mountain if it's that valuable," Dave assured her.

"We?" the dragoness raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I..." Dave began, but was cut off by the irate girl.

"Stop teasing me with false promises," Remicra snapped. "I will only be free if the estate of Lord Burgundy, all of his forces, and the entire bloody system that binds slaves to their masters are magicked out of existence!"

Dave tried to speak, but was once again interrupted by the impassioned blacksmith.

"Even if you somehow amass a fortune by selling Bakelite armors," she continued, her tone a mixture of frustration and resignation. "Burgundy won’t have a reason to sell me."

The ex-programmer fell silent, taken aback by the raw intensity of her words.

"If you have no hope of escaping your chains, then why are you helping me? Why spend all this time helping me make Bakelite?" He asked.

"You bring me fresh food," Remicra said with a resigned sigh. "I'm sick of the expired, smoked wyvern meat that Princess gives me."

Dave pondered over the words of the blacksmith.

"Are you saying that even if Burgundy dies, you still won't be free?" he asked.

"Alas," the dragoness sighed as she tapped at her collar. "This accursed collar is tied to my very soul. The Bondsmen Guild is a nation-wide institution that keeps meticulous ledgers of all slaves. Like this smithy, I am but a mere possession of Burgundy's estate. If he were to perish, I would simply pass into the hands of his next of kin. And if there is no next of kin, the Guild would reclaim me by sending one of their bounty hunters to collect and resell me."

Her voice trembled with suppressed rage as she continued, "Even if Shandria were razed to the ground and reduced to ashes, other cities under the Aegis of the Shadow maintain copies of the infernal ledger. If someone is made a slave, they cannot be freed. Yes, the Estate of Burgundy owns me, but even if its master were to lose his mind and decide to grant me my freedom, I would simply return to the clutches of the Guild. Once a person's soul is bound to the Guild's ledger, their name is forever etched within its pages."

"That's utterly abhorrent," Dave declared, the injustice of the situation igniting a spark of righteous anger within him.

"The Bondsmen Guild ensures that slaves are eternally kept in check," Remicra lamented. "They have devised this perverse system so that a freed slave cannot retaliate against the Guild, liberate their kin, or employ any kind of magic to free themselves or influence their master's mind through threats or seduction."

The grim reality of Remicra's plight hung in the air between them like a dark, oppressive cloud, casting a pall over the cozy sanctuary of the smithy's loft.

"How does one become a slave?" Dave asked.

"By resisting the incursion of the Shadow and being unlucky enough to successfully murder one of her lieutenants," Remicra replied. "After the Shadow spread her wings over my mountain village and her creatures devoured anyone who had a level high enough to resist, I wept over the bodies of my elders and picked up my father's arbalest," the dragoness hissed, her voice laden with the bitter memories of a past.

"I hid amongst the ruins and waited... until I spotted a lieutenant - a formidable, fully armored foe. My bolt soared through the air like a vengeful spirit. It found its mark, puncturing the narrow eye-hole slit. The lethal projectile reinforced by the smithing magic of my father had burrowed deep into the bastard's skull, extinguishing his life. My moment of victory was short-lived, as I was quickly caught and shackled."

Dave frowned.

"Do you get it?" Remicra implored, her voice somber. "Even if you somehow magically bamboozle Burgundy into selling me, if you were to meet your end in the wilds – as adventurers are often wont to do – I would be captured, ferried back to the Guild, and auctioned off to the highest bidder like a shiny trinket. The Shadow Empress cares not for lesser crimes, but killing an ennobled mage is a direct path to being unpersoned forevermore. I am marked as a murderess of a highborn and I do not regret it, for if I had the chance I would slaughter more of the Shadow-bastards."

Dave's jaw tightened, his resolve steeling itself against harsh reality. "Then I'll just have to make sure not to die after I figure out a way to purchase you," he declared.

"Why do I even bother?" the dragoness sighed, her scales shimmering with the iridescent flicker of a dying flame. Her eyes cast a mournful glance away from Dave and upon the shard of magisteel she cradled in her hand.