The scent hit him first—a heady mixture of scorched metal, spiced oils, smoldering wood, and something acrid and magical that tickled the back of his throat. The air buzzed faintly, like a forge-built storm was always waiting to break overhead.
The deeper they walked, the more spellbound Jace became.
To the left, a long row of rune tables flickered with soft, shifting light. Enchanters—some robed, others armored—worked with obsessive care, carving glowing symbols into weapons and armor with chisels thinner than needles. Each stroke seemed impossibly precise. The runes didn’t just glow—they pulsed, syncing to some unseen heartbeat. One misstep, Jace thought, and boom. Instant fireball-in-the-face. Yet they moved with the calm of seasoned surgeons, their hands steady even as magic crackled across the air like dry lightning.
Jace slowed as a bolt of arcane light flared from a curved sword being etched with runes. It shimmered a pale violet, the metal humming as if it were awakening. It was beautiful. Dangerous. Real.
To the right, the blacksmiths were in full swing—muscles flexing, hammers ringing out in rhythmic thunder. One woman, thick-armed and soot-covered, slammed a heated blade against her anvil. Sparks exploded like fireflies caught in a gale. Another plunged a molten axe into an oil trough, steam erupting in a sharp hiss that sent goosebumps down Jace’s arms.
He watched as enchanted ores—some gleaming with veins of green or red crystal—were worked and folded, reforged and refined. One blade twisted like a corkscrew, glowing along its edges. Another hammer was being affixed with a runic socket, the head of it shifting shapes with each tap of a tuning chisel.
“This is so much cooler than anything I’ve ever seen before,” Jace muttered.
Across the hall, rows of leatherworkers sat hunched at thick wooden benches, surrounded by racks of rare hides and tools. They stitched with bone needles, wove thread spun from silkworms, and something far less mundane. One man tanned the hide of what looked like a golden maned black as night panther; another carefully set flexible runeplates into the lining of a crimson jerkin.
The smell here was different—richer. Waxy, earthy, and sharp with dye and chemical sealants. It clung to the tongue like tannin-heavy wine.
Jace drifted further, letting the rhythm of the hall carry him.
The alchemy corner was equal parts laboratory and mad wizard explosion zone. Glass beakers clinked. Potions bubbled. Someone screamed.
A gnome in goggles, almost bigger than her head, was pouring a shimmering green solution into a boiling flask of something orange. It promptly turned neon blue and popped like a champagne cork. No one reacted.
The shelves were chaotic but oddly organized—lined with labeled vials: Fire Resistance, Mana Renewal, Corrupted Blood Antitoxin, Unicorn Hair Restorative.
Jace eyed one that read "Guaranteed Muscles in a Month (Probably)". He almost reached for it, just for the label alone. But Nyra swatted his hand.
Nearby, scribes worked at long desks covered in parchment, their quills dancing like spiders over magical schematics, spell blueprints, and scrollwork contracts. Their ink shimmered in gold, silver, or deep black. One had a spell diagram so complex it hurt Jace’s eyes just to glance at it. They didn’t notice him watching. They were too deep in thought, lips moving silently with each stroke.
This is real, Jace thought, awe bleeding into every corner of his mind. All those games I played, the fantasy books I devoured—this is what they were trying to capture.
This wasn’t just a crafting hall. It was a cathedral to creation.
Just as they were about to leave, his eyes caught on a solitary figure at a corner table. Where the rest of the hall buzzed with energy, this spot seemed… quieter. Dimmer.
A circle of space seemed to hold itself still around the man, like the air itself respected his silence.
The man sat hunched but unshaken, older—maybe in his seventies—with a wiry frame and a salt-and-pepper beard. His face was drawn and shadowed with exhaustion, but his hands were precise, tireless. They worked with a bone-handled awl, carving symbols into a curved shard of pale bone.
But this wasn’t casual craft. His movements were deliberate, reverent—each stroke a ritual. The bone in his hands glowed faintly where etched, as if it remembered something.
Jace felt it again—a pull. Not physical, not magical. Something deeper. Like a resonance in his bones. A whisper in his soul.
He stepped forward, breath caught halfway to forming a question.
Nyra’s hand caught his sleeve.
“Come on, rookie. Shopping first. Staring at mysterious strangers comes after.”
Jace hesitated, glancing back—but he let her pull him away.
Just before they rounded the corner, the man looked up.
Their eyes met.
Jace froze.
No alarm. No greeting. Just a flicker. A moment of something ancient, like staring into the still eye of a storm.
Recognition? Warning?
Then the man looked away, returning to his carving.
Jace swallowed and let himself be pulled along, the moment already etched deep into memory.
—
The group stepped out of the guild and made their way to the bustling market district, a sprawling maze of crooked vendor stalls, colorful awnings, clattering carts, and more shouting than any one street should legally allow. It was chaos—but the good kind. The kind that smelled like roasted food and spiced cider and possibilities.
Everything pulsed with social energy: hawkers calling out deals in singsong chants, dwarven smiths arguing over steel grades, a pair of mages trying to haggle with a gnome over a wand that sparked every time someone sneezed. Somewhere nearby, a lute was being strummed wildly off-key, accompanied by what might generously be called singing—or possibly a small animal dying of artistic ambition.
Jace kept close to the group, eyes wide. Holy crap. This is like stepping into a Renaissance fair mashed with Skyrim and then given crack in the best way possible.
He passed stalls loaded with enchanted trinkets—amulets pulsing faintly, rings with shifting elemental hues. One booth displayed what looked suspiciously like a bottled lightning bolt. Another advertised “Cursed but Mostly Harmless” scrolls at half-price.
He was home. Not really. But it felt that way.
Before long, he’d upgraded his threadbare dungeon-chic ensemble. Gone were the rags and scavenged scraps. In their place: a well-fitted charcoal tunic with reinforced seams, sturdy leather trousers dyed a deep storm-gray. They went very well with his Hollow Mantle and would fit snugly beneath his bone armor. The boots? Blessedly dry and waterproof.
“Look at you,” Nyra said, giving him a once-over with a teasing smirk. “Almost respectable.”
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“Careful,” Jace replied. “Too much flattery and I’ll start charging appearance fees.”
Sylas added with a snort, “Just wait until that nice mantle gets caught on your dagger sheath and you fall on your ass in front of a Silver-Rank team.”
“I’m not saying I will,” Jace said dryly. “But if I do, I’ll do it with style.”
The party roamed deeper into the district, stopping by a compact weaponsmith that reeked of molten metal and proud tradition. Torak selected a fine dual-edged glaive with a tempered alloy core and runic notches along the shaft. Sylas had her eye on a curved dagger enchanted with phase-stepping—perfect for her Shadow-Step ability.
Nyra had found a nice tower shield that she could use to replace her dented and broken one.
Unfortunately, budgets were still a thing.
“We only have enough coins for one of them,” Sylas muttered, frowning at the price tags.
Torak didn’t hesitate. “Nyra must be fully outfitted for front-line protection. We will wait.”
Sylas gave him a look somewhere between respect and irritation. “Of course you’d be noble about it.”
Before anyone could argue further, Jace dug into his pouch and dropped the difference into the merchant’s palm with a clink of silver.
“We will take the lot.”
Torak nodded approvingly. “Efficient.”
Sylas narrowed her eyes at him. “Why?”
Jace shrugged. “Because I want to survive tomorrow. And you three not dying is a big part of that plan.”
Her scowl cracked, turning into a sly grin. “Fine. But I’m buying the next round.”
Nyra stood eyeing Jace with a calm sense of something he couldn't quite place. Yet he didn't try to figure out what.
“Deal,” Jace said, then muttered, “Assuming I survive the ‘trial-by-Garrik’ nonsense.”
That earned a round of groans and grumbles. And a chuckle from Patch that sounded suspiciously like a gravel grinder warming up for battle.
As the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the cobblestones in molten gold and shadows, the group wandered towards a food vendor stall tucked away at the edge of the district. The old gentleman manning the stall was selling roasted meat sticks and what looked like ramen noodles. They each ordered a bowl and several meat sticks apiece, except for Patch, who, as usual, abstained from the normal food. They found a table in the outside area and settled in.
Bowls of the thick, hearty stew and thin angel hair-style noodles sat in front of them. Jace barely waited. He took a bite—and groaned.
“Oh my gods,” he said, chewing reverently. “This is the food of champions. I think I am ascending.”
Nyra arched an eyebrow. “Ascending, to what, Paragon status or something?”
Jace nearly spit out his food. He had forgotten about his glitched-out Paragon status until now. He quickly tried to recover. “But this… this is a spiritual awakening. I don't know about the whole paragon thing, but this has to be close, right?”
Sylas lifted her mug. “To the bard who dines like he’s never eaten.”
Patch rumbled, “His caloric intake has increased significantly. Suggest he stores reserves for tomorrow.”
“Wait…” Jace paused, mid-bite. “Was that a fat joke?”
Nyra grinned. “I think that was a golem joke.”
Torak nodded solemnly. “It was accurate.”
They laughed—honest, belly-deep laughter that chased the tension from Jace’s shoulders. But just as he leaned back, full and content…
That prickle returned.
A static buzz at the edge of his awareness. Like something was watching him, observing. Not nearby—but not distant either. Familiar. Cold.
He glanced toward the corner of the street, just for a second. No one was there.
But he felt it.
The faintest pull.
The kind that didn’t just signal danger.
It whispered destiny.
Someone was watching them.
It started as a tickle at the edge of Jace’s awareness—an itch beneath the skin, a whisper just out of hearing. One moment he was laughing at Patch’s deadpan analysis of stew viscosity, and the next… the warmth of the day seemed to bleed away, leaving a hollow chill just behind his sternum.
His group, his friends, were still bantering around him. But Jace wasn’t in the moment anymore.
His instincts were screaming.
He didn’t move right away. Didn’t stiffen. Didn’t speak. Just lifted his spoon again with casual precision and let his gaze soften, as if distracted by his food. But his mind locked in.
He listened.
The scrape of a chair leg across the cobblestone ground. The jangle of a coin purse changing hands. Laughter, loud and raucous, from a nearby group of people, too genuine to be a threat. He filtered past the familiar sounds, searching for the out-of-place.
And then… There it was.
Not a sound. Not exactly.
A rhythm that didn’t match.
He turned, slowly—too slowly to draw attention—and scanned the street with the kind of ease one might use to check for a barmaid or glance toward the exit.
And that’s when he saw him.
A man leaning up against the wall at the end of an alleyway in the farthest corner of the street, half-shrouded in the shadows beyond the reach of the lantern light. The only illumination came from a lone street lamp, its flame flickering lazily, casting warped shadows across the man’s sharp features.
He didn’t look like much. No armor, no weapons in sight. Just simple traveling clothes—hood down, sleeves rolled, hands wrapped loosely around a tankard he hadn’t touched. But his eyes...
Gods, those eyes.
They weren’t wide or wild. Not menacing, not even cold.
Just… aware.
Focused. The kind of focus you only ever feel when someone is reading a book they already know the ending to.
Jace met his gaze.
And the man didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He simply offered a smile.
Slow. Measured.
It wasn’t friendly. But it wasn’t openly hostile either.
It was a smile with teeth.
And then, he stood.
There was no sound. No rustle of cloth. No telltale shifting of weight.
He just… rose.
And walked.
Jace watched, pulse ticking faster with each step the man took deeper into the alley.
That’s when the bottom dropped out of his stomach.
The man didn’t move right. His steps were a contradiction—too fluid in the hips, too stiff in the shoulders. Each motion lagged half a heartbeat behind the previous one, like reality was buffering his animation.
Jace blinked, half expecting the man to glitch again.
The man didn’t pause. Didn’t look back.
He simply passed into the blackness and vanished into the night.
And Jace knew—knew deep in the marrow of his bones—that whatever he’d just witnessed wasn’t human. Or if it was, it had been worn like a coat.
A very, very convincing one.
“Hey. You good?” Nyra’s voice cut through the fog.
He jerked slightly and looked back at her. She was eyeing him now, brow creased with subtle concern.
He hesitated.
‘Tell her.’ The thought pressed at him.
But instead, he forced a crooked smirk. “Yeah. Just… zoning out, I guess.”
Nyra didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press. Instead, she tossed a hunk of bread at his face. “Quit spacing out. You’ll miss Patch arguing with the table about wood density again.”
The others chuckled. Sylas was halfway into her second bowl and fourth meat stick, legs draped over the bench, while Patch calmly explained why elm had inferior vibration dampening compared to treated pine.
Conversation resumed.
The place returned to its cozy hum.
But Jace couldn’t shake it.
That prickle at the base of his neck. That smile. That feeling that something had noticed him. Not just seen, but marked.
He glanced toward the alley one last time.
Nothing.
But the unease lingered like a shadow stitched to his spine.
They made their way back to their tavern not long after. The streets had quieted, though the air still carried the hum of distant music and the smell of turned soil and chimney smoke. The sky had begun its slow shift toward indigo, stars just barely winking into existence above the tiled rooftops.
Jace walked a little slower than the others, one hand resting near the pocket where the charm pulsed faintly against his thigh.
The meal had filled his stomach. The laughter had loosened his chest.
But something in the night had changed.
Something had taken notice.
Just as they stepped inside, the familiar scent of ale, pipe smoke, and firewood wrapped around Jace like a half-forgotten memory—warm, rich, and inviting. The tavern was just as lively as the night before, a soft haze of heat and hearth drifting beneath the timbered ceiling. Music played faintly in the background, a lute and fiddle dancing in unison somewhere near the hearth.
Then—
“MY NEW BARD HAS ARRIVED!”
The voice was thundering.
Jace froze mid-step like he’d just triggered a trap.
The entire tavern erupted. Cheers, whistles, clapping—the kind usually reserved for returning champions or drunken nobles with deep coin purses.
Jace slowly turned his head toward the bar… where Brenn, the tavern’s mountain-of-a-barkeep, was grinning like a wolf who’d just found a sheep with stage fright.
He eyed the room and even saw a very large handful of adventurers he had seen earlier that day, and the auburn haired clerk with a few more he recognized.
“Oh shit.” Jace cursed softly.
Sylas let out a howl of laughter, gripping the back of Jace’s shirt like he might bolt for the door. “Oh, this is priceless. I’m framing this moment in my memory forever.”
Torak gave a slow, respectful nod, completely serious. “Your previous performance was well-received. It raised morale.”
“And brought twice the amount of customers.” Torak retorted in his chittering way.
Jace blinked at him. “It was a song about drinking, punching, and… other things.”
Patch rumbled thoughtfully. “The melody was harmonious. The inn experienced an 18% increase in mood elevation.”
Nyra was practically vibrating with glee as she looped her arm around his. “Come on, star of the night. You’ve got admirers to disappoint.”
Jace groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate all of you. So very much. Is it too late to switch parties?”
“Mutual affection confirmed,” Patch replied, his tone entirely unbothered.
“Sing that song about wonderful walls!” someone yelled from across the tavern.
“Play The Cabbage Ballad!” shouted the auburn-haired clerk.
“Oh gods,” Jace whispered, as Nyra cackled beside him and guided him deeper into the crowd. He was already being waved at by several regulars, most of whom he did not remember singing to.
Tankards were raised. Someone tried to shove several drinks in his hand. A group in the corner began rhythmically stomping the floor, chanting “Bard! Bard! Bard!” like they were summoning something eldritch made of music and poor decisions.
The room felt like a swirling mess of heat, noise, and half-drunken adoration.
The night, it seemed, was far from over.
And somewhere, deep in the shadows beyond the laughter and light, that same strange presence from earlier lingered.
Watching.
Waiting.
Smiling.
[Patch]:
[Torak]:
[Patch]:
[Torak]: (chittering)
[Patch]:
[Torak]: (sternly)
[Patch]:
[Torak]: (grumbling)
[Patch]:
[Torak]: (reluctantly)
[Patch]:
[Torak]:
[Patch]:
[Torak]:
[Nyra]: (smirking)
[Jace]: (loudly from off-screen)
[Patch]: (deadpan)
[Torak]: (sincerely)
What was the real MVP moment of this chapter?