I walked through the empty hallways of the guild, my steps echoing softly against stone that usually felt warm with voices and movement. Tonight, it was hollow. I was still emotionally unstable from everything I had heard and everything I had felt, and the quiet only made it harder to keep myself together. I needed something to take my mind off it, something that demanded focus instead of reflection.

  There were very few things in this life that I suspected could do that for me in this moment. Fewer still that would not end with me sitting alone, drowning in my own thoughts. One of those few things waited behind the door in front of me.

  I pushed the door to the crafting hall open, and the sound hit me immediately. Metal rang against metal in sharp, uneven bursts. Hammer struck anvil again and again, not with the measured rhythm of practiced work, but with raw force.

  Myrda stood over a twisted length of metal that had probably once been a sword, hammering it into oblivion. The blade was simple steel, nothing rare or ornate, but it was mangled beyond recognition. Each strike flattened it further, folding it in on itself, as if she were trying to erase what it had once been. She was venting her frustration into it without restraint.

  Then I noticed the anvil.

  It was dented heavily, scarred with deep marks that spoke of blows far harder than careful shaping ever required. The surface was uneven now, battered in places where no smith would normally strike. Whatever she was working through, she was working through it hard, with no concern for the tools beneath her hands.

  She had not noticed me come in.

  I hesitated for a moment, watching her shoulders rise and fall with each blow, the tension wound tight through her posture. I spoke softly, hoping not to startle her.

  It did not quite work.

  “Myrda.”

  The moment the word left my mouth, she spun. The hammer came up in a blur, her eyes wide and unfocused, her body already halfway into a strike as if she would shatter whatever had dared speak behind her.

  It took her a few seconds to truly see me.

  “Oh,” she said, her voice shaky as recognition set in. “Uh. I guess you couldn’t sleep either?”

  I nodded. “No. Greta told me what happened. I’m so sorry that… well. I’m so sorry this happened.”

  I saw it immediately. The way her shoulders tensed. The way her grip tightened around the hammer.

  That was not the right approach.

  Before she could respond, before she could snap or retreat behind anger, I cut in quickly.

  “Is that a new sword design,” I asked, “or is it a basket? I can’t really tell at this point.”

  She blinked, then looked down at the mangled scrap sitting on the battered anvil. For a moment she just stared at it. Then a short, incredulous sound escaped her.

  “It’s just trash,” she said.

  “I think it’s more than trash,” I replied. “I think it’s a piece of emotional artwork.”

  She snorted. “Artwork?”

  “I’m not actually joking,” I said. “In my past life, there were collectors who gathered the strangest things. One of my former friends collected what he called art. Broken chairs thrown against walls and left exactly where they landed. Pipes bent through sheer anger and frustration.”

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  I shrugged. “He called it emotional sculpting. He said it was a depth you could only find in the raw, vulnerable parts of what make us who we are. He might have convinced me it was beautiful, if I hadn’t seen the reason that very same "art' actually existed.

  “I watched his wife pick up a chair in the middle of an argument and hurl it into the wall, screaming at him about how he kept spending money on trash when they had nothing left. That same broken chair was the one he later stood over, calling it art, fawning over it like it was something precious. He kept admiring it long after she had packed up and left him.”

  Myrda laughed. It was sudden and surprised, like it slipped out before she could stop it. The sound echoed lightly through the hall.

  “Alright,” she said, still half laughing. “That one was actually funny.”

  “Good,” I said. “Laughter helps. Crafting helps more. You put your hands to work, and if it doesn’t go well, you get to destroy something. That’s cathartic too.”

  She exhaled slowly, the breath carrying more weight than it should have. Some of the tension finally bled out of her shoulders, though it did not vanish entirely.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Right now, I’d rather be an artist than… something worse.”

  She set the hammer down with deliberate care, resting it against the anvil instead of dropping it.

  “Alright,” she said after a moment. “Tonight, I am Myrda the artist.” She looked at me sidelong, one brow lifting slightly. “And who are you going to be?”

  I straightened a little, feeling something settle into place.

  “Let me introduce you to Azolo the enchanter,” I said, a small smile breaking through despite everything.

  Then I added, more honestly, “I haven’t quite met him yet in this life. But I think tonight is when he makes his debut.”

  She smiled. “Well, Azolo the enchanter,” she said, “do you mind if I’m your assistant tonight? I think I’d like to see what you plan on doing, if you don’t mind.”

  I nodded. “Yes. But after Greta gets here and drops off the things I need, could you help me with something?”

  She tilted her head slightly. “What kind of something?”

  “It’s something I don’t think Greta would want me to do,” I said carefully. “But I think I have to do it. And it would be better if someone helped me.”

  Myrda crossed her arms immediately. “I’m not helping you do anything illegal.”

  “This is skirting the bounds of proper,” I said. “Not illegal.”

  She studied me for a long moment. “I can probably do that,” she said slowly. “If you tell me what it is. And I promise I’ll try to help as long as it doesn’t harm you, me, or anyone else in this building.”

  “I can’t promise that exactly,” I admitted. “Mostly because it might technically harm me.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “You’ll need to explain that.”

  “I’ll explain after Greta leaves,” I said. “If you don’t mind waiting.”

  She let out a breath and shook her head. “Okay. Okay. I’ll wait.”

  It wasn’t long before Greta arrived, carrying my chest along with the other's items and Meka’s staff. Several weapons were piled awkwardly on top of the chest, balanced with practiced ease.

  “Is there somewhere you want me to put this?” Greta asked.

  I hesitated and glanced at Myrda.

  “Uh,” Myrda said, looking around the room. “Just put it over there, I think. That corner won’t take up too much space.”

  She pointed toward a section of the room that held less clutter than the rest.

  After Greta set everything down, she straightened and looked between the two of us. “All right, you two. Hopefully you’re better in the morning. If not, that’s okay. I’ll be taking care of breakfast and the others, as well as everything else that needs to be done.”

  “Thank you,” Myrda said.

  “Thank you, Greta,” I added. “It’s… honestly reassuring how good you are at all of this.”

  Greta chuckled. “I’m not that great. Everyone’s going to hate breakfast tomorrow. I can’t cook for shit.”

  She grimaced, then shrugged. “Honestly, I might need to tell Randall. He sucks at most things, but he’s not actually a bad cook when he needs to be. If I tell him I’m handling breakfast, he’ll probably take over. I don’t think he wants me to poison him for a fourth time.”

  I laughed as she waved us goodbye.

  Only then did I really take the space in. The crafting hall looked less like a workshop and more like a storage closet that had slowly surrendered to entropy. Dust coated unused surfaces. Shelves were packed with half-forgotten tools, warped materials, and odd scraps that might have once been useful. Aside from the area Myrda actively worked in, the room felt neglected.

  I hadn’t noticed it earlier while talking to her. Now that I did, the mess felt strangely familiar.

  Most of my workshops in my past life had looked exactly like this when they weren’t in use. I had never liked leaving a space empty simply because its intended purpose was not currently being served. Wizards are notorious hoarders, especially the older we became. I had certainly been no exception.

  Extra laboratories turned into storage rooms. Spare crafting halls became dumping grounds for projects I swore I would return to. Even bedrooms ended up filled with things I no longer remembered acquiring.

  Standing in this cluttered room, surrounded by someone else’s forgotten tools and half-used spaces, felt oddly comforting. It wasn’t my mess, but it felt right. Nostalgic, even. Like being in a place that understood how I worked, even if it wasn’t built for me.