There was nothing to do about it at the moment.

  We laughed about the punishment that was obviously coming, whatever shape it ended up taking, because we both knew it would. There was no point pretending otherwise, and no benefit to spiraling over it now. The consequences were already set in motion. Worrying about them early would not soften the blow when they finally arrived. For now, the only real option was to move on, so we did, limping forward in the most literal sense of the word.

  Myrda stayed close while we walked, matching her pace to mine without making a show of it. Every step sent a dull reminder up my arms and into my skull, not sharp enough to drop me, but constant enough that I could not forget it for even a moment. Eventually, when it was clear I was not about to collapse, she broke the silence.

  “So,” she said, glancing over at me, “what do you want to do next?”

  “As soon as my hands and my eyes stop feeling like they’ve been boiled and then skinned,” I said, carefully keeping my voice even, “I think I’m going to start working on Winnie’s log.”

  Myrda snorted softly at that, the sound half amusement and half disbelief. “Yeah, she was really demanding about what she wanted that log to be. Honestly, it was kind of fun to work on.” She tilted her head, studying me from the side as we walked. “But I want to see what you can do. I think I’ve only ever worked with two crafters who actually did anything worth a damn, and I’m counting you as half of them.”

  “I haven’t crafted anything yet,” I said.

  She stopped walking.

  I took another step before realizing she was no longer beside me, then halted and turned back. Myrda was staring at me sharply, her expression flat in a way that usually meant she was deciding whether to be patient or scathing.

  “Did you not just wing a magical circuit and make a runic tattoo?” she asked.

  “Well,” I said, forcing myself to think it through instead of reacting, “I started thinking about the idea when I was born, that’s still, what, three years? Maybe three and a half.”

  Myrda stared at me like I had personally offended the concept of time itself. She crossed her arms slowly, her gaze never leaving my face. “Azolo, people don’t do that. Even reincarnators take time to adjust to their bodies and actually complete the disciplines they’re aiming for. Muscle memory, hand eye coordination, drafting skill, fine control, all of it takes years.”

  She shook her head once. “I have never heard of anyone just walking in and saying, ‘I’m going to be an enchanter,’ and then actually knowing what they’re doing.” She paused, then added dryly, “Setting aside the massive failure we completed with your eyes.”

  “We failed successfully,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, a reluctant chuckle slipping out despite herself. “You did.”

  She let out a slow breath and waved a hand, clearly done with the argument and not interested in circling it any further. “All right. Let’s put that aside for now.” She glanced at my hands, then at my face. “How can I help you with this while your hands and eyes are still in what I can only imagine is unimaginable pain?”

  I exhaled slowly, letting the breath steady me. “Soul pain is not something I really enjoy inflicting on myself,” I said. “Or having inflicted on me.”

  This was going to be much, much easier than what we had just done.

  Compared to carving into my own soul, working on a log was almost relaxing. The scale was different, the risks were different, and most importantly, the work stayed external. Nothing about this required me to bleed, burn, or permanently alter myself just to get started, which already put it solidly in the category of manageable.

  I lifted my hands carefully and gestured at them, then tipped my chin slightly to indicate my eyes. The motion alone was enough to make both of them throb in quiet protest, a dull reminder that I was still very much not in ideal working condition. “This,” I said, dryly, “is a hard act to follow.”

  This time, I was smart enough not to touch anything.

  Even the idea of brushing against a surface made my palms ache in anticipation, so I kept them where they were and shifted my attention instead. I looked at Myrda. She was already watching me, caught the glance immediately, and nodded once without comment, clearly understanding why I was not reaching for anything myself.

  “So,” she said, practical as ever, “what do you need me to do?”

  “Can you move the log for me?” I asked.

  She did not answer right away, waiting for context. That was fair. I glanced around the room, orienting myself and taking stock of where we could work without me needing to move much or reposition myself once we started.

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  “Let’s put it on the drafting table,” I said finally. “But not yet. We should finish drafting the circuits for her enchantments first.” I paused, then added, “And this time, you should do the drafting. I can’t really use my hands right now without regretting every life choice I’ve ever made.”

  Myrda glanced down at my hands again, then back up at my face, taking the assessment seriously rather than brushing it off. “That seems reasonable,” she said.

  “When it comes time to actually enchant it,” I continued, “I’ll try using the tattoos. Carefully. That way we can see what kind of control I actually have now, without relying on tools.”

  She nodded slowly, thinking it through rather than agreeing out of habit. “Yeah,” she said after a moment. “That does seem like a good idea.” She paused, then asked, “What are we starting with?”

  “Extension,” I said after a moment. “Maybe momentum. What do you think?”

  I watched her expression shift as she turned the words over in her head, considering what that actually meant in practice. Then it flattened completely.

  “I think I have absolutely no idea how to do either of those,” she said.

  I blinked, then laughed quietly before I could stop myself. “That’s fair,” I said. “But they’re actually pretty simple once you break them down.” I tilted my head slightly toward the workbench. “You already have the basis for both of them from the circuits you used when you enchanted it the first time. You just weren’t thinking about them in those terms.”

  Her brow furrowed as she looked back toward the table, mentally retracing her earlier work. “You’re going to have to explain that.”

  “Certainly,” I said. “That’s why you’re drafting this one. I’ll walk you through the structure, and you can put it on the page.”

  Myrda moved a chair over so I could see what she was working on directly, then helped me onto it before taking her place at the drafting table. She stood while I sat, which put our eyes at nearly the same level once I leaned forward slightly. It was the most practical arrangement given the state of my hands, and neither of us commented on it.

  She picked up the stylus and glanced back at me. “So,” she said, “what do you mean? I know the basics, but you’re clearly aiming at something specific.”

  “Let’s work on the momentum rune,” I said. “It’s the easiest one to adapt.”

  She raised an eyebrow but did not interrupt, so I continued.

  “Even though it starts as a weight reduction circuit, what it actually does is shift weight while the weapon is in motion,” I said. “The weight doesn’t disappear. It moves. Over time, and only while it’s being swung.”

  I leaned forward a little more and nodded toward the blank parchment. “So, start with the basic circuit you used last time.”

  She did exactly that. Her hand was light, confident, and fast. She sketched the lines cleanly, barely hesitating as the shape took form. Watching her work made it painfully obvious that she was already better at this part than I was. That made sense. My hands were smaller, my reach shorter, and precision had always cost me more effort than it cost her.

  She finished the first pass and looked back at me. “Okay. What’s next?”

  “You see the amto rune there,” I said, pointing with my chin at the wave-like line running along the outer edge of the circuit.

  She followed my gaze and nodded. “Yes.”

  “You’re going to break it at the northern face and the southern face,” I said.

  She frowned slightly but marked the spots. “That will let the weight leak upward and downward,” she said slowly. Then she looked back at me. “But that introduces instability.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s exactly what we want.”

  She paused, stylus hovering. “Explain.”

  “The current weight reduction circuit is static,” I said. “It assumes the object is either being held or not. What we need is fluid behavior. Breaking the line lets us insert an aptio circle at each end, then run a selka line along the length.”

  She followed along, adjusting the draft as I spoke. “Along the length of the… what do we even call this?” she asked.

  I hesitated. “The handle? The haft?”

  She tilted her head, considering the object in question. “It’s not really a club,” she said. “And it’s not shaped like a staff.”

  “I still think it’s just a log,” I said.

  She snorted. “It’s more of a caber.”

  “That might actually be accurate,” I admitted. “But yes, let’s just call it the handle so we can keep going.”

  She nodded and continued drafting. “All right. So, the selka line runs the full length of the handle.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “As Winnie swings, the weight starts at the southern-facing end, whichever direction that happens to be, down, sideways, whatever. Then it moves northward, concentrating toward the tip.”

  I leaned back slightly, letting her finish the line. “You’re not increasing total force yet. You’re converting existing weight into forward momentum.”

  She tapped the parchment once. “And reinforcement?”

  “That has to go eventually,” I said. “It’s fine for a training weapon, but it’s completely inadequate for what I wish this weapon to become. I’ll need specific materials to strip it properly later, or it will prevent any real growth.”

  She looked at me sidelong. “You’re really planning to help her do something stupid, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said without hesitation. “It’ll be funny.”

  She smiled despite herself. “You want people to look on a log like it’s the hammer of a god.”

  “Exactly.”

  We both chuckled at that.

  She glanced back at the draft, then at me. “You really care about these kids, don’t you?”

  “I do,” I said. Then, after a moment, “You do too.”

  “I care about all of them,” she said. “Including you. I even care about Randall.”

  I grimaced. “That’s unfortunate.”

  She waved a hand. “He’s an ass. Neglectful, pompous, irritating. I could keep going. But he does care about the guild and its reputation. And if it came down to it, I think he would die for any of you, even if he complained the entire time.”

  “That’s really not what I wanted to hear,” I said. “He was much easier to deal with when I could just think of him as a two-bit villain.”

  She shrugged. “People are more complicated than that.” She hesitated, then added, “The thing with Oliver is because Randall is paying for his sister’s medical treatments. They’re expensive. Oliver’s father covers most of it and she is staying on his estate.”

  I stared at her. “Please don’t try to make me care about him.” I paused. “I probably do now, which is honestly the worst thing you’ve done to me so far.”

  She gave me a flat look. “You stopped him from leaving today.”

  “…Yes.”

  “He was probably going to visit his sister,” she said. “So maybe don’t do that again.”

  I sighed and nodded.