Three hours later…

  Alph closed the heavy iron door of Ironhand Forge, the Western District's most renowned smithy, behind him, the enormous hinges groaning in protest. Master Ironhand had seen right through him. The old dwarf's eyes had turned hard as granite when Alph fumbled through the work—his hands too clumsy, his technique all wrong. One look at what Alph claimed to have done versus what he actually could do, and the master had thrown him out with barely a word.

  The ringing sound of rejection echoed in his ears, sharp and accusatory, cutting through the usual clamor of the street. The door thudded shut behind him, sealing away the roar of bellows and the acrid bite of molten brass.

  He turned, his boots dragging heavily on Anvil Row’s uneven cobblestones, each scrape echoing against the thick, stone walls of the workshops lining the street. The air tasted of metal and smoke—hot iron and cooling slag coating the back of his throat.

  Fooling a real master was way harder than he'd figured; their eyes spotted every lie like rune-etchers noticing tiny flaws in a vein of ore. Dwarves, most of all, hammered straight through deception.

  Frustration curdled in his gut, bitter and burning. He'd felt this before—that awful sensation since arriving in this strange place—but he'd learned not to let it take hold. He exhaled hard, and the tight knot inside him loosened.

  He forced himself to see it differently. Getting turned away—no matter how much it stung—was just information. Another reminder that he needed to build something real from the ground up.

  He'd have to start at the bottom—sweeping floors, hauling coal, whatever grunt work would get him in the door. Build actual credibility, one tedious shift at a time. Every part of him wanted to find a shortcut, some clever angle around the whole apprentice system. But he knew better. He didn't have the skills yet to pull that off.

  I should have at least lit up my Tier 0 star node for Apprentice Crafter—why didn't I think of that earlier? I messed up.

  He ran through the listings in his head one more time. Grimforge Smithy was the only blacksmith still taking apprentices anywhere close by. He recalled the dwarf elder’s warning—it was a run-down smithy with no future prospects, listed only because it was technically still registered under the name of a Tier 4 Artisan, a master who had reportedly failed to work on anything in years.

  Maybe there is a silver lining after all. A rundown shop like that wouldn't turn away free labor, papers or no papers. His thoughts kicked back into gear, sharpening the sting of rejection into something useful—transforming that closed door into an actual opening.

  Alph squared his shoulders and stepped forward into the winding alleys leading toward the Grimforge district.

  Once, this district had hummed with the ringing of hammers shaping Val Karok's famed mana-conductive alloys—stormsteel glowing blue under enchantments, ember-brass radiating heat like living coals. Now, the only glow came from flickering streetlamps struggling against the encroaching dusk.

  The air carried the faint metallic tang of old forges mingling with the damp stone scent of neglected buildings. The Grimforge name, once synonymous with innovation, clung to the district like a rusted plaque on a boarded-up workshop.

  He turned the final corner, and the reality of the place settled over him—sagging rooftops, cracked signage, and the absence of the resonant hum that should have thrummed through a thriving smithing quarter. The grandeur had crumbled into the foundations.

  Could this be it? My last real chance here in Val Karok? Alph paused, a momentary tremor of genuine uncertainty running through him, watching the chipped paint of the door. He hesitated there, right on the stoop, wrestling with the sheer, ugly reality of the situation.

  His reluctance dissolved, leaving only the need to move forward. Alph pushed against the heavy wooden door, and the sound of protesting hinges scraped loudly through the silence of the alley. A small brass bell mounted just above the frame followed the noise with a soft, almost sorrowful chime, marking his entry.

  Varrick hammered the last of his friend’s spare shields in the inner forge, the rhythmic clang-clang-clang vibrating through the stone floor and up his arms. The molten steel shimmered under his blows, slowly yielding to the form he envisioned. He wiped a hand across his brow, soot smearing a line across his sweat-streaked face.

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  His old man, Haldrix, could have done this blindfolded, probably while muttering about self-sustaining mana loops. But Haldrix only worked on his own esoteric projects these days, refusing any other work, Varrick was able to get him to work on Thorfin's personal shield only after threatening to cut off his funding. His experienced yet not gifted hands handled the rest.

  Sometimes, Varrick envied his father’s single-mindedness, even as he cursed it. The Grimforge Smithy was bleeding coin, and his father was useless when it came to practical matters.

  The brass bell above the main door chimed, a thin, reedy sound that cut through the forge’s muted din. Varrick set his hammer down, the tool thudding onto the workbench with a finality that spoke of interrupted rhythm. He walked out of the forge, wiping his hands on a rag as he moved toward the main hall, anticipating a customer seeking repairs.

  A young man stood just inside the entrance, bathed in the dim light filtering through the grimy windows. His clothes were plain, road-worn, without the elaborate studs and buckles of a client or the heavy, scarred leather of a seasoned professional. He carried no sword, no dented helmet, no armor needing mending. No tell-tale glint of a pouch heavy with coin caught Varrick’s eye. Just a simple rucksack slung over one shoulder. Not a customer, not really.

  Varrick’s mind flickered through possibilities. A courier for one of the smaller merchant houses? A lost traveler mistaking the shop for an inn? He mentally tallied his dwindling supplies. There wasn't a single item that would catch the eye of someone just browsing without a specific need.

  “Looking for something?” Varrick’s voice was rough, scarred by years of breathing forge smoke.

  "Alph, from Swiftwind Isle. Here about your apprentice posting at the guild." His fingers dipped into his breast pocket and produced a bronze guild token, the Federation sigil catching the dim light.

  Varrick noted the practiced delivery, the way the boy's grip tightened around the token. Not some merchant's son then—someone who'd scraped for this chance. The guild mark was genuine, though.

  Varrick's breath caught. An apprentice. A human apprentice, no less. His mind seized on the implications, racing through possibilities that had long lay dormant—cheap labor, guild recognition, tax deductions, relief from the endless material demands that strangled his training time.

  A thin, tired smile touched Varrick’s lips, revealing a flash of yellowed teeth beneath his brown beard. Hope, a sensation he hadn't fully felt in years, flared in his chest. The forge required exactly this kind of apprentice, he assessed the young man carefully.

  "So, from the Swiftwind Isles, eh? Long way for a pair of human lungs to travel just to breathe forge soot." Varrick wiped his palms on his soot-stained apron. "Tell me, do you have previous work with a smithy?"

  Alph gave a short, firm nod. "I’ve spent time around the hearth back home."

  Varrick’s grin hardened, stretching tight without warming his gaze. He marked the tension seizing the boy’s shoulders and the way his eyes darted toward the anvil dais—not checking the striking surface for wear, but staring at the iron like it was a novelty. Varrick leaned over the counter, letting his broad frame cut off the light from the lamp on the wall.

  "Really?" Varrick's tone dropped into a growl. "Don't lie to me, boy. Your answer decides whether you walk out with work or empty-handed. This shop may look half-dead, but it still carries the name of a Tier 4 Artisan."

  Varrick watched a bead of sweat track through the grime on the boy's forehead. Most applicants who lied on their guild registration folded under a direct stare. If he broke the lad now, he could secure a desperate, hard-working laborer for a pittance.

  The newcomer clutched the straps of his rucksack and looked at the floor, "I haven't held a hammer for a master," he admitted, his voice tight. "I lied about the expertise. But I swear I’ll work harder than any dwarf in this district to become an Apprentice Crafter if you give me a single chance."

  Varrick raked his gaze over the boy again. Underneath those travel-worn clothes, the lad possessed a lean, corded strength—muscles earned from something more demanding than simple farm work. Varrick felt a flicker of suspicion; the boy almost moved like a professional. But if he were a fighter or a rogue, he wouldn't be begging for a coal-shoveler’s position. Whether the boy had the talent for crafting or not, he still needed assistance hauling the heavy slag.

  "I’ll give you a month," Varrick said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "A trial period. I will observe your efforts, and you will dedicate yourself to the work. Provided you demonstrate competence and refrain from damaging any of the tools or customer's items, we can discuss a formal contract." He paused, looking at the tattered state of the boy's gear. "You have a place to sleep?"

  Alph shook his head.

  "The district isn't safe for humans at night," Varrick lied, spotting a new vein of copper. "I have a room in back. Five copper per day, totaling one silver and fifty copper a month. It’s better than an inn."

  Alph didn't haggle. He reached into his belt pouch and pressed the full monthly amount onto the wooden counter. Varrick’s stomach performed a sour flip as he scooped up the coins. The boy hadn't even hesitated.

  I should have asked for ten, Varrick thought, the silver feeling heavier in his hand than it should have.

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