Alph twisted the key in the lock, surprised by its weight in his palm. The stubborn lock groaned before giving way with a loud snap. When he pushed the door open, the smell hit him first—dust thick enough to taste, the damp chill of stone walls, and a coppery tang like old blood. The air felt heavy, as stale as the rusted tools lying forgotten on the floor.

  The cramped quarters opened before him like a coffin—narrow, suffocating, a bitter mockery of what he'd paid for. A single grime-coated window allowed only sickly yellow light to filter through from the lanterns outside. Cobwebs draped the corners like tattered banners, swaying in the draft from the open door.

  Against the far wall, a sagging cot leaned wearily, its mattress appearing as if it hadn’t been disturbed in ages.

  A rickety rectangular study table stood near the hearth. The table was a jumble of things—gears scattered everywhere, a chipped teacup that looked like it had seen better days, and a squashed candle stub that had drooped almost to the wood's surface. Piles of crumpled parchment lay alongside broken quills and what used to be a leather apron, now stiff and cracked like old mud, almost hiding the mess beneath.

  The cupboard hung open on its last hinge, revealing a moth-eaten blanket and a shelf coated in rust-colored dust.

  Alph exhaled through his nose, a slow, controlled breath that did little to ease the tightness in his chest. One silver and fifty copper. That was what he had paid—for this. For the privilege of sleeping in a room that looked like it had been abandoned mid-project by a smith who’d either died or given up on life entirely.

  Resignation settled over him, heavy as a smith’s apron. He'd known it wouldn't match the room at Iron Hearth. But he hadn't expected this. Still, he had made his choice. His time in Oakhaven, along with the months that followed, had taught him a simple truth: to survive, you had to make the best of what you had.

  He rolled up his sleeves.

  The first order of business was the bed. He dragged it toward the window, the legs scraping against the stone floor with a sound that made his teeth ache. The movement sent a cloud of dust billowing into the air, and he turned his face away, coughing. Once positioned, he stripped the mattress of its grimy covers and hauled them toward the door, where he’d burn them later. The frame itself was sturdy enough, at least—dwarven craftsmanship, even neglected, didn’t collapse under its own weight.

  Next, the table. He righted it with a grunt, testing its balance. It wobbled but held. A search through the cupboard yielded a threadbare tablecloth, yellowed with age but mercifully free of holes. He shook it out, sending a small army of dust mites scattering, before draping it over the table.

  The floor was next. He swept the worst of the debris into a pile with his boot, then crouched to gather the larger pieces—broken tools, scraps of metal, a single rusted nail that he pocketed out of habit. He grabbed a stick he found propped against the wall and swiped it through the cobwebs hanging in the corners. The threads clung to the wood like ghostly fingers but broke free with a flick, fluttering away into the air.

  By the time he finished, his forehead was damp with sweat, and his hands were coated in a fine layer of grime. The room wasn’t clean—not by any stretch of the imagination. But it was livable. The bed was positioned to catch what little breeze might wander in through the window. The table was clear, the floor mostly free of hazards, and the cupboard, while still a sad excuse for storage, at least no longer looked like it was vomiting its contents onto the floor.

  Alph closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself as he reached out with his will to cast Nature's Touch. As the spell took shape, he summoned the essence of life surrounding him, and a vibrant burst of energy blossomed forth. Suddenly, the air filled with the sweet, intoxicating scent of fresh wildflowers—daisies, lilies, and vibrant bluebells mingling together in a fragrant harmony.

  He felt delicate petals brushing his skin, their softness contrasting with reality's rough edges. The thick, sweet aroma stirred memories of a sun-drenched meadow, where time paused amidst nature's splendor. For a moment, his burdens felt lighter, enveloped in a beautiful illusion.

  With the vibrant olfactory sensation swirling in the air, Alph opened his eyes again, a slight smile ghosting across his lips—a precious moment of comfort amidst the demands that awaited him.

  Alph stepped back, hands on his hips, and surveyed his work. The lantern light from the hallway spilled across the threshold, casting long shadows that softened the edges of the room’s many flaws.

  He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. Then, with the practicality of someone who had long since learned to take victories where he could find them, he turned to his rucksack, unbuckled the straps, and began unpacking.

  Tomorrow would bring the forge, the hammer, and the relentless demand of Varrick’s expectations. But for tonight, he had a bed that wouldn’t collapse beneath him, a table that wouldn’t spill his meals onto the floor, and a door that locked.

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  It wasn’t a palace. But it was a start.

  The sunlight seeped through the grimy kitchen window, casting a soft, golden glow across the stone floor. Alph sat at the scarred wooden table, tearing into a chunk of warm brown bread fresh from the oven. The crust crackled between his fingers, releasing a rich, earthy aroma that mingled with the faint metallic tang that still clung to the stone walls.

  Across from him, Varrick Grimforge chewed methodically, his beard catching crumbs. Varrick's broad shoulders hunched over the table, his dark eyes locked onto Alph with the careful focus of someone assessing a rough stone waiting to be polished.

  "You’re quiet for a lad from the Isles," Varrick remarked, wiping his hands on his apron. "Thought islanders were all loud tales and louder laughter."

  Alph swallowed, then offered a practiced grin. "Depends on the island. Swiftwind’s more... reserved."

  Varrick’s brow lifted. "Reserved, eh? Then tell me—what’s a reserved island lad doing all the way in Val Karok?"

  Alph leaned back, feigning ease. "Same as any apprentice. Looking for a master who won’t laugh at my hammer swings."

  The dwarf chuckled, but his gaze stayed sharp. "And your family? Still back in the Isles?"

  A beat of hesitation. Alph tore off another piece of bread, buying time. "My aunt runs a small forge. Couldn’t teach me what I needed."

  Varrick nodded slowly, as if filing the answer away. "So you left. Brave—or foolish."

  "Both," Alph admitted, meeting the dwarf’s eyes. "But I’d rather be foolish here than stuck there."

  The last of the bread disappeared between them, and Varrick pushed back from the table with a grunt. "Come on, then. Backyard’s where the real work starts."

  Alph followed, stepping into the dim morning light of the smithy’s rear yard. The scent of rust and old sweat mingled with the tang of coal. Scattered metal scraps and abandoned prototypes crunching underfoot. Varrick came to a halt next to an old woodchopper’s block, crossing his arms.

  "First lesson," he announced with a gruff tone. "A smith’s hands tell the truth, so your hands better learn quick. Start chopping the wood, and I will teach you how to fashion a good grip for battle axes afterwards."

  Alph picked up the hatchet from the chopping block, testing its weight in his hand. The worn wooden handle fit comfortably against his palm, the blade still sharp despite its age. He positioned the first log on the block, adjusted his stance, and brought the hatchet down in a clean arc.

  The wood split with a satisfying crack, but the pieces were uneven. Varrick grunted, stepping forward to adjust Alph’s grip.

  "Not bad for a first swing, but we need consistency. Like this—" He demonstrated, cleaving the next log into two equal halves. "The axe grip needs to be sturdy. Too thick, and it ruins the balance. Too thin, and it will snap under combat pressure."

  Alph nodded, repositioning another log. This time, his strike was cleaner, the halves nearly identical. Varrick crossed his arms, studying him.

  "You’ve got the build for it. Strong shoulders, steady hands. Damn shame if you’d awakened as a crafter instead of a fighter."

  Alph kept his eyes glued to the next log. "My aunt said the same thing, but I don't care. I want to craft and tinker items, not use them myself for fighting."

  Varrick let out a low chuckle. "Passion, huh? Fine. But don’t come crying to me when your muscles scream tomorrow." He tossed another log onto the block. "Again. And this time, make it perfect."

  After several more blocks had been precisely split, Varrick finally halted Alph. He instructed Alph to select the halves that had the best proportions and led him back toward the workshop's interior.

  A massive, low bench dominated the space; its iron clamping head, fashioned into a stylized ram, secured the workpiece via a foot pedal. Varrick sat astride the bench, took a drawknife—a two-handled blade—and demonstrated the rhythm of pulling it toward his chest.

  "Don't fight the grain, lad," he advised, his voice rough. "You pull it like you are combing a beard, not skinning a boar.”

  Alph nodded, attempting the movement slowly. The wooden blocks became uneven after his initial failed attempts, but Varrick guided him through those mistakes.

  Varrick led Alph to the granite workbench, its surface scarred by decades of slipped tools. The iron vice gripped the axe handle like a beast’s jaw, immovable. Alph picked up the rasp, testing its weight—coarse teeth promising quick work, but demanding precision.

  "Watch the grain, damn it," Varrick growled, grabbing Alph's wrist. He shoved the boy's palm against the wood, fingers wide. "Feel that ridge? Leave it there, and any warrior'll have blistered thumbs in three fucking swings." His calloused thumb jabbed at the spot. "Now shave it smooth, or I'll toss you back to chopping firewood like a damn greenhorn."

  Alph rasped the handle's curve, sending sawdust swirling. He worked carefully over the scarred granite, shaping the grip's grooves.

  Varrick’s nod came grudgingly. "Better. Now the other side—mirror it."

  Alph gripped the freshly carved handle, its grain still rough under his fingertips. Varrick jerked his chin toward the iron tub bubbling over the coal brazier. The resin mixture inside was thick as syrup, dark and glossy, releasing a sharp pine scent that made his nose twitch.

  "Submerge it slow," Varrick grunted. "Let the wood drink deep."

  Alph lowered the handle into the viscous liquid. Tiny bubbles erupted around it, hissing like whispers. The resin clung in sticky strands as he held it steady, watching the wood darken, the grain sealing beneath the glossy sheen.

  Varrick crossed his arms. "Now wait. It’ll tell you when it’s done."

  Alph nodded, his fingers sticky, his patience settling like the resin.

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  Destiny on the Frozen Peak: The Myriad Constellations

  Released on January 1st, 2026