Damp stone and old iron thickened the cavern air. The weight settled in the lungs. Rowan stood with his back to the flickering torchlight, broad shoulders squared, fingers resting above the hilt of his greatsword. He commanded the space. Geralt ignored him. The dwarf sat on a cracked stone, forearms resting on his knees, heavy gauntlets dangling loose. His flattened nose twitched once. Silence filled the void between them; no words remained.

  Nixy slid through the shadows toward Geralt. He tracked her approach with a slow, side-eye stare. Nixy flashed a wide grin and held her hands out, palms open. She leaned in, her proximity forcing a twitch from the dwarf's flattened nose, and whispered into his ear. Geralt's eyes blazed. The muscles in his thick forearms corded and his eyelids flickered, but he remained silent. Nixy noted the reaction and withdrew, her grin never fading.

  Rowan’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his greatsword, the leather creaking under the pressure. His gaze snapped toward Nixy, sharp as a blade drawn from its sheath. "What did you tell him?"

  Nixy stood her ground. She tilted her head; her oversized ears twitched to a rhythm only she heard. Her grin remained fixed. Her long fingers tapped against her thighs, twice, mimicking the motion of a thief weighing a coin. "Oh, just the usual," she drawled, voice light as a feather but edged with something sharper. "You know how it is. Geralt’s got that look about him. The kind that says he’d rather chew rusted nails than listen to another word from you."

  Rowan ground his teeth. The scar along his jaw whitened, stretching tight. "Don’t play games with me, cutpurse."

  Tarian’s tail lashed the damp stone. His amber eyes caught the torchlight; vertical pupils tightened into slits as he tracked the exchange. "Speaking of games," Tarian rumbled, "Geralt left." He watched Rowan. "While you two stood there staring each other down."

  Rowan pivoted his head. The movement carried the slow, cold weight of a blade leaving its sheath. "Gone?" it was true, Geralt was nowhere to be seen. He fixed his unblinking stare back on Nixy. "What did you tell him?" Rowan ground the words through clenched teeth.

  Nixy shrugged. Her grin remained fixed. "Does it matter?"

  "He’s not here," she said. "If he’s smart, he won’t be back." She tilted her head. "You really think he’s the type to stick around because of your little speech?"

  Nixy laughed. The sound sharp and sudden, it sliced through the silence. "Oh, Rowan. You do have a way with words." She leaned back against the cavern wall, arms crossed, but her fingers still twitched, restless. "But, that hunk of stone wouldn't listen to you. Forget about him."

  Rowan spat, "You!" he stood up, grabbing his greatsword by hilt. Nixy’s shoulder twitched, a tremor she suppressed before the others could register it. Rowan bypassed her. He marched toward the cave entrance instead.

  Nixy snorted, "You won't catch up to him. You are not a tracker, Rowan. Give up! We are not your team, nor are we your followers." The cave swallowed her voice. Rowan marched into the dark. His iron-shod boots hammered the stone until the rhythm vanished into the depths of the tunnels.

  Nixy slammed her heel into the dirt. She whipped her head around, pinning Tarian with a jagged stare. "What you looking at Split-Tongue?"

  Tarian’s vertical pupils narrowed. His tongue flicked the air, tasting the scent of her irritation. He offered no retort. Instead, he retreated to the corner where the burnt cinders lay scattered. He settled his massive frame into the shadows and closed his eyes. Nixy’s grumbling echoed alone against the cold stone.

  Rowan strode into the tunnels; his heavy boots struck the damp stone with a rhythmic thud. The distant clash of steel and a roar punctuated the gloom. Nixy had provoked a fight. Geralt never moved with such urgency unless battle called, yet he had vanished into the darkness with uncharacteristic haste.

  "Damn demihumans," Rowan cursed, the words a low growl escaping his tight lips. Managing one lizardfolk was already difficult enough. Now, the half-goblin already showed her chaotic nature. He muttered a wish to the Lord of Light, hoping a holy smite would strike down the heathens.

  Runewright Society. Only that could lure the ever-doubting dwarf away. The dwarf had a history. Rowan remembered his recruiter's words. Geralt, once a grunt for the Runewright Society, had hoped to learn their rune craft. They denied him, repeatedly, because he was a Fighter, not an Artisan. He snapped. He killed those who slighted him, then vanished into the Undermantle. When he resurfaced, he was a Tier 3 Pugilist.

  This was payback for the old grudge. He had warned Geralt before, told him not to go looking for them. But the half-goblin, Nixy, had leaked the location. It had to be her.

  Rowan slowed his pace. Moving light flickered at the far end of the tunnel. He placed each step with deliberate care, silencing the heavy strike of his metal boots against the stone. He slipped from the tunnel mouth into the underground clearing.

  A camp lay in ruins. Bodies littered the ground. Skulls were crushed into fragments; blood and grey matter coated the rocks. Rowan tightened his jaw. He had witnessed the butchery of open war, but a single man had achieved this.

  A Tier 3. Rowan adjusted his grip on his blade. Even as a Tier 4 Spellbreaker, he could not replicate this slaughter so quickly unless he faced his natural prey, the Mages. Geralt had worked with a savage, singular efficiency.

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  I wouldn't want to face this guy in close quarters combat. A chill crept up Rowan's back.

  Rowan pivoted right. He hauled his greatsword from its sheath; the blade sang against leather until a heavy metal gauntlet slammed into the crossguard, pinning the steel halfway in the scabbard. Rowan recognized it. He threw himself backward to create distance. His gaze locked on the dwarf. Geralt stood in the shadows Rowan had just vacated, silent and immovable.

  "Care to tell me why?" Rowan ground his teeth; his jaw muscles corded with the effort of holding back his rage. He slammed the half drawn greatsword back into its scabbard. Red heat flushed his neck while he glared at the dwarf, then shifted his anger toward his own slow reaction.

  Geralt’s voice cut through the silence, flat and unhurried. "What’s it to you? They were our targets too."

  Rowan’s grip tightened on his greatsword’s hilt. "They hadn’t entered the ruins yet. Until they cross that threshold, they’re only prospects. Killing them now means half the bounty."

  "My kill. My coin." Geralt didn’t shift, didn’t blink. No explanation, no apology.

  A pulse throbbed in Rowan’s temple. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Do it your way. But next time, give me a damn warning before you vanish."

  Geralt’s flat gaze held Rowan’s, the dwarf’s slow-moving eyes giving nothing away. He couldn’t tell if the Pugilist was weighing a response, sizing him up, or simply wondering why he’d bothered to ask at all.

  The silence stretched until Rowan’s patience snapped. "Move. Now." His voice cut through the stillness, sharp as his greatsword’s edge. "This place reeks of blood. The Crimson Fangs will be on us before we can draw breath."

  He didn’t wait for Geralt’s response. The dwarf was stubborn, not stupid; no one faced a Tier 5 alone and won.

  The supply tent sagged, its canvas belly swollen with years of dust and damp. A single oil lamp spat yellow light across the warped table, its flame guttering like a dying breath. Haldrix Grimforge crouched over the wood, his brass fingers working the rune stone with the same unshakable certainty that had once shaped mithril.

  Alph remained standing behind him, arms crossed, a silent observer. Every shift of Haldrix’s focus drew the boy’s attention; his dark eyes tracked the precise adjustments of the brass forearm, the faint tremor caused by the rumble of excavation outside. A strange intensity radiated from the youth, a careful scrutiny that suggested more than simple curiosity. Haldrix ignored it, his attention wholly consumed by the stone.

  The tent lacked the familiar roar of the Grimforge’s hearth, the scent of burning coal, the resonant clang of hammer on anvil. But none of that mattered. Not when there was a student before him. Haldrix kept his gaze fixed as the boy's breath hitched at the right moments; his weight shifted when a rune neared completion, revealing everything.

  A gifted Apprentice Crafter was a rare thing. He saw the work; that was rare. Haldrix never wasted potential, no matter the crude surroundings.

  The brass fingers made a final, decisive scrape. Haldrix straightened his spine. Steel and bone popped in a rhythmic sequence. The lantern light caught the fresh grooves of the rune stone, reflecting off the sharp edges in a series of jagged, amber flashes. Alph leaned forward; his gaze locked onto the shimmering geometry of the carving.

  Haldrix’s beard rings pulsed faintly. "Fascinating, eh?"

  Alph’s fingers twitched. "Yes. But what’s it for?"

  Haldrix grunted, brass fingers tapping the stone. "This one? Ha. Useless for anything but making armor shine like a noble’s bauble. Pretty, but no more substance than a child’s drawing."

  Haldrix’s voice softened, his gaze drifting past the rune stone.

  "Back when Varrick was small, he and those two louts outside would storm through the house, playing at heroes." His brass fingers traced the grooves absently. "He’d beg me for these—just to polish his scrap-metal armor until it gleamed. Thought it made him look like some grand knight." A rough chuckle escaped him. "Children and their games."

  Alph’s voice cut through the quiet. "Varrick?"

  Haldrix’s brass fingers stilled. "Aye."

  The old smith’s gaze went distant, his beard rings dimming. His voice dropped, rough as a rusted hinge. "He was happy then."

  Before the accident. He thought to himself.

  Alph asks, "Elder Haldrix, if you don't mind me asking, why did Varrick left his adventuring days and became a smith?"

  The question hit him like a hammer on a cracked anvil—familiar, but this time it didn’t just bounce off. It dug in. Years of dodging it had worn him down, and now the weight of it pressed harder than ever. His research, so close to fruition, made the old scars ache like fresh bruises.

  The old smith’s jaw clenched, his brass fingers digging into the rune stone like he was trying to crush it. Alph just stood there, face open, no judgment in his eyes. No history. No resentment. Just a kid who didn’t know enough to hate him yet.

  It is easier to spill the truth to a stranger than to face the man I broke.

  "I caused it," he sighed. "An accident during my research took my arm. After that, I obsessed over creating an artificial mana core. My mentor failed at it. I wanted to finish it, to prove I was ready for advancement. Years turned into decades. I made no progress."

  Alph said nothing, absorbing it all; Haldrix saw Alph processing the information.

  Haldrix exhaled through his nose, the gold rings in his beard trembling. "That’s when I locked myself below and left Varrick to salvage what was left of the smithy. I don’t regret the work, but I do regret what it cost him."

  His brass fingers tapped the rune stone, the sound sharp in the quiet. "A few months back, my mentor came to see me. Tossed his old notes on the table like a mercy and told me to stop—that it was impossible. Then he walked out." A bitter laugh escaped him. "But I did find a way. All I lack is the final piece. And that ruin… that ruin might..."

  A booming voice cut through the air. "Uncle Haldrix," Thorfin said. He entered, then stopped. "Oh, Alph, you're here too? Good."

  Thorfin turned to Haldrix. "Morna sent word. The archaeology guild finished opening all the entrances. We're ready to enter the ruins." He gestured with his head. "She told us to gather our tools and come to the center. Teacher Urengal has a big speech prepared. We better hurry."

  Haldrix looked at Alph, recognizing worry in the young apprentice's eyes. He nodded. "Alright, you all get to it." Haldrix turned, turning his thoughts to Varrick.

  Just this once. Whether I find it or not, I will not let you ruin your happiness for my sake, my boy.