Chapter 1

  The pickaxe felt wrong in my hands. Always had, always would. I swung it against the shallow seam, watching chips of copper ore scatter across the tunnel floor. Behind me, old Thorek huffed and wheezed, his beard grey as winter stone.

  "Yer form's shite, boy."

  "I know." I wiped sweat from my brow, the lantern casting our shadows long against the rough-hewn walls. I'd been working these shallow tunnels for three years now, ever since the Elders finally let me try my hand at proper mining work on my twenty-seventh nameday. They'd relented after two decades of pestering. 'Work' was generous though. This shaft barely qualified as a scratch in Etem'arda's skin.

  "Copper won't dig itself." Thorek shuffled past, his own pickaxe swinging with the muscle memory of six centuries. The old bastard could probably mine in his sleep. "And stop thinkin' so loud. Can hear yer brain grindin' from here."

  I returned to the seam. Swing, chip, swing, chip. The rhythm never came naturally. It did for proper dwarves born with stone in their blood and iron in their bones.

  I wasn't proper though, was I?

  The coin purse at my belt held three years of careful saving. Forty-two silver pieces. Enough for the brewing kit I'd been eyeing with a handful left over for ingredients. Every copper piece earned from these pathetic shallow tunnels, hoarded against the day I could finally attempt something that felt right.

  The memories haunted me still. Not of this life, crawling through the Clan Durn-Kahl nursery with the other whelps. The other life. The one before. Fluorescent lights and car horns and the smell of coffee from a paper cup. I'd been someone else once. Somewhere else. The details had faded over thirty years, worn smooth like a river stone. The wrongness remained though.

  "Oi!" Thorek's bark echoed off the walls. "That's enough fer today. Sun'll be down soon."

  "Sun's always down in here."

  "Don't get clever with me, whelp."

  He called me that even though I'd saved enough. The full brewing kit waited in the merchants' quarter, every piece selected over months of careful consideration. My hand went unconsciously to the copper ring I wore on a leather cord beneath my shirt. The only thing that had come with me when I was found. No clan marks, no identifying features, just plain copper worn smooth by thirty years of handling. The Elders had given it back to me when I turned fifteen, along with the story of how I'd been found bundled in rough wool outside the eastern gates during a harsh winter.

  We emerged from the shaft into the Clan Hall proper, where cooking fires painted the vaulted ceiling in dancing orange. The smell of roasting goat and fermented barley made my stomach growl. Dozens of dwarves milled about, their voices a constant rumble punctuated by laughter and the occasional crash of mugs.

  "Gosdrunli!" Young Brakka bounded over, fifty-eight years old and still full of that puppyish energy the truly young possessed. "Heard you finally scraped together the coin fer that kit. Gonna brew something proper?"

  "Gonna try."

  "Ha! Better than the swill old Murnick calls ale." Brakka lowered his voice, glancing around the Hall. "Yer really leavin' when yer hundred-twenty?"

  The question hung between us. Everyone knew. The Elders had never hidden it, never been cruel about it. Just matter of fact. I wasn't Clan Durn-Kahl by blood, so when I reached maturity, I'd venture out. Every dwarf did it. Found their trade, made their fortune, maybe came back, maybe didn't.

  "That's the way of things."

  "Aye. Ninety years is a long time though."

  "Is it?" I thought of my previous life, how quickly those years had slipped past. Here, time moved differently. Slower. Dwarves didn't rush. Couldn't afford to when you had centuries ahead.

  Brakka clapped me on the shoulder and wandered off towards the food, leaving me standing in the Hall's organised chaos. I pushed through the crowd, heading for the quieter corridors that led to the apprentice quarters. My room was barely a room. More of a carved alcove with a curtain. It was mine though, and tomorrow, it would hold my kit.

  I pulled the curtain shut and lit the small oil lamp bolted to the wall. My workbench sat empty, waiting. I'd spent years practising with borrowed pots and communal equipment, sneaking time in the Hall kitchens when the cooks weren't looking. Tomorrow would be different though. Tomorrow I'd have my own equipment, and I could brew whenever inspiration struck without begging for access.

  I sat on my stool and pulled out my notebook, one of my few luxuries. Proper paper was costly. I'd located a merchant who sold damaged sheets at a bargain though. The pages were stained and torn along the edges, perfectly functional for recipe notes.

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  Dreamcap Ale - First Attempt

  Goal: Create something marketable. Prove the concept.

  Base: Standard cavern barley ale

  Additions: Dreamcap mushrooms (how many?), bitterleaf, sweetroot

  Magical infusion: Enhanced dreams, mild euphoria

  Expected sale price: 8-10 silver per bottle?

  The question marks multiplied as I wrote. I'd need to test ratios carefully. Elder Grimda had been teaching me rune work since I was fifteen, two-hour sessions every Seventhday after mining practice. She'd noticed my affinity for magical infusion and decided someone ought to make sure I didn't blow myself up. The lessons had been gruelling. They'd given me something the other foundling children didn't have though. A skill that was mine. I closed the notebook and extinguished my lamp, reclining onto my bedroll in the darkness.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'd buy the kit and begin.

  The merchants' quarter was busy when I arrived the next morning, my coin purse heavy at my belt. Forty-two silver pieces. A fortune by apprentice standards. The brewing equipment merchant was a stout dwarf named Gornik, his stall packed with copper pots, ceramic jugs, oak barrels, and more specialised tools. I'd been visiting for months, asking questions, examining his wares.

  "Ah, the foundling brewer." Gornik grinned, showing gold teeth. "Finally got the coin together?"

  "Aye. The full kit we discussed."

  "Right then." He began pulling items from his shelves. "Copper pot, medium size. Oak barrel, quarter-cask. Six ceramic jugs, reinforced. Muslin straining cloth, double-layer. Bronze stirring rod. Corking tools and wax." I watched him lay everything out, my heart pounding.

  "Thirty-eight silver for the lot. That's the price we agreed on, and I'm holdin' to it."

  I counted out the coins, watching my savings evaporate. Thirty-eight silver pieces. Three years of work. Gone in moments. Worth it though. Worth every copper.

  Gornik helped me pack everything into a canvas sack. "You need ingredients too? Got some basic herbs if yer interested."

  "What've you got?"

  "Bitterleaf, sweetroot, hopvine. Standard brewing herbs. Two silver gets you enough for ten bottles."

  I hesitated. That would leave me with only two silver. Barely anything.

  "I'll take it."

  He packaged the herbs in paper bundles whilst I counted out two more silver pieces. Forty silver spent. Two remaining. I hauled my purchases back to my quarters, arms aching from the weight. The copper pot alone was substantial. When I finally pushed through my curtain and set everything on my workbench, exhaustion and exhilaration warred within me. This was it. My chance. I arranged everything carefully. Copper pot, aged oak barrel the size of my torso, ceramic jugs, muslin cloth for straining, and the herbs Gornik had sold me. I'd been growing dreamcap mushrooms in secret behind the Hall's refuse heap for months, so I had those ready.

  Magic hummed beneath my fingertips as I traced the purification rune across the copper pot's surface. The metal gleamed, impurities lifting away like morning mist. Simple cantrip. Children's magic. I'd practised it relentlessly over the years though, along with infusion techniques that could coax flavours from the most stubborn ingredients.

  Elder Grimda's teaching had been worth the effort. Fifteen years of lessons had given me precision in runework that most apprentices lacked. I measured out barley into the pot, my hands steady. Water next, purified with another whispered rune. The liquid shimmered, every trace of mineral and sediment settling to the bottom. I could have bought purified water from the Hall stores. Where was the satisfaction in that though?

  The herbs came last. Bitterleaf for depth, sweetroot for balance, and a pinch of dreamcap because I was feeling ambitious. The infusion rune required more concentration. I pressed my palm flat against the pot's side, feeling the warmth of the metal, and spoke the words Elder Grimda had taught me when I was twenty. Power flowed from my core, down my arm, into the brew. The herbs dissolved, their essences spreading through the liquid in spiralling patterns visible only to my mage-sight. Green and gold and deep purple, swirling together until they achieved perfect harmony.

  I slumped back against the wall, breathing hard. Infusion work always left me wrung out like wet cloth. Footsteps brought someone to my curtains.

  "Showin' off again?"

  Elder Grimda's voice made me jump. The old crone stood in my doorway, curtain pushed aside, her silver beard braided with amber beads that clicked when she moved.

  "Just practising."

  "Practising, he says." She shuffled closer, peering into my pot with eyes that had seen seven hundred years of foolishness. "Yer infusion's too strong. Dreamcap'll give whoever drinks this the worst headache since Thorek fell off the ale wagon."

  "I can adjust it."

  "Course you can. Yer a natural at this, boy." She settled onto my spare stool with a grunt. "Didn't spend fifteen years teachin' you rune work just to watch you burn someone's brain out with dreamcap." There it was again. That casual reminder of how much time she'd invested in me.

  "I'll manage."

  "Aye, reckon you will." Grimda's gnarled fingers drummed against her knee. "Always been strange about you. Good strange, mind. Strange though. Like yer mind's somewhere else half the time."

  My heart stuttered.

  "Just thinkin' about recipes."

  "Recipes." She snorted. "Right. Well, keep yer thinkin' focused on that brew. And remember, lad. Being orphaned don't make you less. Different's worth something in this world."

  She heaved herself up and shuffled out, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my too-strong dreamcap infusion.

  I stared at the pot, watching steam curl towards the ceiling.

  I found three empty bottles buried in my clothes chest, relics from previous purchases at the merchants' quarter. The glass clinked as I arranged them on my workbench.

  The brew had cooled enough to handle. I ladled the amber liquid through muslin cloth into the first bottle, watching the herbs strain away. The colour was perfect. Rich gold with hints of copper that caught the lamplight.

  Second bottle filled. Third. I corked them with wax stoppers, sealing each with a preservation rune that would keep the contents fresh for months.

  The moment my finger lifted from the final rune, the world exploded into light.

  Words blazed across my vision in script that definitely wasn't dwarven. My heart hammered against my ribs as I read:

  BREW ANALYSIS COMPLETE

  Dreamcap Ale - Apprentice Quality

  Alcohol Content: 7.2%

  Magical Infusion: Moderate

  Effects: Moderate euphoria, enhanced dreams, temporary headache

  Market Value: 1 gold per bottle

  Brewing Experience Gained: 250 XP

  The text hung there like fire against my retinas. I blinked hard, willing it away. More information scrolled past though:

  Current Level: Apprentice Brewer (Level 1)

  Next Level: 250/1000 XP

  What in the Mountain Fathers' name was happening to me?