The following morning, Mud hustled through his morning baking routine

  with Chedda acting as his hectic, over-eager assistant. The little

  Imp had picked up the rhythm with surprising speed, attacking every

  task Mud gave him, from greasing pans to stoking coals, with a manic

  level of gusto.

  Once the biscuits

  were out of the oven and cooling, Mud packed his gear. He had one

  stop to make before meeting Layhla, the market. He needed to find out

  what he could craft with the Black Owl Feathers, any ounce of extra

  defense he could eke out would help in his rematch against the Great

  Boar.

  The Market District

  was drowning in a tidal wave of energy and activity. At this hour,

  the streets were a cacophony of banging shutters and competing shouts

  as shopkeepers hawked their wares to the early morning crowds.

  Villagers bumped shoulders with Travelers who were busy checking and

  preparing their gear for a day outside the city’s walls.

  It was a chaotic,

  sensory overloaded mess, exactly the kind of thing Mud usually tried

  to avoid. Today it was unavoidable. An hour stuck in a crowded area

  was far better than being impaled mercilessly on the tusk of an angry

  pig.

  Mud made his way to

  Sheala’s stall. He arrived just in time to see the attractive

  auburn-haired smith finishing a sale, confidently presenting a

  sparkling, polished buckler to the Traveler. The man nodded eagerly,

  transferred his gold, and walked away with a grin, satisfied with his

  new purchase.

  Sheala noticed him

  approaching her counter, and her eyes brightened. “Hey, big fella!

  You back for a rematch with my leatherwork?”

  Mud looked

  sheepishly at the cobblestones, feeling heat rising in his cheeks.

  “No, not today. I’m actually here about something else.” He

  pulled up his menu and showed her the bundle of black feathers. “I

  got these from a rare monster yesterday. I was told they could be

  used for crafting, but I’m trying to figure out what I can make,

  and how much damage it’s going to do to my pouch.”

  Sheala’s playful

  expression morphed into one of professional interest. She took

  another look at the Black Owl Feathers. “Well now,” she hummed,

  looking impressed. “These are rare, especially around here. Not

  many of those Giant Owls nesting on this island. They’re mostly

  migrants, as far as I’m aware.”

  Mud felt a spark of

  pride. “Excellent. So, what can I use them for?”

  “Nothing,”

  Sheala said flatly.

  Mud’s shoulders

  slumped, his face drooping as his momentary high died.

  Sheala let out a

  boisterous laugh and smacked him on the back. “At least, nothing

  from me. I’m a smith; I don’t mess around too much with feathers.

  You need to see my sister, Oona. She runs the tailor shop about two

  blocks that way.” She pointed toward a colorful awning barely

  visible in the distance. “Tell her Sheala sent you. She’ll take

  good care of you. I swear it.”

  A small brass bell

  jingled as Mud stepped into the tailor shop. The air here was

  different, heavy with the scent of cedar, dry wool, and the faint,

  sweet smell of the dyes. A hulking brute of a woman sat hunched over

  a timber loom, her frame nearly as broad as the machine she worked.

  Behind her, the walls were a vibrant mosaic of hanging silks, sturdy

  linens, and spools of thread in every imaginable hue. Near the

  windows, mannequins stood draped expertly in tailored tunics and

  heavy traveling cloaks.

  “Hello, dear,”

  the woman said without looking up. Her voice was soft and soothing,

  making her seem much older than her face suggested. “Give me a

  moment to finish this row, and I’ll be right with you. Please feel

  free to have a look around.”

  Mud stood,

  transfixed. Her thick, sausage-like appendages danced along her loom

  with the grace and skill of a veteran pianist. There was no wasted

  motion. He marveled at the contrast, seeing so much dexterity in

  someone so large.

  He looked down at

  his own pudgy fingers, clenching and unclenching them. He wondered if

  he could ever reach that level of self-mastery. This was so much more

  than a high Agility stat; this was years of discipline put to

  practice.

  Finishing the row

  with a final snap of the loom, she turned to face him. Her features

  were large, but toned with a soft and radiating kindness that caught

  him off guard. A painful twinge pulled at his chest; for a fleeting

  moment, her expression, and the way she held herself, reminded him of

  his own mother, a memory he usually kept locked away in the darkest

  corners of his mind.

  “Your sister,

  Sheala, sent me,” he said, his voice thicker than intended. “I’m

  looking to have some gear crafted. I have the materials, but I need

  to know the cost.” He opened his menu, and showed her the bundle of

  iridescent black feathers.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Oona leaned in, her

  eyes widening as she gazed at the plumage. “Oh, my. You were able

  to best one of the majestic owls from the northern forests?” She

  looked up at him, a warm, proud smile spreading across her face as

  she gave his shoulder a firm, maternal pat. “What a brave boy you

  must be.”

  Mud felt his ears

  burn. He wasn’t used to being called brave, or honestly, receiving

  any form of praise.

  “Well, you’re

  in luck, dear,” she continued, running a thumb along one of the

  feathers. “These feathers are versatile. They hold a natural

  affinity for wind. It really depends on what you need. A Cloak?

  Robes?” She paused, her gaze taking in his current attire, or lack

  thereof, with a practiced eye.

  “Well…” Mud

  considered his options. “I’m planning to head out today to hunt

  boars. It’s an experience that has been… rough… so far. I was

  hoping to dig up every advantage I could before I step back outside

  of the walls. Is there anything you could craft in just a few hours?”

  “A few hours? You

  fiend!” Oona let out a dramatic gasp, waggling a thick, pudgy

  finger in front of his nose. “You’re trying to work a woman’s

  hands to the bone, and before she has even had noon tea?”

  She saw the flicker

  of disappointment in his eyes and her expression softened. With a

  heavy sigh, she leaned against her loom. “Fine. I could probably

  put together a cloak in that time, far fewer measurements and seams

  to worry about. But you have to make me a deal, and I won’t hear a

  word of argument!”

  “Okay?” Mud

  asked, his voice slow and hesitant.

  “First, if I’m

  making you a custom cloak, that grungy leather chest-piece has to go.

  It’s an insult to my shop, and the way you’re busting out of it

  isn’t doing you any favors.” She gestured to a row of sturdy,

  comfortable looking robes folded neatly on a cedar shelf. “Looking

  at that staff you’re carrying, I assume you’re a caster. I have a

  multitude of sizes available, and I’m certain we can find one to

  fit. They are twelve hundred gold.”

  Mud took a quick

  mental tally of his finances. Between Layhla’s gift and his

  successful biscuit business his pouch was loaded with twenty-five

  hundred gold pieces. And it would be nice to part with the ill

  fitting leather jerkin.

  “Deal, and how

  much for the cloak?” he asked, hoping he had the funds left over.

  “The cloak I will

  make for free,” Oona said, a twinkle in her eyes speaking of

  mischief. “On the condition that you do me a small favor, something

  you can accomplish while I work.”

  Free. It was a

  beautiful word. A strong word. Possibly the best word Mud had heard

  since arriving in Horizon City.

  “Alright.” He

  leaned in. “What do you need?”

  “I have a bit of

  a rat infestation in my warehouse. The little devils are chewing

  through my stock of silks and linens.” Her voice dropped to a

  whisper. Looking Mud in the eye, she hesitated. “I need them gone.

  But… I’d prefer if you didn’t kill them, if at all possible.”

  ***

  This was the place.

  Mud double-checked the hastily scrawled map Oona had given him, then

  reached into the pocket of his new, new robes. The fabric was heavy

  and high-quality, a stark contrast to the rough, ill-fitting leather

  he’d tossed in the trash. He pulled out a small bronze key and slid

  it into the lock.

  The door swung open

  and he was hit by a wave of stale air. In the spilled light from the

  street, he could see high shelves packed with bolts of silk, spools

  of yarn, and crates of thread.

  He raised the Staff

  of Embers, letting the warmth tenderly spread through him, with a

  calm, collected focus. He visualized the heat coiling around the

  grains of wood until the tip sparked, a small, controlled flame

  blooming to life. He used the fire to carefully light the two torches

  mounted on either side of the entrance.

  As the amber light

  filled the warehouse, the silence was broken. He heard the panicked

  skitter of dozens of tiny feet against the floorboards as dark, furry

  shapes bolted for the safety of the shadows.

  He extended his

  hand and summoned his very first companion.

  With a soft flash

  of light, Ricky materialized on the floor beside him. The rat let out

  a happy, high-pitched chitter and immediately nipped playfully at the

  hem of Mud’s new velvet robes, clearly excited to be back at his

  master’s side.

  “Hey, little

  buddy. I’ve got a quest, and I need your help.” Mud scratched the

  soft tuft of fur beneath Ricky’s chin. “A bunch of your cousins

  are in here causing chaos, and we need to convince them to find a new

  home.”

  Ricky tilted his

  head, his black, beady eyes reflecting the torchlight as he processed

  Mud’s request. His pink nose twitched rhythmically, sampling the

  scents of cedar and musk, before his ears perked at a sound only he

  could hear.

  With a squeak, the

  rat bolted into the labyrinth of crates and fabric.

  Mud settled back

  against a shelf, waiting in the heavy shadows of the warehouse. While

  most people feared the dark and the things found in it, he had always

  found a strange sanctuary in the gloom. To him, the darkness felt

  like hiding under a comfy blanket; it provided a sense of security

  that made the rest of the world, and its problems, simply disappear.

  His quiet reverie

  was shattered by a sudden wail. Then came the sound: the urgent

  drumming of multiple sets of tiny clawed feet on the wooden

  floorboards.

  Reacting on

  instinct, Mud flicked his fingers through the air and cast [Eagle

  Eyes]

  The world torpedoed

  forward. His vision fractured and refocused with dizzying speed,

  making the warehouse feel both impossibly immense and minute at the

  same time.

  Through the shifted

  perspective, Mud wasn’t watching the battle; he was in it. He saw

  the world from Ricky’s height; the towering shelves and imposing

  crates loomed like jagged mountain peaks. Standing before him was a

  nightmare, a monstrous, scarred bruiser of a rat, his fur matted with

  filth and a garish, empty socket where one of his eyes had been torn

  away.

  Ricky let out a

  piercing, defiant shriek and launched himself forward.

  The Alpha rat

  swiped with a heavy, hooked claw, but he was far too sluggish to keep

  up with Ricky’s speed and agility. Ricky dove under the strike,

  scrambling up the Alpha’s matted side, and sank his teeth into the

  base of the larger rat’s ear. He thrashed, his small body jerking

  as he tore into the cartilage with grim determination.

  The Alpha roared,

  guttural and deep, whipping his head roughly. Ricky held on like a

  leech, until the violent thrashing finally threw him clear, half of

  the rat’s ear still clamped in his jaws. Ricky hit the floorboards

  hard, sliding in a bloody streak across the wood.

  With a shake of his

  head, he tossed the bloody cartilage onto the floorboards. Ricky

  glared, baring his crimson-coated teeth at his opponent.

  Around them, a

  dozen rodents of varying sizes and colors formed a living, twitching

  arena. Their beady eyes reflected the flickering torchlight as they

  watched the gladiatorial display in heavy, expectant silence. Stuck

  behind Ricky’s eyes, Mud felt every ragged breath and throb of

  pain, helpless as he watched the health bar in the corner of his

  vision flicker and dip dangerously close to the red.

  Ricky huffed, his

  tiny chest heaving as he struggled to draw in air, but he didn’t

  retreat. He was a warrior among his kind, standing his ground in the

  tiny circle.

  Exhaustion finally

  started to claim the Alpha. His movements grew heavier and his head

  began to droop from blood loss. Seeing an opening, Ricky surged

  forward in one final, desperate burst, using every last ounce of

  energy. He bypassed flailing claws and locked his jaws on the Alpha’s

  throbbing jugular.

  There was a violent

  thrash, a sickening spray of red, and then… stillness. Surprise and

  fear faded from the Alpha’s remaining eye as he slumped to the

  floor dead at Ricky’s feet.

  The silence of the

  spectators shattered. The warehouse erupted in a cacophony of

  chitters and frantic squeals. The rats clattered their feet against

  the wood in a deafening uproar.

  They had a new

  king.