"Pompous snake," Garrett muttered, "slithering through Marblehaven's halls of power, leaving corruption in his wake."

  "He seemed... unpleasant," Clive ventured. "What's the history between you?"

  Garrett's laugh was harsh. "Would you believe we were apprentices together? Under the same master?" He shook his head at the memory. "There was a time when his hands could coax beauty from raw iron. His Rose Sword won the Grand Exhibition when we were barely twenty. "

  He ran his fingers through his beard, reminiscing on the memory. "But that craftsman died long ago, replaced by a merchant who values coin above craft. Now, he builds his empire on the broken backs of desperate smiths, stamping his name on their labor while their skills wither from mindless repetition.

  “His methods are ruthlessly efficient; I’ll grant him that much. His workshops run day and night, an army of smiths laboring in relentless shifts. In the time it takes me to craft one masterwork longsword, his assembly lines will have produced a dozen serviceable blades. Not one will match my quality, but most won't know the difference until their life depends on it

  Clive frowned. He was familiar with that type. The type contented to rely on their name rather than craft. The memory of Mikello surfaced - the infamous rockstar of the art world.

  In his prime, Mikello's exhibitions had attracted crowds that wrapped around city blocks. Not just collectors and critics, but beautiful young admirers who screamed his name like he was playing stadiums instead of hanging canvases.

  His early works were divine, evoking emotions no one could name. But fame got the better of him. The artist who once spent eighteen hours perfecting a single shadow now spent his time in VIP lounges, surrounded by a rotating entourage of models and socialites who cared more about being seen with him than seeing his work.

  His studio became notorious for its after-hours debauchery. Stories circulated of wild parties where naked bodies were used as canvases, where expensive pigments were mixed with champagne and drugs that cost more than most artists made in a year.

  Meanwhile, a team of nameless assistants churned out "Mikellos" in the back rooms, mimicking his technique while the master himself stumbled through galleries in leather pants and sunglasses, groupies hanging off each arm as he gave slurred interviews about his "process.”

  When they found Mikello cold in his penthouse studio, needle still in his arm, three half-dressed admirers too intoxicated to realize he had stopped breathing hours earlier, the art world mourned for exactly one week—just long enough for a special memorial auction to break all previous records.

  No, Clive spat. He wouldn’t allow Blackwell to succeed. It would be an insult to all craftsmen.

  "Father Michael still trusts your craftsmanship," Clive pointed out to Garrett. “He praised your works.”

  "For now. But you have seen his methods. Blackwell is nothing if not persistent in vying for influence. He's like water against stone. Gentle, yet given time, he'll carve away the hardest resolve."

  Garrett sighed, lifting his eyes to the ceiling, where a mural of the God of Light gazed down upon them. " How long before even the church's modest standards crumble entirely?"

  “It’s despicable. Does the church truly tolerate this?"

  “Even the righteous can be taught to accommodate small corruptions until they no longer recognize themselves in reflection. Michael once stood against such darkness. Now he stands aside for it."

  "What is Blackwell's goal?" Clive asked as they made their way back through Marblehaven's winding streets.

  Garrett snorted. "The mythril, no doubt. That man's ambition is as bottomless as the mines he claims to own."

  "Is mythril really that valuable?"

  "It’s more than valuable. They say a properly crafted mythril item can hold ten times the magical charge of its steel counterpart. Imagine weapons that channel elemental forces, or armor that makes the wearer near invulnerable. With a mythril monopoly, Blackwell would become the most powerful man in the realm, regardless of who sits on the throne."

  They reached the forge, and Garrett pushed open the heavy wooden door. The familiar heat and scent of coal and hot metal enveloped them. Both men stood in silence, letting the honest simplicity of the workshop wash away the bitter taste of their church visit.

  “Here’s your share of the commission,” Garrett finally broke the silence, handing Clive a bag of gold.

  Clive stared at the bag, his hand hovering midway. “I can’t accept this. Your tutelage was payment enough.”

  “I insist.” Garrett voice was firm. “Unlike Blackwell, I pay my apprentice a fair wage for honest work.”

  With reluctant gratitude, Clive accepted the pouch. Possibilities emerged in his mind, what could he buy with this. But as he was about to keep the pouch in his satchel, the pouch shimmered and vanished into thin air.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  [Artistic purist activated]

  [Bag of gold offered as tribute to Certainty ]

  “Tch..” Clive clenched his teeth.

  Artistic Purist: Driven by the pursuit of artistic truth rather than material gain. (Unable to manifest gold or any form of currency through skills, Unable to sell items manifested through skills)

  [Certainty: Sorry Clive, but the commission was fulfilled through your skills. Accepting payment violates our covenant. Don't fret though, I'll put these coins to excellent use. The divine realm could use a proper celebration. Drinks on me tonight, everyone!]

  Clive could almost hear Certainty’s gleeful voice through the notification. His fingers curled into a fist where the pouch had been. Damn you, Certainty.

  [Certainty: Tsk, tsk. No need to swear. Rules are rules.]

  Clive exhaled slowly. Best to ignore her.

  Clive returned his attention to Garrett, "I’m heading to Shadowfen."

  Garrett's thick eyebrows rose. "Shadowfen? Why would you go to that godforsaken place?"

  "The cure to the stone curse," Clive replied. “Lucia thinks we can find it there, a key ingredient for a potion to reverse the petrification.”

  Garrett’s eyes widen. "You're certain?"

  "Lucia is, and I trust her knowledge of potions more than anyone's."

  Garrett studied Clive for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.

  "That girl has been trying for years now. Always sneaking out of town. But to think she wants to go to the Shadowfen now. You'll need more than courage for Shadowfen. The swamps are treacherous even without the beasts that call them home."

  “What weapons should I bring? I need to be prepared for whatever awaits there.”

  A humorless smile crossed Garrett's face. "Against what dwells in Shadowfen? Steel alone won't save you. But I know someone who might help."

  "Who?"

  "The Hunter's Guild. They guard their knowledge carefully, but they've been mapping Shadowfen's dangers for generations. If anyone knows how to survive that cursed place, it'll be Huntermaster Kell."

  The Hunter’s Guild was in the western quarters of town, a complex of low wooden buildings surrounded by training grounds. The old watchtower there had been meticulously maintained. Narrow windows like archers' slits punctuated the circular structure, offering glimpses of movement within.

  The entrance was marked only by a simple wooden sign bearing the guild's emblem: a bow crossed with a spear over a stylized pawprint.

  A young woman in leather armor guarded the entrance, her observant eyes marking their approach long before they reached the door. She nodded to Garrett with familiarity.

  "Master Garrett," she acknowledged. "Been some time since you've visited us."

  "Aye, Tess. The forge keeps me busy." He gestured to Clive. "This is Clive Weston. He seeks Huntermaster Kell's counsel regarding Shadowfen."

  The woman's eyes narrowed slightly as she assessed Clive. "Shadowfen claims many who underestimate it," she said flatly. "What business do you have there?"

  "Dangerous business. I'd rather not go in blind."

  She considered this, then stepped aside. "Follow the stairs to the third level. The Huntermaster is reviewing reports."

  Huntermaster Kell sat at a round table covered with maps.

  "Garrett," he greeted without rising. "What brings you here today?"

  "Clive here intends to venture into Shadowfen," Garrett explained. “I was hoping you could give him some advice.”

  Kell looked up, studying Clive. “You… you’re that foreigner with Lady Lucia.”

  "I'm her ally," Clive corrected. "And friend."

  Kell's expression didn't change. "What business draws you to Shadowfen, ally of Lady Lucia?"

  “The cure to the stone curse. We believe it lies there.”

  Kell laughed. “A bold assertion. Perhaps even a foolish one. Many things lie within Shadowfen, most of them bones. It consumes the unprepared, leaving nothing left."

  “Then prepare me," Clive challenged.

  Something flickered in Kell's eye. He studied Clive with the gaze of a hunter assessing his target. "Those who seek knowledge must first prove worthy of it."

  "I don't claim to be special, or worthy," Clive said. "But I've seen what the stone curse does. I've watched people I care about risk everything to fight it. What would you have me do, stand idle while Marblehaven turns to a garden of statues?"

  "Pretty words. Lady Lucia has always had a gift for finding allies with silver tongues. Words mean nothing in Shadowfen. Action is the only currency I trade in."

  "Name your price then."

  Kell rose from his seat. "Not price. Proof." He gestured toward a heavy oak door at the far end of the chamber. "Let's see if your abilities match your conviction."

  Clive exchanged a glance with Garrett, who merely shrugged. "Kell's methods are... unconventional, but effective. Better to humor him."

  They descended a spiral staircase, passing several floors of the guild hall. The walls were adorned with trophies, preserved specimens of creatures Clive had never seen before, mounted heads with too many eyes or the wrong number of horns. The deeper they went, the cooler and damper the air became.

  Finally, they emerged into a vast underground chamber. Torches lined the walls, casting shadows across a packed-earth floor. Various training equipment dotted the perimeter—archery targets, wooden dummies scarred by countless blade strikes, and curious contraptions Clive couldn't identify. The ceiling vaulted high overhead, supported by thick wooden beams.

  "This is where we train," Kell announced, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. Several hunters paused their exercises, curious gazes falling on Clive. "Your goal here is simple. Survive for ten minutes."

  Clive's eyes narrowed as he scanned the arena. "And my opponent is?"

  Kell stretched his arms and stepped into the center of the room. "Me. Let's see what Lady Lucia sees in you."

  From the entrance, Garrett chuckled. "Try not to kill him, Kell. Lady Lucia would be most displeased."

  Kell's lips quirked in what might have been a smile. "No promises." He nodded to one of the nearby hunters. "Nyra, time us."

  A red-haired woman with a scar across her cheek stepped forward, producing a small hourglass. "Ready when you are, Huntermaster."

  "I notice you haven't specified any rules," Clive said, slowly backing away to create distance between himself and Kell.

  "Rules? Do you think the Shadowfen cares about your rules? Use whatever means you possess."

  Clive adjusted his grip on his paintbrush, his other hand clutching his color palette. His heart thundered against his ribs as excitement flowed through his veins. He had admired the Huntmaster from afar during the incursion. There was a certain beauty in his fighting style, his strategic way of battle, constantly exploiting his opponent’s weakness.

  Now he had a chance to test how far he was from him.

  "Very well, then. I'm ready." Clive declared as he settled into a fighting stance.

  Kell’s response was to fold his left arm behind his back, adopting a one-armed stance. "The clock begins on your attack."

  The Guild grants no rank to those who speak of prowess—only to those who bleed for it.

  -Hunter's Creed, First Tenet