Ellen’s attempt to find the candles from the remnants in the box failed. She tried a few other spells, but either the candles were protected by some sort of ward too powerful for her to break, or they had all been used up. If it was the former, it didn’t bode well for their chances of finding the summoners. If it was the latter, then they needed to find more people supplying the candles.

  Linar reluctantly agreed to look into it, only relenting when Syril suggested it would give him a good chance to check in on all their competitors and evaluate how flammable their shops appeared to be.

  “You really don’t want to burn down a shop full of reagents,” Ellen said.

  Linar looked back at her confused.

  “Well, I didn’t want to before, but now I kind of want to.”

  “Alright,” Ellen said. “But don’t come to me for help when your skin turns into a viscous liquid and sloughs off your body while your bones transform into jagged crystals puncturing your body from the inside.”

  They all stopped, staring at her in horror.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Was that supposed to be a joke?” Syril asked.

  “No… it happened to my second cousin once removed… and a few other dozen people in the town square back home. After that my fa—the, uh, government relocated all the alchemists and reagents into stone buildings and instituted strict fire safety audits.”

  “Where are you from again?” Linar asked.

  “Aldonia,” she said.

  “Great, remind me never to go there. It doesn’t sound fun,” Linar said, turning to leave.

  “Just don’t burn down any shops!” Ellen called after him.

  Not looking back, he rose his hand in a rude gesture and shouted, “Don’t tell me what to do!”

  Grom and Syril laughed at the retreating rogue.

  “Oh, this is funny?” Ellen said, mimicking the gesture.

  “Well, it was when he did it.” Grom said, leaving the rest unsaid.

  ***

  As Linar investigated, the rest of the group kept busy with their own affairs. Bill recovered from his most recent death the next day and was a little more aloof than normal, staring contemplatively out into the middle distance. As he rarely joined in the conversations, and no one ever asked his opinion on matters, this went largely unnoticed.

  Ellen got wrapped up learning a new spell from her spellbook and rarely showed up for their regular check ins.

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  Eventually, Bill and Grom received word that their armor was ready, and Syril went along with the pair to get the final fit check. He waited outside patently as they were each armored in separate fitting rooms, trying to make small talk with the journeyman blacksmith working at the forge.

  “So… how long have you been a smith?” He asked.

  Ping!

  She looked up irritated at the interruption.

  “Since I was apprenticed as a child,” she answered flatly and then swung her hammer again.

  Ping!

  “Oh, right, right,” Syril said. “Do you enjoy it? Do you ever dream about packing it all up and exploring the world?”

  The hammering stopped, and she looked up at him.

  “Is that a question, or an invitation?” she asked with a stern look.

  Syril looked at her, apron covered in soot and ash, sweaty all over with the definite spell of a forge clinging to her and shuddered.

  She was pretty, but no amount of beauty could make him unsee the grime she had now, even with the aid of magical cleaning.

  “Just idle conversation,” Syril said.

  The smith relaxed.

  “Good, you’re way to old,” she said.

  “What?!” Syril asked, before remembering that he was not Syril, but Rapheal.

  “You’re like fifty,” she said. “I’m half your age.”

  While Syril was in fact fifty, as a half-elf he still normally appeared to be in his early twenties. Despite being in a disguise, the claim that he was in his fifties stung and he nearly dropped the illusion right then and there to show her how young he really looked.

  But he remembered the reason he was in a disguise to begin with and stopped himself from doing that.

  “Oh,” he said. “It’s hard to tell through all the…” he gestured at the mess of her, and part of him felt bad about the pettiness of the jab, but a larger part of him was still seething at being called fifty even though he was actually fifty-four.

  He was saved from further insult by the distinct clang of men walking in armor. Syril turned to the fitting rooms and out walked Grom and Bill, clad head to toe in suits of brilliant plate armor.

  Syril broke out in an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

  “What?” they both asked in unison and then turned to look at each other.

  Both had chosen enameled colors for their plate, as adventurers were wont to do. And while they had looked at these colors together, neither had known what the other had chosen. So, it was to Syril’s delight when he saw that they both had the same shade of black with silver accents.

  Not only were the colors the same, the accent patterns were identical, and beside the giant human Grom looked like a shrunken copy.

  “Why are our armors identical!?” Grom demanded to the master smith.

  “You didn’t want them to match?” he asked confused. “You came in together and placed orders for the exact same thing.”

  There was a clang as Grom tried to rub his head in frustration.

  “How much to change the color?” Grom asked.

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” Bill said. “I like it.”

  The number was given, and it was far larger than Grom had expected, so large in fact, he resigned himself to the jokes that Linar would make when he saw the pair.

  “Let’s just pay and get out of here,” Grom grumbled.

  As they walked away, two apprentice boys ran out, laden with large round objects.

  “Sirs!” they yelled to the retreating adventurers, “You forgot your matching shields!”

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