The first item Hunter inspected with his newly painless Mystic Eye was the dark green leather jerkin Hallara Besk had given him, her gift of protection. He took it in his hands, centered his thoughts, and activated the ability.

  The knowledge came to him smoothly, without resistance. For once, it felt cool, clear, and unobstructed, a far cry from the agonizing blast of burning copper and brine he’d come to expect.

  

  A masterwork of druidic craft, this jerkin is fashioned from alchymically treated leaves harvested from the deepest boughs of the Weald.

  Through secretive rites and infusions, the leaves have been rendered as tough and pliant as cured leather, yet retain their natural flexibility and uncanny lightness.

  The overlapping pattern of the verdant plates allows for free movement without sacrificing protection, offering a careful balance between agility and defense.

  The infused material is also self-repairing, slowly regenerating over time when exposed to sunlight or ambient natural Essence.

  That came as a surprise. Hunter leaned in for a closer look and, sure enough, the jerkin wasn’t made of leather at all, but of layered, unnaturally tough leaves. Intrigued, he drew his dirk and made a small, careful cut. The blade barely left a mark, and as soon as he sheathed it, he could swear the faint scratch had already begun to fade.

  He tried it on, slipping the jerkin over his shirt. The fit was snug but comfortable, and as he adjusted the straps, he was struck by how little it weighed. It was so light and flexible he barely felt it at all, more like wearing a second layer of clothing than armor. If the newly-appointed alderman of the Hawk Nation knew what kind of gifts Hallara had given Hunter, he’d probably get conniptions.

  Smiling smugly at the thought, Hunter moved on to the third gift, the gift of growth—the Spiritwalker Brew.

  

  A viscous, dark amber liquid stored in a stoppered clay vial, the Spiritwalker Brew is a sacred mixture used in rites of passage. Brewed from a variety of rare herbs and the fermented sap of the dreambark tree, it carries a sharp, earthy scent with bitter, metallic undertones.

  Thick and acrid on the tongue, the brew is known for its powerful hallucinogenic properties—strong enough to untether the mind from the body and plunge the drinker into a shamanic vision-state.

  Traditionally consumed by Brennai Aspirants seeking to ascend to the Copper Rung, it induces a spiritual journey of introspection, where one may commune with the spirit of an Ancestor for guidance.

  Side-effects may cause disorientation, nausea, diarrhea, or temporary Essence instability, lasting up to three days. Best consumed in a controlled environment.

  Hallara had advised him not to use the Spiritwalker Brew until he was well on his way to reaching the Copper Rung, and Hunter could see why. From the description alone, it was clear the stuff was the Brennai equivalent of ayahuasca.

  Hunter had never been a huge fan of mind-altering substances stronger than the occasional puff of the devil’s lettuce, and even that, he’d only indulged in now and then. Which was to say, he was almost glad he was nowhere near the Copper Rung. He tucked the clay vial deep into his backpack with no intention of using it anytime soon, then turned his thoughts to what he’d examine with Mystic Eye next.

  The answer was obvious: Fawkes’s parting gift still lay by the rest of his gear, untouched and waiting to be opened. Sooner or later, Hunter would have to rip that band-aid off. Might as well do it now. He reached for the sabretache, its worn leather darkened by years of travel and use.

  It was a kind of satchel a cavalry officer might’ve carried, compact and sturdy, meant to hold maps, tools, and messages close to the hip. Hunter turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of its contents shift. The flap was secured by a brass clasp shaped like a stylized moon-and-star. With a quiet sigh, he undid it and looked inside.

  There were three items there; two thick notebooks and what looked like an old studded leather bracer. Hunter picked up the first notebook and flipped it open. Its pages were blank, all but the first. There, in midnight-black ink and that flowing, deliberate handwriting of hers, was a letter. His stomach dropped with a sinking feeling as he began to read, the weight of her words pressing in before he’d even reached the second line.

  

Dear Hunter,

  By the time you read this, I will probably be long gone. I sincerely hope that we parted ways amicably, and that you do not blame me too much for my decision. It is for the best; of that, I am convinced.

  I won’t say any more, because this is not goodbye. If you wish to (and I really hope that you do), we can remain in correspondence through this here notebook and the Arsenal Bracer I left you along with it.

  It’s time I told you how to perform that sleeve trick, after all—the one where I make all manner of items appear or vanish from seemingly the thinnest air.

  The Arsenal Bracer, you see, is an artifact every man or woman of the Lodge possesses, passed down from master to apprentice. This one, in particular, belonged to Reiner. I hope it serves you just as well as it did him (and it did serve him well, all the way to the bitter end).

  What the bracer does is provide access to a kind of otherworldly vault. Think of an index word as you’re holding or touching an item, and you can transport it to that vault, to be safely stored away. Think of the item and the index word, and you can retrieve it. It might prove to be challenging at first, but in time you will be able to make things appear or disappear up your sleeve as easily as any magician.

  There are four things to keep in mind:

  One—it is imperative that you remember the index words. Along with this here notebook, I am leaving you a second one to use as your so-called logbook. Write your index words down there so you don’t forget them. I’ve taken the liberty of including a few entries already, which means, yes, you can use them to retrieve the corresponding items. They are yours to do as you please with.

  Two—the otherworldly vault is a shared one. Anyone who possesses an Arsenal Bracer can retrieve any item stored within it, provided they know the correct index word. This means it can be used to transfer items between those of the Lodge. In fact, this is how we will correspond (again, if you so choose). As long as you store this here notebook using the index word I have already written down in your logbook, I will be able to retrieve it and respond to any message you leave inside.

  Three—it goes without saying that your index words should be coded, complex, and secure, lest your stored items are claimed by another. Over the years, many of the bracers are believed to have fallen into unscrupulous hands or worse. Conversely, this is the reason why the logbooks of those of the Lodge are much sought-after and considered of great value. Even the least of them might grant access to a trove of gear or treasure, and even items and weapons better left forgotten. It might be worth your time to keep an eye out for any you come across, just in case.

  Finally, four—for reasons unknown or poorly understood, any item containing Essence that has not been properly sealed or stabilized will rapidly become corrupted. Those grisly Essences and reagents you so covet for your Transient magics, for example—I strongly advise against storing them in the bracer’s vault.

  I shall stop here, for this letter has become far drier reading than I originally intended. I hope that you will write back to me; simply turn a page, pen your reply, and store the notebook back into the bracer’s vault using the index word you’ll find in the logbook. I shall eagerly await your response.

  Still, if you choose not to correspond, I will understand. In that case, let me use this opportunity to thank you once more, and wish you all the best, in this world and in yours both. Do not forget this old, hard-bitten swordstress, for she will certainly not forget you.

  Yours as ever,

  F.

  P.S. Please take good care of the mutt. Give him all my love.

  Hunter placed a hand on the direwolf for comfort as he read the letter. A sharp, aching weight settled in his chest; not quite grief, not quite longing, but something tangled between the two. It had only been two days since they parted, yet her absence felt vast, like a silence that refused to be filled.

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  He would respond, it time—of course he would—but not yet. Much as his heart told him to write back to her right then and there, his head told him otherwise. A bit of distance would do them both good, help put things in perspective. Eager to keep his mind occupied with something more grounded, he picked up the other notebook, his new logbook, and flipped through the entries Fawkes had left for him.

  There was a long list of gear, supplies, and trinkets, each paired with its corresponding index word in Fawkes’s precise hand. A tent, bedrolls, rope, and hooks. Writing supplies and blank notebooks. An extra cloak. A bullseye lantern, as well as enough oil to keep it burning for a good long while. Candles. Cold weather clothing. A medley of odds and ends for life on the road.

  There was money, too; both in the foam-colored beads used by the Brennai and in various foreign coinage. Reiner’s old saber. A set of whetstones. Blade oil. A jar of Trollblood Salve. A couple of bottles of spirits. A handful of pyrrophoric pellets. Waterskins filled with clean water. A bag of hard tack and travel rations, along with a note promising to replenish its contents as often as possible.

  In a word, it was a care package, something Fawkes had assembled as a quiet way of saying she cared. Hunter couldn’t hold back a few silent tears. He lowered his head, fingers digging deeper into the slumbering direwolf’s fur, grateful for the warmth and the company. He wasn’t used to it, to people caring about him. Not like that.

  Her departure still felt too raw, and Hunter did his best not to linger on it. He was already feeling low enough as it was. Fawkes wouldn’t want that anyway, not the moping, not the melancholy. If she were there and caught him brooding like this, she’d hit him with some sharp-tongued remark and follow it up with a swift kick in the pants. Maybe literal. Probably deserved.

  In an attempt to snap out of it, Hunter picked up the Arsenal Bracer. It was crafted from well-worn, dusky leather, supple but weathered, with the kind of creases that spoke of long years and hard use. Sturdy yet lightweight plates were affixed along the outer edge, made of a dull, matte metal he couldn’t quite identify. Neither iron nor steel, but something stranger, they bore faint etchings worn nearly smooth with time.

  It gave off a quiet aura of utility and weighty purpose; Hunter could almost feel the long history woven into it, as if the bracer still carried the echoes of those who’d worn it before, passed down from one Lodge member to the next.

  Eager to learn more, he reached out to it with his mind and activated Mystic Eye. With the owl pendant there to shield his mind from the backlash, using the ability was already starting to feel like a second nature.

  Then the bracer’s truth surged toward him, and he knew he’d made a mistake.

  A torrent of knowledge flooded Hunter’s mind, the pendant not strong enough a filter to hold it back. Along with it came something more: flashes of thoughts, fragments of memories, drifting notions from those who had carried the Arsenal Bracer before him. A long line of men and women of the Lodge, their lives and legacies crashing over him too fast, too vivid, too intense to follow.

  And at the end of that line… a presence?

  He peered toward that murky depth, drawn by a pull he couldn’t name—

  —and something peered back.

  

  Your mind has brushed against the lingering will of the Host of the Lodge. Something old now knows your name. Your Insight quality is now 9.

  Then the familiar copper-and-brine shock of the backlash hit him, setting his head ablaze from the inside out and yanking him back to the here and now. Still stunned, he reached for a handkerchied to staunch the blood flowing freely from his nose. Fyodor, spooked awake by the scent of blood and whatever had just rattled his companion, jumped to his feet and started sniffing at the air.

  “It’s alright, boy,” said Hunter, one hand stroking the direwolf’s flank, the other pressing the crimson-stained handkerchief to his nose. “It’s all good.”

  Hovering at the edge of his vision, the results of the inspection lingered, waiting to be read.

  

  This relic of the Lodge has passed from master to apprentice through unbroken generations.

  Constructed from weathered leather and fitted with plates of an unknown, Essence-conductive metal, it serves as more than just a piece of armor. It is also the key to a shared vault beyond the bounds of mundane space.

  Those who wear it may store and retrieve items from this otherworldly armory using personally encoded index words. The vault is vast, but not private; all Arsenal Bracers are linked to the same extradimensional space, making caution and secrecy paramount.

  Artifact—heirloom. Requires attunement.

  Lodge (suffix): The bracer holds a psionic imprint of every hand that has worn it. Attunement to the bracer deepens over use, and may grant unpredictable insight or residual memories from previous wielders.

  The first part revealed nothing Fawkes hadn’t already told him in her letter; in fact, it said even less. It was the latter part that unsettled him, the mention of unpredictable insight and residual memories. And the cryptic Insight notification about the Host of the Lodge, and something old now knowing his name? What the hell was that all about?

  There was only one thing Hunter felt certain of: Fawkes hadn’t known about any of that. If she had, she would’ve warned him. Or, more likely, she wouldn’t have left him the bracer at all.

  The question was, should he use it?

  He briefly considered burying it at the bottom of his backpack, right alongside the mummified Kannewik head, the Essence of It That Whispers, and a handful of other grisly things he’d rather not be reminded he was still carrying around.

  On the other hand, the bracer’s utility was undeniable. It was the wearable equivalent of a bottomless bag of holding, and it came preloaded with half an expedition’s worth of gear and supplies; that alone was incredible. The fact that it effectively allowed him to stay in touch with Fawkes and trade items across vast distances in virtually no time was just the cherry on top.

  Risks or no risks, the Arsenal Bracer was simply too good to pass up.

  After all, it was only because he’d used Mystic Eye on the artifact that he’d been made aware of its more concerning properties. Fawkes, Reiner, and who-knew-how-many others in that guild of theirs had been using the bracers for decades, maybe centuries. Most of them had probably been none the wiser, and, as far as he knew, nothing bad had happened to them.

  Well… not because of the bracers, at least.

  His mind made up, Hunter slid the bracer onto his left forearm, secured the straps, steadied his thoughts, and began attuning to it.

  This time, the process came a bit easier to him; he let his Essence flow into the old leather and strange metal, reaching for the enchantment inside it, looking for the thread that would bind it to him.

  Regardless, becoming attuned to the Arsenal Bracer proved to take significantly longer than to the Ivory Owl Pendant. He fed it a steady stream of his Essence, and the artifact drank it without ever seeming sated, pulling him into a trance-like state as the bond slowly began to take shape. By the time the process was complete, it was already mid-afternoon, and Hunter’s Essence reserves were bled dry. Fyodor was still by his side, perfectly content with getting to spend the day napping next to his favorite human.

  A quick glance at his notifications confirmed it: he was now successfully attuned to the Arsenal Bracer of the Lodge, with one attunement slot still remaining. Interestingly, the process had been intense enough to push his Artifact Handling Skill all the way up to 6.

  The bracer itself seemed to have subtly reshaped around his forearm during the attunement. It fit so perfectly now that Hunter could barely tell if he had it on, like it had always been a part of him.

  Just as Fawkes had warned in her letter, storing and retrieving items from the Arsenal Bracer’s extradimensional vault proved to be no simple matter, at least not at first. It took Hunter nearly a quarter of an hour just to successfully recall a single case of writing supplies. The process also required Essence, and Hunter was completely tapped out for the day.

  “Alright, then,” he said to Fyodor, rising to his feet. “I’ll be off to lunch for a few hours. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, okay?”

  The direwolf let out a massive yawn, blinking up at him with groggy eyes, and Hunter turned his focus to Biggs and Wedge. The two ravens had been exploring the surrounding area, keeping an eye for anything out of the ordinary. Hunter reached out to them through their shared telepathic link to let them know he’d be going away for a while, then logged out.

  He was supposed to be offline, getting some rest and recuperation, and he still had a lot of catching up to do.

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