Chapter Twenty-Four

  What in the Hell

  I press my hands into the cool, damp clay, feeling it squish between my fingers as Shaq’Rai’s voice hums in my head.

  The clay’s gritty, wet—sticks under my nails—but I roll it between my palms, shaping it into something solid. Muscle memory takes over, but my mind drifts. I can almost hear Grandpa’s gravelly voice, full of that no-nonsense tone.

  He wasn’t no bricklayer—just the kind of man who thought elbow grease could fix damn near anything.

  I press my thumb into the clay, smoothing out the cracks, then set the brick on the drying rack. It ain’t perfect, but it holds.

  A soft chime pings in my head. A notification hovers just at the edge of my vision. “Well, shit,” I mutter, smirking. I swipe the message away with a thought. One brick down—‘bout a hundred more to go.

  I flick open my blueprint menu, the interface popping up in my HUD. The forge’s skeleton blueprint hovers there—translucent lines crisscrossing where stone and metal’ll go.

  I blow out a slow breath. “Still got a helluva road ahead.”

  Cracking my knuckles, I square my shoulders. “Alright. Back to it.”

  The world stretches out beyond the half-finished forge—wild, raw, waiting. Everything I need’s right here. Just gotta put in the work.

  The breeze carries the scent of roasted veggies from the fire pit—peppers, maybe a few mushrooms, though I wouldn’t put it past Ember to of swiped them first.

  Here’s something strange:

  The raccoons? They shed their broccoli tails. The squirrels? They've got moss growing on theirs. It isn’t edible, not at first. It does have its uses though. I’ve made ointments with it, brewed up teas, even potions that fight poison.

  And let’s not forget Mr. Spuds—he’s the one who can deuce out fingerling potatoes whenever he feels like it.

  The crackle of burning wood hums in the background, but another sound catches my ear—a frantic splorp, followed by high-pitched chittering. I sigh, already knowing what I’m about to see.

  Sure enough, Twitch and Sprocket—the two squirrels with more energy than sense—are deep into their new obsession: a basin of wet clay. Twitch, the thinner one, is buried in it, flinging clumps every which way. Sprocket, the smarter of the two, is shaping a lump, though whether he’s trying to make art or just making a mess, I’m not sure yet.

  “You two ain’t supposed to be in there,” I drawl, adding another brick to the wall of my forge. “That’s building material, not a squirrel spa.”

  Twitch ignores me, not surprising. Sprocket, though, pauses just long enough to flick his tail, then goes back to what he was doing.

  I shake my head and place another brick. A good forge needs a solid foundation. Patience, like a slow-cooked stew, makes the best results.

  Another splorp. Another chunk of clay flings through the air, landing on my shoulder.

  I close my eyes and take a slow breath. “Twitch…” I warn, voice low.

  There’s a pause, then a squirrel-sized snicker. “Sorry, boss.”

  I sigh and wipe the clay off with the back of my arm. “You’re lucky you’re cute, y’know that?”

  Sprocket chitters in agreement. “Yep, he sure is.”

  Twitch flings another pawful, grinning wide. “Aww, shucks.”

  Yeah. This forge is going to take a while.

  I press the last brick into place, feeling the rough, dry clay scrape against my fingertips. Shaq’Rai chime in my mind.

  A shimmer ripples over the forge—quick, subtle—before it settles into place. It ain’t pretty, but it’s solid. Built with my own two hands. There’s a kind of simple pride in that.

  I lean back, wiping sweat off my brow as a warm breeze cuts through the lingering heat. The forge hums, low and steady, like it’s been here all along. This world might be a sandbox, but every stone, every nail— to shape.

  Pulling up my crafting menu, I scroll through the new recipes unlocked now that the forge’s up and running. Rows of options bloom before me.

  I let out a low whistle. “Now we’re talkin’.”

  But before I can savor the moment, another prompt.

  “Course,” I mutter, jaw tightening.

  I glance toward camp. “Ember!”

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  Silence.

  I scan the clearing. No sign of her.

  Movement.

  Edge of camp.

  A shadow flickers between the trees, low and careful. Deliberate. Like a fox slipping through tall grass. I don’t turn my head, don’t give it away. But I see her.

  Ember.

  She’s pressed tight against a boulder, her small frame melting into the dappled light. Eyes locked on me. Watching. Waiting.

  I roll my shoulders, pretending I don’t have a little demon stalking me from the underbrush.

  She starts crawling.

  Slow. Steady. Quiet as mist. Gotta admit—she’s got skill. Barely rustles a leaf, hands and knees sliding over the dirt like she was born to it. Almost makes me proud.

  Almost.

  Then she hits the fire pit.

  Her butt pops straight up, tail twitching, wiggling like a squirrel digging for a nut.

  Lord help me.

  I press my lips together, fighting a laugh. Not exactly the height of grace. Then again… do demons even care about decency? Probably not.

  Though... she does have a habit of using me as a pillow at night.

  I rub a hand down my face.

  Do I call her out? Let her stew in her sneaky little mission? Or save her from making a bigger fool of herself?

  She wiggles again.

  Yeah, that’s enough.

  “Y’know,” I say, all casual-like, “if you’re gonna skulk around camp like a little shadow, might wanna get that tail under control. Dead giveaway.”

  She freezes.

  Gotcha.

  Ember turns around slow, cheeks puffed out like a pufferfish mid-bluff. Lips pressed tight. Eyes darting, weighing her odds of escape.

  Then Sprocket—one of my ever-troublesome squirrels—scurries up her shoulder, tiny paws gripping her hoodie for balance. He leans in, whiskers twitching, suspicion practically radiating off him.

  “Hey…” His high-pitched voice cracks with indignation. “Are those nuts in your mouth?”

  I blink.

  “What in the hell?”

  Ember squeaks—half choke, half gasp—scrambling to swallow whatever she’s hoarding before I can call her out.

  I sigh, reach over, and pluck Sprocket up by the scruff. He dangles midair, paws twitching in outrage. “Alright, buddy, time-out for you.”

  “Boss!” Twitch—Sprocket’s equally chaotic partner—yells from atop a crate. “The mushrooms!”

  My gut sinks.

  I turn. The glowing mushrooms I set aside for tonight’s stew? Gone. Not a stem left.

  My gaze snaps back to Ember.

  She shifts on her feet, dirt kicking up. Tail flicking. Eyes wide with forced innocence. And she’s still chewing. Hands slide behind her back like that’ll hide the crime.

  “Ember…” I drag out her name, already knowing the answer.

  She shakes her head—fast.

  I cross my arms. “Did you stuff your cheeks with the mushrooms?”

  Harder head shake. Her full cheeks puff out even more.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Lord, give me strength.” Then I reach over and give her a light bop on the head. “You’re on time-out too.”

  She huffs—loud, over-the-top—but stomps toward the supply crate. Halfway there, she freezes. Tail bristles. Breath catches. She’s got a protest ready to fire.

  I shift my stance, giving her look—the kind that brooks no argument.

  “No buts.”

  Her shoulders slump in defeat, tail drooping low. From my hand, Sprocket lets out a tiny snicker, barely holding it in.

  “Good one boss.”

  The forge crackles to life, flames licking the air as the furnace rumbles awake. Shaq’Rai chimes in.

  Heat rolls off in heavy waves, wrapping around me like a smothering blanket. I take a step back, brushing flecks of ash from my hands.

  “Alright,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders ‘til they pop. “Time to get smeltin’.”

  The nearby crate creaks under my grip as I pry it open. Inside, jagged chunks of raw ore glint in the firelight, rough edges catching the glow. System tags flicker above them.

  Not fancy, but it’ll do. I scoop up a handful, the metal cold and gritty in my palm, and drop it into the ingot mold—sturdy enough, though it’s just wood.

  The copper barely starts to heat before the mold hisses, smoke curling from its edges. Then——the whole thing bursts into flames.

  “Aw, hell,” I grunt, jaw tight as the fire chews through the wood. It blackens, cracks, and collapses into a heap of smoldering ash. Smoke spirals upward, lazy and smug. Another ping.

  I let out a low breath. “Well… least I got me some coal.”

  Lesson learned. No mold needed. The forge’s stone bed holds the heat just fine, letting the copper pool right there. This world’s strange, sure—but it still plays by some game rules.

  I wipe my hands on my leather pants, smearing soot down the faded fabric, and pull up my resource tally.

  [Copper Ore: 0]

  [Stone: 100 x 200 (20k)]

  [Wood: 100 x 200 (20k)]

  [Clay: 100 x 2 (200)]

  [Coal: 100]

  I glance around camp, eyes narrowing as I search for a certain little troublemaker.

  “Hey, Ember—”

  Movement.

  There she is—waist-deep in a supply crate, tail flicking behind her like a cat stuck in a paper bag. Her legs kick for balance as she digs deeper.

  I blink. “What the hell?”

  I stroll over, hands on my hips, boots scuffing against stone. She’s too focused to notice.

  Leaning in, I lower my voice. “Whatcha doin’, darlin’?”

  Ember shrieks, jerking upright——her head smacks the crate’s rim. She spins, ears pinned back, eyes wide. “N-Nothin’!”

  “Uh-huh.” I arch a brow. “So… where’s that iron ore I asked for?”

  She twists her hands, tail twitching. “Uh… I forgot.”

  I squint. “You what?”

  “I gonna!” She throws her hands up. “But you kinda, sorta put me on time-out.”

  I rub the bridge of my nose. “Get to it.”

  She huffs but bolts off, tail trailing.

  Shaking my head, I reach for the crate lid—then stop.

  Half-hidden among the supplies sits a small, blue bag.

  I frown and pick it up. The fabric’s soft, worn thin at the corners, but still tied tight.

  It’s heavier than it looks. Metal clinks inside, a hollow, uneven rattle. I give it a shake—clink, clink, clink—like some twisted wind chime.

  “What the hell?”

  Then—snap—the world cuts out.

  Darkness swallows everything. No sounds. No breeze. Just a cold, hollow nothing.

  I can’t even hear my own breathing.

  “...Shit.”