Marron arrived at The Silver Cleaver just after dawn, before the restaurant would be open for regular service. The lower ring was quiet at this hour—vendors setting up, shopkeepers sweeping storefronts, the city slowly waking to another day.

The restaurant itself was modest but well-maintained. A narrow building squeezed between a tailor's shop and a bakery, with a painted sign showing a cleaver crossed with a sprig of herbs. The windows were clean, the door freshly painted. Through the glass, Marron could see someone moving inside—early prep work, the kind every restaurant did before customers arrived.

She knocked. Waited. Knocked again.

The movement inside stopped. Footsteps approached. The door opened to reveal a woman in her forties, human, with strong hands and flour dusting her apron. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical bun, and she had the kind of tired eyes that came from years of restaurant work.

"We're not open yet," she said, not unkindly. "Come back at noon for lunch service."

"Are you Petra?" Marron asked.

The woman's expression shifted to wary curiosity. "Depends on who's asking."

"Marron Louvel. I'm a Guild chef. I—" How to explain this? "I saw your knife. Last night. At the blacksmith's forge. She was sharpening it."

Petra's entire demeanor changed—protective, almost defensive. Her hand moved unconsciously toward her apron pocket, as if checking for something that wasn't there. "What about my knife?"

"Can I come in? Just for a few minutes. I promise I'm not here to cause trouble." She hesitated on the next part. Making offers would sound like she wanted to buy it. "I just want to talk about it."

"Why?"

Usually, Marron was happy to share information. No sense in gatekeeping knowledge, in her opinion.

But this is a knife we're talking about. What's stopping her from killing me the second I tell her how special it is?

She might throw me out if she knew that knife she's holding is worth 10 restaurants, maybe.

Part of Marron thought her thoughts were absurd, but had a kernel of sense within.

Not knowing what to do with her hands, Marron clutched at her apron as she continued thinking. Petra blinked.

"Are you okay?"

"h-huh? Yes! Sorry. I...I just think your knife is older than most people realize," Marron said carefully.

Ding!

She was seriously struggling with what to say. A pop-up window appeared with the text: "Talk about how you are a fan of pre-cataclysm craftsmanship."

Well...it isn't wrong.

"I'm...interested in pre-cataclysm craftsmanship. A professional curiosity, you understand."

Petra studied her for a long moment—assessing, calculating. The wariness didn't leave her face. "The blacksmith told you about me. About my knife."

Ding!

Her System hadn't completely abandoned her after all.

Suggest you are a guild chef interested in old tools.

"She said you might be willing to talk to a Guild chef who was interested in old tools," Marron said. "I'm not here to make offers or cause problems. Just to look, if you'll let me."

Another long pause. Petra's hand stayed near her pocket—near where a chef would instinctively keep a knife for quick access during prep work.

"Five minutes," Petra said finally, stepping back but not opening the door all the way. "And you stay where I can see you. I've got prep work to finish before opening."

"Of course. Thank you."

The interior of The Silver Cleaver was exactly what Marron expected from a lower-ring restaurant—clean but worn, practical rather than decorated, the kind of place where food mattered more than ambiance. Wooden tables, simple chairs, a kitchen visible through a service window. The smell of bread baking and stock simmering filled the space.

Petra didn't lead her to the kitchen. Instead, she gestured to a table near the front window—visible from the street, in full view of anyone passing by. A smart precaution.

"Wait here," Petra said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "I'll bring the knife out."

She disappeared into the kitchen, and Marron sat at the table, her heart pounding. She'd been so focused on finding the knife that she hadn't fully considered what it would be like to ask someone—a stranger—about something they didn't know was valuable. Something they might be unwilling to discuss if they knew how much attention it would attract.

Petra returned carrying the knife on a cutting board—keeping the blade contained, controllable. She set it on the table but kept her hand near it.

Up close, it was even more beautiful than Marron had realized. The mythril blade was perfectly balanced, the edge so sharp it seemed to cut the air itself. The handle was wrapped in dark leather—not just preserved, but alive in a way leather shouldn't be after centuries. Warm to the touch, flexible, molded to the grip.

And the symbols—carved along the blade's spine, they shifted as Marron watched. Not randomly, but purposefully. It was definitely responding to something.

She also had the same feelings whenever she was in the presence of a Legendary Tool: awe and wonder.

"Well?" Petra said, her tone sharp. "You wanted to see it. Here it is."

It was definitely a Legendary Tool, and Marron was...suddenly envious?

Her hand closed around the grip of the knife and Petra's eyebrow rose. Under that kind of scrutiny, Marron came to her senses.

"It's remarkable," Marron said honestly. "The mythril is exceptional quality. Pre-cataclysm work, certainly. And the balance..." She trailed off, trying to figure out how to ask questions without revealing too much.

"My grandmother found it," Petra said. There was something defensive in her voice. "About fifty years ago, after the last big dungeon collapse in the eastern territories. She was a salvager—went through ruins looking for anything valuable. Found this knife in what used to be a professional kitchen, buried under rubble."

"And she kept it," Marron said.

"She was a chef. Of course she kept it." Petra's hand shifted, moving slightly closer to the knife's handle. Not threatening, exactly. Just... ready. "She said it was the best knife she'd ever used. Taught my mother with it. My mother taught me. It's been in my family for three generations."

"Does it—" Marron chose her words very carefully.

"Does it need sharpening often? Most mythril holds an edge better than steel, but even mythril dulls eventually."

"Not often," Petra said slowly. "Last time I had it sharpened was about five years ago. It stays sharp longer than it should, actually. I've wondered about that."

Five years. That wasn't normal. That was impossible for regular mythril, even pre-cataclysm work.

"May I hold it?" Marron asked. "Just to check the balance?"

Petra's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because I work with knives every day," Marron said. "I'm a chef. Understanding how different blades handle is part of my training. I've just never seen mythril this old in such good condition."

if the symbols would shift, if it would recognize her as someone who carried other Legendary Tools.

The lie made her mouth feel heavy. But...there was a little truth in it.

I do want to check the balance, but...I also want to see if it would respond to me.

Or if it's...pickier than the others.

For a moment, she wondered what it would be like if the symbols stayed silent and it...just functioned like a really good knife.

Marron felt a twinge of anger, and that...

...that felt weird.

What's happening to me? Or...my thoughts?

Petra didn't move the knife toward her. "Look, I don't know what game you're playing, but I'm not stupid. You show up at dawn asking about my knife, talking about pre-cataclysm craftsmanship, wanting to hold it. That's not professional curiosity. That's someone who wants something."

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