Otter slept like the dead that night. Not because the day's activities had been any more strenuous than anything else he'd done that summer, but because he felt a sense of peace and acceptance after the day's work. He was so tired that he didn't even notice his wrisplay's alert until the next morning.

Objective Complete: Help the Iron Fangs prepare for departure.

50 XP earned.

New Level reached.

You are now Level 3.

Life Points +3

Attack Bonus increased to +2

Skill Points +4

New Class Feature Unlocked: Lucky Break

Lucky Break

1/day, reroll a failed save or skill check. Must take the new result.

+1 Str

"Holy crap," Otter muttered, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He sat up on the creaky bunk in the guild hall and did a double take to make sure he'd read it right. Lucky Break. He flexed his fingers experimentally, as if the strength bonus might suddenly show itself. It didn't, but the wrisplay didn't lie.

He dressed and found the others in the main common room. At this time of the morning, it wasn't nearly as raucous as he'd seen it in the past. Every one of his companion had a big smile on their face.

"Level three," Erin whispered. "Every last one of us."

"We should have a nice breakfast to celebrate," Otter offered.

Everyone agreed, so they left the guild to find an eatery close by.

Otter enjoyed a fine cup of tea, a light and flaky pastry he'd never seen before, that melted in his mouth, and a plate of eggs. Jasper gorged himself on sausages and gravy, and complained of a stomach ache when he was done.

They each shared the insights they'd learned the previous day and had to admit that it wasn't such a bad assignment after all. They didn't linger too long, however, because they were all eager to find out what Greaves had in store for them next.

Greaves was not, however, in his office when they returned. The clerk told them he hadn't arrived for the day, so they were forced to wait almost an hour for him the show up.

He strolled through the front door looking grumpy as ever. When he saw them in the entryway, he grumbled, "Don't you people have anywhere better to be?"

"We're here to report," Sage said, polite but firm.

Greaves squinted at her, then at the rest of them, as if their very presence offended him. "Report what?"

"The Iron Fangs left at dawn," Erin said. "Supplies secured, tack repaired, weapons sharpened, notes copied. Our assignment's complete."

Greaves blinked, then barked a humorless laugh. "Already? I figured they'd keep you running errands until at least the weekend." He shook his head, muttering, and pushed past them toward his office.

They followed.

Once behind his desk, Greaves shoved aside a precarious tower of reports, grabbed a quill, and scrawled something in his ledger. "Fine. Congratulations. You survived polishing boots and counting coins."

Jasper stepped forward, folding his arms across his chest. "And our pay?"

Greaves froze, the quill hovering above the page. Slowly, he lifted his head. "Pay? For that?"

"Per our contract," Jasper said. His voice was sharp, unflinching.

Sage chimed in before Greaves could snarl back. "Five alms each, at the completion of every assignment. The Guild's wording, not ours."

Greaves stared at her, lips pressed into a thin line. The room held its breath. Finally, he shoved back his chair with a scrape and dug through a drawer until he came up with a pouch. He counted coins with audible irritation, clinking them onto the desk one by one until each of them had their share.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"Fine," he snapped. "But don't expect work to come so quick next time. You're meant to be learning, not lining your pockets."

They pocketed the coins without a word, though Jasper's smirk said enough.

Greaves grumbled, rifling through his papers, flipping past stacks of requisitions and supply ledgers until he pulled a slim, creased report from the bottom of the pile. He tapped it against the desk to straighten the edges, then looked up at them with a scowl.

"Suspicious activity in Brassford. Some cobbler swears there are strange lights and sounds coming from a warehouse across the street. He reported it to the city watch, but they said the place was private property and had no reason to get involved." Greaves glared at them. "Under no circumstances are you to violate city laws. That includes breaking and entering. The Guild does not condone such activity. You are not law enforcement, and you may not act as such. Am I clear?"

"Crystal," replied Otter.

"Good. Now, I want you to talk to this cobbler and see if you can get any more details out of him. His report is sketchy at best. You can recon the warehouse afterwards, but if you're caught trespassing, your time with the Guild this summer is over."

There was something about that word "caught" that gave Otter the impression that trespassing would be necessary for a proper recon, and Greaves knew it. So stealth would be imperative.

Greaves handed them the paper with the cobbler's address on it, and they filed out of the office.

***

On the way to Brassford, Otter scanned through his skills. He had a total of 5 points to allocate and wanted to do that right away. He immediately added one to Barter, deciding that the higher he got that, the more coin he could make from future transactions, thus easing the burden of his new monthly supply of mana potions. Next was Knowledge (System Mechanics). His understanding of how the System actually worked was still limited, and even though he wasn't taking the course anymore, he thought that might come in handy down the road. He considered putting another one each into Cartography and Jumping before deciding against it and put the rest into Bartering as well.

When they arrived in the Brassford district, the first thing Otter noticed was the smell. The air carried the tang of scorched metal and old smoke, like a forge that hadn't burned properly clean in years. At one time, the district had been Aurelia's pride—its brass foundries supplied all manner of pipes and fittings for the Realms. Now, most of those forges were cold. The wealth had moved elsewhere, leaving Brassford to rust.

The streets felt wide but empty, lined with shuttered workshops and soot-streaked rowhouses that leaned tiredly against one another. A few shops remained open, but they looked more like stubborn holdouts than thriving businesses. Here and there, strange clanks or sputters echoed from behind closed doors where eccentrics tinkered with prototypes or alchemical rigs, but few people showed themselves on the streets.

The cobbler's shop sat at the corner of a narrow lane, its front window fogged with grime, the painted letters on the glass worn to ghosts of themselves. A cracked bell jingled overhead as they stepped inside.

Shoes and boots lined the walls on crooked shelves—some new, some half-mended, and others clearly waiting far longer than their owners had intended. Behind the counter, a wiry man with a balding crown and bushy brows peered up from a stitching awl. His spectacles dangled halfway down his nose.

"Oh! Customers!" he piped. "Welcome, welcome."

"Actually," said Otter, "We're here from the Adventurer's Guild."

The cobbler's beaming smile evaporated instantly, replaced by a scowl. "Took you long enough." He set the awl aside and rubbed his fingers on his apron, leaving faint smudges of polish behind. "I reported this days ago. Days! And all the while, across the street—" He jabbed a finger toward the grimy window, as though they might see through the brick wall beyond.

"What exactly have you seen?" Sage asked, calm and even.

The cobbler sniffed. "Strange lights. Blue. Faint, flickering, like magefire through a cracked lantern. And sounds. Chanting. Low and steady, not the sort of thing decent folk mutter in the night."

Milo leaned against the counter. "What language?"

"How would I know?" The cobbler huffed, tugging at his apron strings. "But I know a hymn when I hear one, and this wasn't. It was wrong. Crooked."

Erin raised an eyebrow. "And the city watch did nothing?"

"They said it's private property. No crime committed behind locked doors, not unless someone gets hurt." His mouth twisted into a grimace. "But they're up to something in there. Bound to cause some kind of Kaos wrought trouble." He leaned forward across the counter, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "If the city won't do nothing, you Guild types had better see to it before the whole district's swallowed up."

The team glanced at each other before Milo spoke up. "Could be a Spell Lord. Some of them like to anchor their big workings in out-of-the-way places. Chanting, lights, acrid smells—it all tracks."

"Or," Jasper said dryly, "it's just some half-baked artificer setting up a workshop. This is the kind of place where they do that. Right? Out of the way, less populated than other parts of the city. Not as risky if they blow something up. Doesn't mean it's sinister."

Otter glanced between them. Both explanations sounded sensible, and neither matched the cobbler's wide-eyed dread. "So… not the end of the world, then."

Erin tilted her head toward the cobbler. "Have you actually spoken to anyone over there? Knocked on the door, asked what they're doing?"

The man recoiled as though she'd suggested stepping into a fire pit. "Me? Are you daft? I'd sooner poke a sleeping Kaosborn with a knitting needle. No respectable soul should be in that warehouse, and I've no interest in finding out what sort of devilry they're about. That's why I reported it!"

His voice cracked on the last words, and he tugged at his apron strings again until his knuckles went white.

Otter struggled to refrain from rolling his eyes. "Alright, sir. We'll check it out for you and let you know what we find. Maybe you can sleep a little easier tonight." Then he turned and walked out the door, the others right behind him.

"Okay," he said once they were all standing in the street. "It's not trespassing if we knock on the front door. Who wants the honors?"

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