Luckborn

The next morning dawned hot and humid. Not as humid as it had been in the marsh, but still unpleasantly sticky.

Having the previous day to tend to personal business had everyone in good spirits despite the heat, and they joked as they made their way to the Guild. Inside, it was significantly cooler. Someone had turned on the cooling enchantments, it seemed.

The found Greaves in his office as usual, but his eyes looked heavier than normal, and the papers stacked around him had spread into a clutter that suggested a long, restless night. He didn't bother standing when the five of them filed in.

"You're late," he barked.

"We're early," Erin said, folding her arms. "It's not even eighth bell yet."

"Early is late if I've already been waiting." Greaves stabbed a quill into the inkpot hard enough that a drop spattered the ledger. "Sit."

They didn't sit. Jasper leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while Sage clasped her hands in front of her and waited silently. Milo looked like he wanted to sit but wasn't sure if it was allowed. Otter stayed near the doorway, watching the guild officer's mood like one watches a wolf test the air.

Greaves shoved a parchment aside. "Your next assignment's ready."

Despite all the dangers they'd seen, the injuries, and the close calls, those words still sent a shiver of anticipation up Otter's spine.

"You'll be attached to the Iron Fangs," Greaves went on.

"Attached?" Jasper repeated flatly.

"Support duty," Greaves clarified, as though that explained everything. "They've got a mission coming up. You'll assist with preparations as long as they need you."

"Preparations?" Erin echoed, her voice sharp with suspicion. "As in—what, polish their boots?"

Greaves leveled a look at her. "As in whatever they need. They're full Guild members. You're not. Consider it a chance to learn."

Jasper growled under his breath. "This isn't what I signed up for."

Greaves glared at him. "Yes, it is."

"I think it sounds like a good opportunity," said Milo. "How often do we get the chance to actually talk to seasoned Adventurers? We can pick their brains, learn from their mistakes. All while not risking our necks."

Otter chewed on that. The idea of being someone's pack mule made his stomach twist, but Milo wasn't wrong. These were full Guild members—the kind of adventurers they all wanted to become. Maybe there was something to learn, even in grunt work. Or maybe it would just be humiliation dressed up as training.

Either way, he decided to plant himself firmly in the wait-and-see camp.

Greaves snorted. "Exactly. At least one of you has some sense. The rest of you need to get used to the fact that adventuring isn't all heroics. Sometimes you fetch the rope. Sometimes you carry the crates. You don't like it?" He spread his callused hands. "Find another profession."

***

They didn't have long to wait. Barely half an hour after Greaves dismissed them to the outer hall, the door opened again and four figures stepped inside with the quiet assurance of people used to being watched.

None of them carried more than a simple dagger at their hip, but they didn't need weapons to project authority. The way they moved—the economy of gesture, the certainty in their posture—announced them more than steel ever could.

The first was a broad-shouldered man in a dark work jacket with the sleeves neatly rolled to the elbow. The fabric strained across his chest when he folded his hands behind his back, yet his stance was relaxed, feet set as though braced for anything. He didn't glance around so much as measure the room.

Beside him walked a woman in a slate-gray walking dress with a high collar and a neat row of brass buttons. Her gloves were tucked through her belt, and every line of her posture suggested restraint. When she turned her head, it was deliberate, precise, as though she never wasted motion.

A step behind came a wiry man in a charcoal waistcoat, the top buttons undone. His shirt sleeves were rolled untidily, and he moved with an easy looseness that almost looked careless—until Otter caught the way his eyes flicked, sharp and constant, taking in every detail.

Last entered a woman with auburn hair pinned up in a loose knot. Her long coat, burgundy and fitted close, bore faint singe-marks at the cuffs and hem. She carried herself with an almost theatrical presence, not flamboyant exactly, but noticeable. Even still, she didn't smile; she seemed entirely absorbed in her own current of thought.

Greaves stood as they arrived, voice gruff but edged with respect. "Auxiliaries, meet the Iron Fangs. Rurik Halden. Selene Veynar. Kael Draven. Torla Redwyne."

The four gave brief nods. Not friendly, not dismissive—simply acknowledgment, as one might give to new apprentices.

Rurik's gaze landed on Otter's group. "You're the ones assigned to us?" His tone carried no mockery, only confirmation.

"Yes, sir," Sage said before anyone else could.

"Good," he replied, as though that settled the matter. He turned to Greaves. "We've a long list to prepare."

Selene's eyes lingered on Erin and Milo in quiet appraisal, but she made no comment.

Greaves gestured to Otter and the others. "They're all yours. Trouble has a way of finding this bunch, so keep 'em busy."

Rurik flashed a smile and gave a short nod. "Then let's get started."

Without waiting for reply, the Iron Fangs turned and strode for the door, expecting the auxiliaries to follow.

Otter had expected a group of haughty, condescending adventurers throwing their weight around. But these people couldn't have been further from that. They seemed like a no-nonsense crew who knew their purpose. Maybe they could glean some nuggets of wisdom from these folks.

Otter's wrisplay buzzed.

New Objective: Help the Iron Fangs prepare for departure.

***

Rurik didn't waste time with preamble. He drew a folded sheet from his coat pocket, scrawled with items in a firm, blocky hand, and pressed it into Otter's palm. A small leather purse followed, heavy with coin. "Provisions for the week. Standard fare. A few specialty items. If you come in under, the difference is yours." His tone didn't carry even a hint of generosity—it was simply practical.

Otter glanced down at the list: flour, oats, salted pork, oil, lampwick, vinegar, cordage, bandages, soap, healing potions, mana potions, and poison antidotes. Not glamorous. Sage peered over his shoulder and sighed.

Rurik caught his eye and added, "Prioritize potions. They're the costliest, and if you fumble the coin there, the rest hardly matters." He gave a curt nod toward Sage. "Take her with you. Merchants don't like to cheat Conduits."

"Come on," Otter murmured, tucking the purse inside his coat.

They left the Guild and set off down the sun-baked streets of Aurelia, weaving through the morning crowd. In Brighthaven, the scent of salt air, fish, manure, baked goods, and wood smoke vied for prominence in the nostrils, but that wasn't the case in Aurelia. Even in the heat of summer, the air smelled faintly of orange blossoms and jasmine. While industry boomed in the city, the undesirable side effects of those operations were either mitigated or masked by magic.

By the time they reached the alchemist's shop, Otter's shirt was already clinging damply to his back.

The bell over the door chimed as they stepped inside. Cool air, sharp with herbs and solvents, replaced the sweet lightness of the street. Glass vials lined every shelf in neat rows, liquids shimmering in shades of emerald, sapphire, and ruby. Behind the counter stood a thin, spectacled man in a brown waistcoat, sleeves rolled above the elbows.

"Welcome to Alvin's Apothecary. How may I help you?"

Standard expedition stock," Otter said, setting the list on the counter. "Three healing draughts, one antidote, three mana."

The alchemist adjusted his spectacles and began plucking bottles from the shelves. "That'll be six and a half Summas."

Otter felt Sage's sharp glance. The purse was heavy, but that was a ridiculous sum of money. "Sixty-five alms?" he balked. "That's robbery."

The alchemist's eyebrows rose. "That's the Guild rate. Best price you're going to get in Aurelia."

Sage took another half-step closer. "We might be young, but we're not stupid. We're here on behalf of the Iron Fangs."

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Otter watched the alchemist's expression, looking for any sign of recognition.

Alvin shrugged. "Who?"

But Otter had seen the slight widening of the eyes, the twitch of his eyebrow. Subtle, but telling signs. Ones that most people likely would have missed. The man had a good neutral face, but not good enough.

Sage must have seen it, too. She smiled like a cat about to pounce. "You don't know the Iron Fangs? Won't they be disappointed when we tell them. Not that they care about fame. But they do care about good business deals." She turned to Otter. "Maybe we should try somewhere else. Somebody's bound to give us a better price for the promise of continued business from the Fangs."

Otter nodded along, but then stopped himself. "Well, hang on. Let's not give up on Alvin so fast. I'm sure we can work something out. Can't we?"

Alvin shrugged, nonplussed.

"Here's the thing, Alvin. I'm actually looking for a steady supply of mana potions. I recently came into possession of a familiar that feeds on them. I imagine I'll need at least one a month to satisfy the little guy. Now, I'm no slouch at alchemy, myself. And we've got a friend that's practically a savant. We could make the potions ourselves, but you know…time. Materials. If you could give us a good deal on these potions today, I'd be willing to get all my mana potions for the next semester from you." Otter waggled his eyebrows for emphasis.

Alvin stared at him for a moment. Then, "Would you be willing to sign a contract? I have other buyers who buy in bulk or have a standing order for things. I suppose I could offer you the same deal that they get. Ten percent off with a six-month contract."

That would save them six and a half silver today. But it would cost him nine alms a month for the next six months. That was a lot of money. And he'd only earned ten so far this summer. But that was way more than he earned with his work detail at the Library. But if he wanted this deal, he'd have to come up with the money somehow. He could borrow it, he supposed. Or sell one of the artifacts they'd found. He finally sighed and extended a hand. "Deal," he said.

As Alvin drew up the contract, Sage leaned in close. "Are you sure that was wise?"

Otter shrugged, adjusting the weight on his shoulder. "Maybe not. But at least Newt won't go hungry. I'll figure out some way to pay for it."

Otter felt the wrisplay hum faintly at his wrist and glanced at the notification.

New Skill Acquired: Bartering

***

The stables smelled of sweat and hay and horse dung, all of it clinging to the heavy summer air. Erin wrinkled her nose but didn't complain aloud—not with Selene standing a few feet away, hands clasped neatly behind her back like a magistrate at inspection.

A heap of tack lay draped over the rail in front of her. Saddles, bridles, straps, buckles. Some were stiff with age, the leather cracked pale where it bent. Selene gestured to the pile without ceremony.

"Oil every piece. Check each strap for wear. If it looks weak, set it aside to be replaced." Her voice was calm, not unkind, but so precise it felt like judgment.

Erin snatched up the first strap and set her jaw. "Yes, ma'am," she muttered.

The work was mindless at first—dip the rag, rub the oil, work it into the leather until her fingers were slick and sticky. Buckle, pull, test the stitching. Lay it aside. Next piece.

But after the third or fourth, she began noticing what Selene meant. A hairline crack near a buckle. A stitch coming loose where the strap joined the girth. A buckle that looked solid but bent a fraction when she tugged harder than expected.

Selene reappeared, picked up that very strap, and gave the buckle a single, sharp pull. It snapped clean off in her hands.

Erin blinked.

Selene dropped the broken piece into a discard bin. "That buckle holds your saddle to your horse. Break it mid-ride, you're under the hooves before you've drawn your blade." She set down another strap. "Check it again."

Erin swallowed, turned the leather over in her hands, and this time pressed harder. Another stitch popped free, the thread unraveling in her grip.

The lesson was clear, and it needled her worse than the monotony: attention to detail wasn't just fussing—it kept people alive.

The rhythm changed after that. She leaned into the work, hands blackened with oil, eyes narrowing on every seam and buckle until she could almost hear Selene's voice in her head: Failure in the field kills faster than steel.

When Selene finally made another round, she didn't smile or praise. She only inspected the straps, nodded once, and said, "Continue."

And though Erin still rolled her eyes the moment Selene's back was turned, this time she didn't feel quite so much like she was wasting her time.

***

The clang of steel startled Jasper when Kael dropped an armful of blades onto the bench beside him. Daggers, short swords, even a heavy hunting knife, all clattering together in a heap.

"Oil, grind, polish," Kael said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. He pulled a stool over, rolled up his sleeves, and sat down across from Jasper.

Jasper scowled. "You're kidding me."

Kael only arched a brow, already dipping a rag into oil. "Do I look like I'm joking?" He set a blade to the wheel. Sparks flew in a neat, controlled spray. "Every one of them."

Jasper picked up a dagger, jaw tight. He knew this work—he'd cared for his father's hunting knives since he was a boy—but he hadn't signed up for adventuring to play apprentice at a grindstone. The rasp of steel on stone set his teeth on edge, the grit seeping into his skin until his fingers felt raw.

Minutes dragged into an hour. The pile never seemed to shrink. Jasper's shoulders burned, his wrists ached, and every time he stole a glance at Kael, the man was still there—calm, steady, methodical.

At first, it only made Jasper bristle more. He muttered curses under his breath, imagining Kael was silently judging his pace. He pushed harder, trying to finish faster, and ruined the edge on one of the short swords.

Kael didn't scold. He simply reached across, picked up the blade, and reset it to the wheel with practiced patience. "Even pressure," he said quietly. "Let the stone do the work."

The words gnawed at Jasper as he forced himself to slow down. Gradually, he noticed that Kael wasn't just sitting there overseeing him. The Guild adventurer was sweating too, fingers dark with oil, working through the same monotonous cycle: dip, grind, wipe, polish. His pile dwindled blade by blade, just like Jasper's.

It struck Jasper, somewhere between the twelfth and thirteenth weapon, that Kael didn't see this as servant's work. He saw it as necessary work. And he wasn't above it.

By the time they set the last finished knife aside, both their hands were blackened, shoulders aching, sweat sticking shirts to their backs. Kael tested the blade with a practiced thumb, gave a small nod, and laid it down.

"Sharp enough to trust," he said. Then, with the faintest smirk, added, "And none of us are too good to do it."

Jasper didn't reply right away. His first instinct was still to bristle, to say something sharp in return, but the words caught. He looked down at the table: two neat rows of gleaming steel, each one restored by hands as sore as his own. Not dumped on him. Shared with him.

It was strange. He'd spent the whole morning fuming at being treated like an errand boy, only to realize Kael hadn't left him to it at all. A Guild adventurer—someone who'd seen real danger, real work—still took the time to sharpen and oil every weapon by hand.

Jasper flexed his cramped fingers, the smell of metal and oil clinging to him. Maybe this was what separated veterans from pretenders—not just swinging the sword, but respecting it. Respecting the details.

Suddenly, he didn't feel like a servant that had been dumped on. He felt like he'd been invited to see how the work was really done. And that humbled more than anything else today.

***

Torla spread her papers across the table like a gambler laying down cards—scraps of parchment scrawled with runes, half-finished diagrams, notes written at odd angles in cramped hand.

"Copy these," she told Milo, sliding a blank ledger toward him. "Neatly, in order."

Milo sat, quill in hand, and stared. The first page wasn't even written straight. There were arrows pointing to the margins, equations scrawled diagonally across the top, a whole paragraph blotted out and overwritten in shorthand.

He dipped the quill anyway and began. After five lines, he smudged the ink. After ten, he realized he couldn't even read what he was copying. By the fifteenth, he slammed the quill down.

"This is nonsense," he said. "Even if I copied every blotch, you'd just have two nonsense pages instead of one."

Torla didn't look up. "So fix it."

Milo blinked. "Fix it?"

"You have eyes. A brain. Use them."

He hesitated, then picked up the quill again. This time, instead of slavishly duplicating her scrawl, he tried to understand. He rewrote a mangled formula as a clear equation, drew one of her crooked circles properly round, added labels where she had scribbled only arrows. The more he worked, the more sense the notes began to make — not perfectly, but enough that someone besides Torla might actually read them.

Hours slipped past. His hand cramped, ink stained his wrist, but the ledger filled with orderly lines, diagrams sharp and clean. When Torla finally leaned over his shoulder, she studied the page for a long moment.

"You changed my notation," she said flatly.

Milo's stomach dropped. "Uh… yeah. Sorry. It just wasn't—"

"—Readable," she finished for him. A pause. Then the faintest flicker of approval softened her expression. "Continue."

She slid another messy sheet in front of him.

That was it. No smile, no thanks. Just more work. But Milo noticed she left his version open beside her own, glancing at it now and then as she scratched down fresh lines.

He dipped the quill, hiding the curl tugging at the corner of his mouth, and bent over the next page.

***

By the time Otter and Sage staggered back to the Guildhouse, the sun was already sinking, bleeding amber across Aurelia's forest of multi-colored towers. They looked like they'd walked through half the city—because they had.

Otter's shoulders throbbed from hauling sacks of flour and oats, his shirt reeking of vinegar from a jar that had leaked halfway home. Sage carried the bundles of soap and bandages, her fingers callused from tallying coins and haggling every merchant twice over.

But the list was complete. Better than complete. Otter jangled the purse at his belt—still heavy with silver. "Managed to shave a decent bit off," he said, his grin weary but proud.

Inside, the others looked just as battered. Erin's sleeves carried the stench of horses, Jasper's palms were ground black with grit, Milo's cuffs blotched with ink. They slumped together in the common hall, the very picture of exhaustion.

The Iron Fangs arrived not long after, as composed as if their day had been little more than an errand. They inspected the supplies—Rurik checking the stacks with a soldier's eye, Selene running her hands along the tack, Kael giving his blade one last swipe with a rag, Torla sorting her notes into a tidy stack. Once their work was done, though, they didn't leave.

Instead, they claimed a corner table, ordering a round of drinks. For the first time all day, their shoulders eased, and their conversation lightened.

Kael was the first to laugh, tipping his chair back and nearly spilling his mug as he nudged Torla. "Remember that inn outside Ketterdam? The one where Rurik swore the soup was poisoned just because it tasted bad?"

Torla rolled her eyes but smirked despite herself. "It was poisoned. Just not fatally."

"Didn't stop you from finishing two bowls," Selene said dryly, earning another round of laughter.

From the benches nearby, Otter and his friends listened, bone-tired but quietly fascinated. It was strange—comforting, even—to see the Iron Fangs not as the untouchable veterans they always seemed, but as people. People who teased each other, who remembered old blunders, who laughed the same way he and Jasper and Sage sometimes did after a long day.

At last, Rurik leaned back, swirling the last of his ale. His gaze drifted toward the younger group, and his expression softened. "They cut our prep time in half today. I think we should be good to head out at first light."

"That depends on how much you drink tonight," chided Torla, though there was no bite in her words.

"True enough," Rurik replied. "You know, that one there—" he nodded toward Jasper, "—he reminds me of Kael, back when we were first starting. Always ready for a fight, no sense of when to hold back."

Kael snorted. "Difference is, I knew I was good."

"Good at getting us nearly killed," Torla muttered into her mug.

That earned another round of chuckles, and Rurik began to tell a story—some misadventure from their early days, full of half-baked plans and close calls.

Otter tried to follow, but his mind kept wandering. He watched the firelight flicker over the Iron Fangs' faces, their easy camaraderie, their scars worn like old badges. One day, he thought, it might be him and his friends sitting together after a hard day's work, trading stories about mistakes survived and battles won. One day, they'd have that same ease—that same history.

But for now, he just sat and listened, and thought about what he'd learned today.