Dain heard the punch through his feet first. The lion’s skull gave a little, but it didn’t crack, so the boy dodged, leaped, sprang off shattered walls, and drove his gauntlet into the lion’s skull over and over again like hammers to no avail—until the boy roared, gauntlet blazing, and brought his fist up in a vicious uppercut.

  The crack of the lion’s skull resounded through the canyon this time.

  Dust swirled in a burning halo as the lion crashed down in the middle of the town square, but when the air settled—when Dain could finally open his eyes again, no longer seared by the heat of that blazing gauntlet—the boy was already standing tall on the lion’s head.

  His tattered clothes clung to his wiry frame, and his gauntlet still steamed with power. Behind him, the sun burned so bright and fierce that Dain couldn’t see his face at all—only a black silhouette with golden hair blazing like a halo.

  The boy didn’t look real.

  He looked like he was carved right out of a story, and Dain couldn’t look away.

  “... How did you—” he started breathlessly, only to have it cut short breathlessly.

  The Reality Bubble collapsed. The canyon town faded into smoke. The burning sun dulled and drained, replaced by cold night. The market stalls, the dust, the lion’s broken body—all of it dissolved into silence until only grass and the star-pricked hill returned.

  The Witch sat cross-legged beside him, rolling the cracked orb lazily in her palm with a small, smug smile.

  “That was cool, wasn’t it? Even though Reality Bubbles can only capture and replay scenes in time once before shattering,” she teased. “I told you relics are—”

  But Dain surged forward and grabbed her collar in both fists, making her blink.

  His own eyes were wide, fever-bright.

  “... Incredible!” he burst out. “That was—gods, that was awesome! Who was that? How did he do that? How’d he kill that giant lion?”

  She blinked again. Then she chuckled, prying him off with a shove. “That was the day the world first heard the name ‘Orland the Everbright’. You know, he was only fourteen years old when he beat the Sunmane Lion.”

  Dain froze, mouth hanging open. “Fourteen?” he whispered. Only six years older than him.

  For a moment, fear pricked at him. If Orland at that age could do something like that… what did that make him, weak and ordinary, trembling in the grass?

  But then awe burned away the fear, leaving only fire in his chest. His lips split into a grin again, bright and reckless.

  “How?” he demanded. “How is he that strong? We’re not that far in age, so… how can he be that strong?”

  The Witch lay back, arms crossed behind her head. “I told you. Relics are the great equalizer. The more of them you hold, the more power you wield. Stack enough of them, and maybe you’ll even be as strong as Orland one day.”

  Dain went quiet. His chest heaved, his hands clenched, and his gaze stayed fixed on the stars above.

  Then, low but fierce, he said,

  “How do I get my own relics?”

  She tapped her chin, pretending to think. “Well… first, you’ll have to know what offerings are. What recipes are. How Altars work. The Curator Gods and their preferences, the classes of relics, the grading system, yada yada yada…” She waved her hand lazily. “It’s annoying. You’ll have to learn.”

  “I will,” he said immediately. His voice cracked, but his eyes didn’t waver. “I’ll learn. Teach me. Teach me so I don’t have to be scared of dying again. Teach me so if another starfall barrage rains on Corvalenne again, I can… I can protect everyone this time.”

  She studied him for a long moment. Her eyes, holding the endless stars in the sky, seemed to gleam as she read even thoughts he didn’t know he was thinking—and it unnerved him a little, as usual—but he was serious.

  “... Well,” she drawled, her mouth curving into a grin. “I don’t feel like teaching anyone anything tonight, but if you take back what you said before and come back tomorrow—preferably with an iced dessert from the town—then maybe I’ll feel like it.”

  Dain didn’t even argue. He shot to his feet, heart pounding, and bolted downhill towards the lights of Corvalenne. His legs pumped like he could already feel the relics waiting in his hands, and all he had to do was give the Witch some dessert?

  Piece of cake. He’d give her dessert right now.

  “Hey!” the Witch shouted after him. “Wait! It took me a lotta strength to carry you up here, and I can’t stand on my own right now! Drag me back to the cave first!”

  He ignored her. His heart was beating too fast, his grin too wide. That image just wouldn’t leave his head.

  The boy standing tall on the lion’s skull, golden hair blazing, sun at his back.

  That sight of Orland conquering something Dain thought no one could ever beat…

  “... I suppose so,” Dain finished, rubbing muck between finger and thumb until it webbed like glue. “I got my sermons as a child in a town half-destroyed by Auraline’s bad relic handling. ‘Relics are knives’. ‘Relics are storms’. I’m sure wherever you grew up, you were also told to be wary of relics… but it’s the same for you as it was for me, isn’t it?”

  He cocked a brow at Yasmin and grinned.

  “Relics are too fun to hate, the same way no child truly hates toys.” He tapped his breastbone. “You hand me a relic, and my fingers’ll wanna fiddle with it. Twist the ring, push some mana, poke the glowing bits I’m not supposed to—you also wanted to be a seeker when you were child, right?”

  Then he snorted at himself.

  “And—minor correction—the Witch didn’t teach me shit except that sore backs exist.” He scoffed. “She mostly laughed and sent me running for moss and mud materials across the forest like I was born a wheelbarrow. The book-learning came later. Traveling merchants, rain-warped paper, overpriced chapbooks with half the pages out of order… I read everything I could get my hands on. I didn’t really get ‘special education’ from her or anything.”

  And when he finally ran out of words, a hush slid back between them.

  Yasmin looked at him for a long, unreadable second—then, unexpectedly, she started snickering.

  He scowled. “What?”

  “It sounds… childish,” she said, not unkindly. “I had it in my head that you had a more frightening background—and you are still keeping secrets, don’t mistake me—but I suppose I was mistaken.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. You read stories about Orland and Marosa, and you refused to grow out of them while everyone else your age eventually learned to sweep floors and take wages.” Her mouth tilted into a lopsided smile. “You didn’t. You never abandoned your childish dream.”

  “Well, okay, but it’s not that funny, is it?” he muttered.

  “Perhaps it is. But if it weren’t for your dream, you wouldn’t have crossed my lady’s path… or mine.” She glanced up at the shadow-clotted canopy. “So I suppose even childish dreams aren’t always so poor a compass.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  He let his scowl melt into a small smile.

  “Hate to admit it, but… fair.”

  “Good,” she said briskly, as if that settled some private ledger. Then she pushed up to her feet and began rummaging through the wet mound of things the ironmaw toad had regurgitated. “And speaking of poor compasses… when the beast vomited us out, I saw something interesting.” She pried at a clump of stringy roots and bone shards, then pulled free a thumb-sized lump that threw off a tinny glimmer. “This.”

  Dain squinted, leaning close. The thing looked like a pea of pewter shot through with a hair-thin seam of blue, and it hummed faintly like a tiny trapped bell. “Huh. A wispsong bead. Spirit-leaning. Not rare, but not common either.”

  Yasmin held it up between finger and thumb. “You were educated by a seeker. Could this material make a good relic?”

  “Alone? No.” He straightened and crawled to his feet, mind already cartwheeling. “You usually need at least three offerings for a stable trade: a main offering, a side offering, and a base offering. Sometimes only the main and the base if your Curator God’s in a good mood. If we find more materials, maybe I’ll be able to get something that isn’t complete rubbish.”

  So they looked at each other once—understanding without words—and then both bent around to work.

  For a while, there was only the wet rattle of bones and the clack of old, half-digested metals as they sifted from the sludge pile. The toad coughed up dozens of almost useful things: a cracked obsidian bead, a rusted clasp fat with stale mana, some tinvein moss preserved by bile, a copper tooth that might’ve been from a charm or a drunk, and… another intact glass bead with soot sealed inside.

  A shed shard of chitin glazed violet, three beetle-lantern thoraxes, and half a saint’s icon worn so smooth the face is barely visible…

  Lots of rubbish, huh?

  They piled it all beside the roots of their tree, and once they were done separating the useless from the completely useless, Dain crouched and pursed his mouth at the junkyard of maybes.

  “These are… underwhelming,” he murmured. “But worth a try.”

  Yasmin dusted her palms. “What now?”

  “Now,” he said, pointing, “you go behind that tree and face the road. Do not turn around. If you do—”

  “You’ll kill me to keep me quiet,” she finished dryly, waving her hand absentmindedly. “Yes, yes, I remember the song and dance.”

  “Good.” He waited until she scuffed out of sight and her silhouette slid behind the trunk. “No peeking, you hear me?”

  “Not peeking,” she floated back.

  And only once he was absolutely certain she wasn’t peeking, he clapped his hands.

  A reddish-violet whirl split the air in front of him like ink poured in water, curling into a perfect oval just above the pile of scrap. He tilted his head.

  So I can open a portal mid-air too.

  Good to know.

  The four pale hands of Belara slithered out of the board-sized portal, knuckles sharp, fingers long as twigs. He nodded at them once and whispered, “Just look through the pile. Pick whatever you want and toss me the scraps. I’ll take whatever you feel like giving me.”

  One of the hands flicked a lazy ‘alright’ gesture. The others started pawing through the slime-slick heap, clinking bone against bone as they dug.

  Dain leaned forward, curious as to what she’d pick out of the pile.

  I needed to do this eventually anyways.

  The better he knew the personality of a Curator God, the better he’d be able to give them what they liked. In addition to life-based materials, Inanna, Matron of the Living Apotheca, preferred all of her materials clean and washed. She’d close the portal on him if he offered her dirty, slime-slick materials. In the same vein, Enmar, Smith of the Artifice Wing, preferred all of his materials solid and robust. Hand him a vial of beast blood and he’d be just as likely to spit it back at killing pressures.

  Besides, I need to know what kind of cursed relics there are in general.

  Are they all super powerful, or…

  After about a minute, Belara lobbed three things his way: a pellet, a potion, and an amulet. All of them faintly pulsed with that greasy cursed aura that made his molars buzz.

  He squinted.

  “... Oh, good,” he mumbled. “You can come out now, Yasmin.”

  The steward stepped out just as Belara retreated, closing the portal with her.

  He held up the first relic and slapped his Tag on it: the jagged, muddy-black pellet with no distinct features.

  ***

  Name: Pellet of Perpetual Hunger

  Type: Consumable Apotheca-Class Cursed Relic, Common-1

  Attribute Addition: None

  Ability Description: When consumed, the eater will feel a constant dull hunger regardless of food eaten for a month.

  However, all meals will taste like boiled cabbage.

  ***

  Dain wrinkled his nose as he read its ability out loud.

  “... Yeah," he said. "No thanks.”

  Yasmin blinked. “That’s it? It makes you feel hungry all the time for a month, and it makes all your meals taste like boiled cabbage?”

  “Uh-huh.” He spun the pellet once on his fingertip, then quickly tossed it back into the muck before crushing it under his foot. He didn’t even want to carry it around just in case some pickpocket swiped it off him and accidentally put themselves into a month of pure suffering. “Care to see the second relic?

  Next, he picked up the wristband and slapped his Tag on it as well: a cracked potion filled with a murky black liquid.

  ***

  Name: Potion of the Restless Watchman

  Type: Consumable Apotheca-Class Cursed Relic, Common-1

  Attribute Addition: None

  Ability Description: When consumed, the holder will require less sleep per night for a month.

  However, the holder cannot close their eyes fully while sleeping.

  ***

  Yasmin raised a brow as he read its ability out loud.

  “I’m no scholar or relic merchant,” she said slowly, “but these sound incredibly terrible.”

  “That’s because most relics are, in fact, absolutely rubbish,” he muttered, tossing it back into the muck as well before crushing it underfoot. Like with the pellet, he didn’t even want to waste satchel space carrying the potion around. “The ones you read about in stories are the best of the best, curated by seekers who actually know what they’re doing. This is what happens when you offer random materials to the gods. About eighty percent of all relics are Common grade, and they all have ‘funny’ effects.”

  “Not being able to close your eyes while sleeping is funny?”

  He shrugged. “You can use it to torture someone.”

  “... True.”

  Finally, he lifted the amulet: a jagged black stone dangling from a rusted chain, faintly sparking with static.

  ***

  Name: Storm Invitation Amulet

  Type: Passive Trinket-Class Cursed Relic, Common-2

  Attribute Addition: None

  Ability Description: Slightly increases the holder’s resistance to lightning. The passive drain is 0.1 mana regeneration per hour.

  However, the holder is also more likely to be struck by lightning.

  ***

  “This might be slightly useful,” he mused. “A small amount of resistance… and a built-in lightning rod.”

  Yasmin tilted her head. “And how is it any good?”

  “For me? No, it’s trash. But it’s perfect for you.” He grinned, dangling the amulet in front of her. “You’re the sort to throw yourself in harm’s way for your lady, right? If anyone’s gonna get struck shielding her from a thunderbolt, better you have something to keep you alive when it happens.”

  Her eyes narrowed at him, suspicious, but then softened when she realized he made sense. She would throw herself in front of a lightning bolt for Anisa, so she reached out and took the amulet carefully, clasping it around her neck.

  “... Does it at least fit in with the rest of my attire?” she asked, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

  He looked her up and down, pretending to struggle with the dilemma.

  “Eh… sure,” he said quickly. “But promise me one thing: never, ever put a Tag on that amulet. Don’t have anyone appraise it for you. Got it?”

  She crossed an arm over her chest. “I will not. On my name as Yasmin Roven.”

  They shared a small smile, and Dain noted how she didn't question where he got his relics from even though he was very obviously not carrying his Altar with him.

  She probably has her suspicions, but...

  She's trustworthy as well.

  Then, before either of them could say anything more, Anisa’s and Drenn’s voices echoed through the trees, calling out their names.

  Oh. Right.

  We’ve been gone for a while.

  Maybe there were still materials around them that could be traded for a few more relics, but he wasn’t interested in trash relics with less than useful effects.

  “Guess that’s our cue.” Dain sighed, brushing muck from his sleeves one more time. “Time to clean up before someone mistakes us for swamp monsters.”

  Yasmin nodded. “Yes. Let’s.”

  As they made their way back towards the main road, side by side in their slime-stiff clothes, he tilted his head northward.

  It took him a while to find it, but now the bright blue star in the northern sky winked down at him through the gaps in the canopy.

  … What are you doing now, Witch?

  Where are you?

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