Dawn came to the Elderhush Forest slowly, turning the mist from black to blue one breath at a time.

  Dain had slept first—because not sleeping in rotations was the easiest way to die out here—so he was the one keeping watch outside the tent when sunlight started shining through the canopy again.

  The monster-repelling perfume really does work, huh?

  I should get more of these for the road.

  When the tent flaps behind him rustled, it was about six in the morning, judging by the angle of the sunlight. Yasmin emerged first, hair neatly braided, while Anisa crawled out after, struggling free of her thin blanket like a butterfly that hadn’t read the instructions.

  He supposed they’d like to eat breakfast, but if they were quick about it, they could make it back to Granamere in time for a late breakfast instead.

  “Let’s go home.”

  No one argued. They shouldn’t. After he took down the golem last night, they’d spent an additional hour hunting down their last owl, and then they’d spent another two hours backtracking to sever the ten owl heads they needed to fulfil their request. He enjoyed butchering the owls as much as the average relic merchant—which was to say he only enjoyed it as a necessity—so it probably meant the girls were even more eager than him to get back to warm beds and roofs that didn’t rattle overhead in the middle of the night.

  Well, you’ve gotta get used to it if you plan on playing as adventurers.

  Packing only took minutes, because he’d drilled them last night on not exploding their belongings across the clearing like a flock of startled crows. Lanterns off, coals drowned, tent rolled tight, and trails brushed until there were little signs that they’ve camped here. Then they fast-hiked south with the Veil-Twin at their backs and Granamere slowly unknotting out of the morning mist ahead.

  Three hours later, the forest spat them out at the northern hedge. As the first buildings revealed themselves at the end of the beaten paths, Anisa let out a huge, relieved sigh.

  “I thought we might run into trouble on the return,” she said, voice a little raw. “Thank the gods we were fortunate. I miss my bed.”

  “Beds are for people who report to the Guild first,” Dain said, shifting the owl-head satchel on his shoulder. Ten heads made for a smug weight. “Come on. You should see how it’s done at least once.”

  The Seeker’s Guild was as gold-ornate as he remembered it, and just like yesterday, there was nobody in it but for the automaton standing behind the counter at the back of the hall. It didn’t turn its head to address the three of them as they trudged in, exhausted, but it certainly did scan him up and down as he approached the counter and slammed the satchel of bloody owl heads onto it.

  “... Ten silverplume owl heads as requested,” he said. “I’d like my eight hundred curons now.”

  The automaton extended a hinged arm, opening the satchel so it could scan inside with its two, beady black eyes.

  “Verification complete,” it eventually said. “Extermination request eighty-five: fulfilled. Compensation authorized.”

  A drawer thunked open beneath the counter, and the automaton produced a small burlap sack by the drawstrings. Dain took it, and the coins inside sang a song he liked very, very much.

  He gave the sack a grateful shake and a grin. “While you’re in a generous mood,” he said, “we also have a separate matter to report. We stumbled onto two golems north of here, at the base of the northern Veil-Twin. One humanoid-type, one hound-type. The cave entrance is plain as a coin press. The humanoid one was still active when we found it, so we took it down. You’ll find both golems still in the cave.”

  The automaton didn’t blink—couldn’t blink, really—but the cogwork gears inside its head stuttered minutely. “Clarify: Molkhara constructs?”

  “Molkhara,” Dain confirmed, reaching into his personal satchel. The mechanical core he pulled free still pulsed faintly bronze in his hand like a steady cough, and the automaton tilted its head as its eyes shone two cones of golden light onto the core.

  “Identification: mana mechanical core, Implement-Class golem, Molkhara origin. Status: active residual absorption. Note appended. A report will be relayed to the Regional Guildmaster in Tolbrask.” Then the automaton paused, some inner gear clicking. “When a Guild investigation request is issued regarding these golems, do you wish to be notified? Courier constructs can locate you anywhere within the region to deliver you a message.”

  “Sure. Tag it to Dain Sorowyn.”

  “Recorded. Thank you for your contribution to the continued safety of Granamere.”

  Dain dipped his head out of habit—he still couldn’t quite believe he was having a polite transaction with a Guild automaton—and then the three of them slipped back out into the morning light.

  The sack of curons weighed in his grip, the satchel of owl heads thumped at his hip, and their boots carried them all in weary silence down the main street towards the inn.

  Wenna was already sweeping the floor when they pushed the door open. She took one look at them—mud, feathers, dried blood, and exhaustion all wrapped up in three sorry shapes—and snorted.

  “You guys look like shit.”

  Dain sighed while Yasmin bowed her head. Anisa, however, offered Wenna a small smile. “You would not believe what happened last night.”

  By the time breakfast was over, the inn felt alive with clatter and heat. Anisa had paid Wenna with a generous hand, which earned them dishes and drinks faster than the regulars. Dain devoured his bread and stew like a starving man. Anisa drank like one. By the end of it, her cheeks were flushed and her words came out tangled at the edges.

  When they finally rose from their table, Yasmin had to steady her lady by the arm. Anisa leaned into Yasmin, smiling blearily up the stairwell as she slurred.

  “I didn’t realize… there was so much to learn about adventuring,” she muttered. “Truly overwhelming. You have been a… most patient teacher, Mister Sorowyn.”

  Dain adjusted his cane and the satchel of owl heads under one arm as he walked up the stairs as well. “Glad you think so. No refunds even if you don’t think you’ve learned enough, though. I’m keeping this cane.”

  “A… refund?”

  Then Anisa suddenly reached into Yasmin’s side pocket without warning. The steward yelped—high, uncharacteristic, and mortified—as her lady rummaged around. Soon, Anisa fished out a heavy coin pouch and plopped it into Dain’s already full arms.

  “I haven’t paid you enough for your protection last night, is what the truth is,” she slurred firmly. “Here. Two thousand curons. Enough to buy yourself a caravan seat to Braskir. That is where you’re headed, isn’t it?”

  He frowned. He was certain he hadn’t told her that, but her smile was quick, sharp, and smug. “I like to think I’m slightly observant, too.”

  “... Hm.” He studied her for a beat, then dipped his head slowly. “Thanks for the extra. Good luck to whatever you two will be doing from now on.”

  “You’re very welcome. Yasmin and I will remain in Granamere for perhaps… a week longer? We’ll do a few more smaller requests, gain more experience, and then set out for Corvalenne. We may arrive later than intended, but—hic—but there should still be knowledge to gather.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Her voice faltered like she wanted to say more, but she held it back—as if she didn’t know how to say it—until all three of them reached their respective bedroom doors.

  “Mister Sorowyn, say, would you like to—”

  “No thanks. Good luck with your adventures from now on.”

  He speed-opened his door, slipped inside, and turned the lock all within a single second.

  While he may be giving up on a particularly wealthy and influential adventuring companion, Anisa also seemed like she might be more trouble than she was worth—given both of them had already seen his wingcloak and suspected something off about him—so he’d rather not have to deal with them again.

  His room was exactly as he’d left it yesterday: bed unmade, window closed, study desk still cleared. He tossed everything onto the desk, ignoring the wet squelches of the owl heads and owl meat hitting the wood, and flopped backwards onto his bed.

  … Two thousand curons from a lady’s pocket and eight hundred from a Guild drawer.

  If luck had hands, it just patted his cheeks and told him he was its favorite idiot.

  He stared up at the ceiling, counting knots in the wooden boards. He could sleep. He should sleep. There was time to relax, too, since he’d already checked the caravan board yesterday. There was only one end-of-week caravan here that ran the Braskir roads, and it wouldn’t set off for four more days. That meant he had four days to kill by sleeping, spending coins, and strengthening his relics.

  His eyes started closing naturally when he snapped them wide open.

  Nope.

  Not yet.

  He snapped upright and swung his legs off the bed. Sleep could wait. Curiosity wouldn’t. He dragged himself to his study chair, unwrapped his Altar, and set it square in the middle of the desk. Then he poured and shook out every last magic material he’d brought back from the forest: five mana-infused metal plates not much larger than his palm, one mana mechanical core still glowing faintly, four inactive ruby golem eyes, a small mountain of silverplume feathers, three wet pouches of owl meat, and—occupying the far corner of his desk with grisly dignity—ten owls heads in a satchel.

  And I still have some centipede meat and frost-resistant chitin plates in my drawer too.

  As he stared at the owl head satchel, his wings started to fluff themselves like a cat. They curled forward and rubbed his jaw, begging for strokes.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He peeled his wingcloak off and laid it across his lap. The feathers were still matted with a bit of dirt and grime, so he smoothed them with long strokes, plucking twigs and very small pebbles that’d somehow gotten lodged in them.

  The wings made a low, pleased rustle. It wasn’t a purr—he wasn’t about to start claiming his cloak purred—but if a cloak could purr, he supposed this would be the noise.

  “I’ll wash you later,” he promised it. “A real soak, not just a dip in a basin. Soap and scrub and all the tender care of a deranged tailor. You like the sound of that?”

  The wings tucked themselves primly—as if they’d understood—and he had to bite back a grin. Cursed relic, his ass. If ‘cursed’ meant ‘would occasionally demand a bath and a snack of mana like a spoiled bird,’ he could live with it. He’d spent years fussing over trinkets and maintaining relics barely worth fifty curons. Taking care of his wingcloak would be easy.

  As he stroked his wings absentmindedly, he eyed the rest of his haul. The second mechanical core… he didn’t have a plan for it yet. Nor for the eyes, beyond the fact that four perfectly intact Molkhara optics would fetch good coins or make very interesting side offerings. The mana-infused metal plates, though…

  He clapped his hands softly.

  The Altar creaked as the portal swirled open, and as Belara’s pale hands slithered out, he kept his own hands clapped together.

  “Thanks for the wingcloak,” was the first thing he said. He just needed to get it out there. “I owe you something good. Next time I ask you for something, feel free to be a little more pushy with me.”

  One pale hand made a little ‘hurry along’ circle. Another pinched his cheek invisibly, or maybe that was just his imagination. It did feel like he’d been pinched.

  “Right, right. Business. I’d like some upgrades.” He nudged his prosthetic forward alongside all of his mana-infused plates, frost-resistant chitin plates, and half of his silverplume feathers. “This fellow’s carried me out of a few mean corners, and I’ve no intention of throwing away your first gift to me, so: five mana-plates as side offerings for additional resilience, four frost-resistant chitin plates as side offerings for additional frost resistance, and a handful of silverplume feathers as side offerings to lighten it. Can you upgrade it for me?”

  All four hands perked, very interested. They scooped up the black metal arm, fanned the plates like cards, and stroked the feathers. Then they withdrew—slowly, slowly—back into the portal with his offerings like spiders retreating with wrapped prey.

  “Wait. I’m not done yet,” he said, sliding the stoppered glass bottle, the centipede meat pouch, and all three owl meat pouches forward. “While you’re looking for an upgrade, I don’t suppose you’ve got time to give me another Cursed Manabrew Potion?”

  A hand shot back out, snatched the bottle and the meat pouches like it had been waiting for the words, and disappeared again. Now he sat back, palm flexing against the desk edge as he listened to his own heartbeat and the low, ambient hum of the mechanical core.

  The potion came out first. The same hand flung the bottle at him with terrible grace, so he caught it against his chest and slapped his Tag onto the glass.

  ***

  Name: Cursed Manabrew Potion

  Type: Consumable Apotheca-Class Cursed Relic, Common-4

  Attribute Addition: +8 Mana, +0.4 Mana Regeneration

  Ability Description: When consumed, the potion will increase the drinker’s mana and mana regeneration.

  However, the drinkers will feel a slight chill throughout their entire body for the next two days.

  ***

  A chill throughout my body for the next two days…

  Is that because the materials I offered for it are bilefrost centipede meat and silverplume owl meat, beasts that typically live in cold environments?

  He knew he already drank one potion in three days, but since he didn't feel like he was about to get sick yet, he decided to just thumb out the cork and drink.

  Unlike the previous Cursed Manabrew Potion, though, this one was bitter like biting into mint that’d grown on a lightning rod. It hit his stomach and immediately churned in him, making him shiver from head to toe, so he put the bottle down very carefully and swallowed a breath.

  Then he coughed suddenly into his hand and felt light-headed again.

  Lovely.

  I’m nauseous and cold at the same time.

  The nausea was his body reminding him he couldn’t keep flinging windspheres from his prosthetic without paying for it in the long term. It wasn’t good to be out of breath and nearly suffocating all the time in battle. Either he stocked up on a mountain of Rejuvenation Potions to offset the toll mid-battle, or he got his hands on a relic that bolstered his ability to draw air.

  ... But I still don't feel 'sick' in my mana core. The nausea has nothing to do with it, which means... I can easily handle two potions a month?

  What are the chances that I'm one of those extremely rare people who can tolerate four Manabrew Potions a month?

  The only way to know his real upper limit was to keep drinking until he felt like he was going to die.

  As the exciting thought stuck in his head like a nail, Belara’s hands emerged once more through the portal, carrying his prosthetic as if it were a relic they’d just reforged. He leaned forward instantly, grinning despite the sting in his throat, and slapped his Tag across the new metal.

  ***

  Name: Windscar Prosthetic Arm

  Type: Active Elementum-Class Cursed Relic, Common-4

  Attribute Addition: +2 Might, +1 Resilience

  Ability Description: When mana is channeled into the prosthetic, the holder can release a swirling burst of wind. The cost of each activation is 1 mana, and the more mana channeled into the prosthetic, the stronger the burst. The prosthetic has slight frost resistance.

  However, use of this prosthetic will also draw breaths from the holder's lungs, making them more and more light-headed and nauseous with extended use.

  ***

  The prosthetic looked reborn with sleeker lines, metal plates sharpened into fine ridges, and the whole weight redistributed leaner. He supposed that was the work of the feather-patterned golden carvings across the plates. And this upgraded version even tossed him an extra level in resilience.

  This is the trick: never discard, always build.

  A low grade relic can always be upgraded with side offerings.

  He raised his head and bowed at Belara. “Much obliged. That’s all for tonight.”

  As Belara waved him off and slithered back through the closing portal, he bundled half of the remaining silverplume feathers aside to sell—he didn’t really need this many feathers—and left the other half for future side offerings.

  Tired and cold as he was now, he still felt his blood humming too loud for sleep. The thought of lying down now felt wrong. Now that he had some money to spare, courtesy of Anisa, he wanted to raid the local materials store and start thinking about his Title.

  After all, he still had four Tags in his pocket.