“Mernilk used to be the same all over before the war. It was a massive manufacturing hub, located roughly in the middle of the western coalition,” Cezarius began, lighting a cigarette by pressing its tip against the warm metal he had laid aside since their arrival. “There were many more of us back then – blacksmiths, leatherworkers, carpenters, bricklayers, artisans… the whole lot. Things were good, life was easier.”

  “The war was a good thing for our economy, at least at the beginning. Demand skyrocketed. Everyone worked around the clock, and the coalition kept us supplied with as many raw materials as we needed. Then, the horde from the north arrived…”

  Clarisse, who had been sitting perfectly upright during his narration, felt a shiver run down her legs, remembering the stories she heard about the Ombraevian horde while she remained cooped up in her home.

  “I’d call them warmongering monsters, but we were no different,” The blacksmith continued. “Once Atrii fell, Mernilk was their target. We had the tools to defend ourselves with, but not the manpower. We had lost too many at Atrii, and the rest were too far spread apart to arrive in time. Luckily, our Highness Cerigan sent one of his best spellcasters to aid us. The illusionist covered the entire city in his magic, making it an invisible maze for outsiders.”

  “That’s what we felt from the other side of the bridge,” Nikolas concurred, recalling the shimmer of mana he felt from the entire district. “It’s quite impressive that it’s lasted for so long.”

  Cezarius nodded solemnly, both acknowledging and condemning the lifespan of the disguised curse. “It gave us the upper hand. The avians and toads, they had no idea where to go once they entered the city. We were outnumbered, but they couldn’t do much against traps they wouldn’t be able to see. We made them retreat after picking off enough that they wouldn’t be able to attack us again. It was all going well… until a stray arrow found its mark in that mage’s chest.”

  A gasp from Ashford brought necessary pause for the tragedy. He had been quite quiet, enough that the adults in the room had almost forgotten about him in the heat of the forge.

  “He was supposed to remove the spell once it was all over. We tried to keep him alive, but the poison took him before he could finish clearing all of it… It seeped into the soil, turning into a malignant curse. At first, we couldn’t navigate the streets we grew up in. Then, the soil lost its fertility. Slowly, outsiders began to forget we were still around, barely able to notice the cursed areas. Now, hardly anyone can tell it apart from the rest of the city from the outside. The guilds that know about it use us for cheap labor and to set up means of mass production.”

  “Why not leave, then?” Clarisse asked, glancing at Nikolas for reassurance. “If the land is cursed, and you can’t fix it, then why are you still here?”

  “It’s not just the land anymore,” The blacksmith rephrased. “It’s the people too. We may gain color when we’re in the cleansed streets, but it has seeped into us as well. Our magic has grown weaker, our bodies far more frail than before. We were once a proud people, but not anymore. There are still youngsters I have to take care of, like this one.” He gestured towards Ashford, who seemed confused between mourning their predicament and celebrating being noticed and remembered by someone.

  “All too proud,” Nikolas muttered, “But I suppose that is all you can be, given this curse.”

  “-And that’s what ended up as this??” Clarisse asked again, exasperated by the effort of wrapping her mind around the neutral ground Mernilk had ended up on. “It just seems so… wrong. On many levels!”

  “I’m afraid so,” Cezarius let out a puff of smoke before putting the cigarette to his mouth again, a little something to take his mind off of his situation. “Until the guilds who now own this land see any value in curing us, we’ll simply rot away… at least the ones who can’t make it out early, like you, Ashie.”

  “Being a paper runner doesn’t pay that much, Uncle,” Ashford replied with a hint of despair in his voice upon being faced with the reality of his life so far. It had been an uncharacteristically serious tale for him, and one which required some self-reflection. “I should probably go now… mother will scold me if I’m late…”

  “It would if you find more customers like this one –” Cezarius laughed, gesturing his cigarette towards Nikolas. “It might be hard, but you can still make it out there. Be safe on your way back.”

  “I will, thank you,” The usually energetic boy shrank inwards, before quickly retreating from the depths of the forge. “See you, Uncle, and goodbye, Mr. Nikolas and Ms. Clarisse.”

  “The city has plenty of businesses which could use an energetic soul like yours,” Nikolas concurred with the blacksmith, while getting up from his chair as Ashford left. “That said, we should probably get back on the road. No offense to you, but staying in the range of a lingering spell sounds like a bad idea.”

  “Ah… wait!” Cezarius suddenly called out, approaching Nikolas once more. “I won’t hold you for long, but could I inspect that sword of yours?”

  “No,” Nikolas answered blankly without pause. “I can’t let you.” His hand wrapped around the hilt almost instinctively, in a protective manner. It screamed in his mind, but he clung to the slim metal regardless.

  “I need merely to see it,” Cezarius repeated his request, this time in a slower, calmer manner. “Its hilt caught my eye when you first arrived, but since then I have become certain. If I am right, your blade is likely to be a special one which I recognize.”

  Nikolas took a step back, angling himself to place his body between the blacksmith and the broken blade. “I cannot allow this blade to be unsheathed. Not here, and not by anyone else… and I doubt you would recognize it in any manner.”

  Clarisse found herself caught off-guard by the sudden change in the tone of their conversation. The last time she had seen Nikolas behave that defensively, it hadn’t gone well for the other party. “Mr. Cezarius, I’d rather you drop the idea. Nik has his reasons, and I trust him.”

  Cezarius crossed his arms, finding himself at an impasse. “My family, the Felnaurs, has been forging weapons for generations now. Each generation forged at least one Fel blade in their time. Back to my father, and his father, and his father’s father… I have etched every known Fel blade and their scabbards into my memory. Even if it were to lose all its vibrance and lustre, I would still recognize them anywhere. If the sword you carry matches its sheath, then you carry a Fel blade, Nikolas. One forged by Aliwain Felnaur, my great-great grandfather.”

  The title of a Fel blade was not lost on Clarisse, and she shuddered slightly. Looking back, her trust in Nikolas had been put into jeopardy almost immediately after defending him.

  “Let’s say it is. That would be all the more reason to not use it here,” Nikolas replied after a pause when his eyes widened slightly, recognizing the name. “And if you really are a Felnaur, then you already have another Fel blade in your shop.”

  “I do,” Cezarius replied, withdrawing with a sigh. “I do not know how you obtained that blade, but wielding one comes with great responsibility.”

  Nikolas chose not to reply, leaving a lingering silence which neither of them chose to break, until Clarisse spoke up.

  “It’s best if we leave…” Clarisse muttered, walking past them towards the exit into the shopfront. She pinched the edge of Nikolas’ sleeve as she went by, prompting him to follow.

  “Wait,” The blacksmith spoke up again, this time with an upwards inflection. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, I can forge it. However, I’ll need materials.”

  “You have plenty of alloys to work with, evidently…” Nikolas observed, casting his eyes over the aura heat which made the air around the forge simmer.

  “Not these materials. I wouldn’t even mention this to an ordinary customer, but…” Cezarius paused, unsure of how to refer to it before simply gesturing at Nikolas. “You wield a Fel weapon. You could manage this. And if you do, I’ll make her a weapon from the same alloy as Fel blades. Ferrium Atrus.”

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  “Didn’t their supply run out during the war?” Clarisse seemed confused, recalling what little knowledge she had heard from passing conversations after the peace treaty. “I heard the last bunch were made into seven weapons and distributed to various Ignian generals. There was no more ore left to make them out of.”

  “No, and yes!” Cezarius raised a hand, walking past them and into the shopfront. “My father and grandfather made the last seven Fel blades, and one of them is right here. But, they didn’t stop because we ran out of Atrus to mine. Atrii was where we got it from, and when it fell, so did its quarries. They became inaccessible when the mineshaft systems collapsed on themselves, but they’re still there.”

  “And you’re suggesting?” Nikolas grumbled. The longer they stayed in that forge, the thinner his patience for the blacksmith wore.

  “I know there has to be some Atrus ore left there… but no one has been able to safely enter them yet. Atrii relocated towards the east during their reconstruction, so the mines have remained untouched since then.” Cezarius’s eyebrows raised with a tinge of hope as he presented the proposal. “If you can find enough Atrus, I could make you something from it… it would be my legacy as a Felnaur.”

  “So we’re just going off a hunch… ” Nikolas looked towards Clarisse, leaving her to make the final decision. “You’re the one getting something out of this, so it’s your call.”

  “I, uhm…” Clarisse stuttered, occupied by many thoughts at once. “What else can you tell us about the mines? What else can we expect to find there? There’s no way no one else has tried to get the ore before this, it has too great of a reputation for its material.”

  “There shouldn’t be anything there to my knowledge. I could come with you as a guide too.” Cezarius volunteered himself, only for Clarisse to shut him down promptly.

  “Sorry, we… work best on our own.” Clarisse denied him, recalling Nik’s request not to get others involved until they found out more about the soul bond between them. Still, the blacksmith’s reply reminded her of the sewer guard from Junnhaven in a bad way.

  “I’ll make whatever you want, as long as you bring me enough ore to make it,” Cezarius smiled, having reignited his calling.

  “... Right,” Clarisse remained a tad unsure of herself, but nodded all the same. “I’ll think of something.”

  “Towards Atrii we go then,” Nikolas concluded, holding the door open for Clarisse to leave before he did.

  “Thanks for standing with me back there,” Nikolas muttered, looking down at the path ahead of them as they walked back towards the bridge. “People can be awfully… persistent.”

  “Of course!” Clarisse smiled, though she had her own concerns as well. “A-are you actually carrying a Fel blade, though? You lied to him, right?”

  Nikolas raised his gaze to meet hers, staring silently with those eyes which gave away even less than usual in their desaturated hues, before looking back down.

  “Merciful Thened…” Clarisse began saying a quiet prayer.

  “It used to be a Fel blade,” Nikolas reluctantly elaborated. “ I reckon it saw decades of battle in its prime. Bet it carried a lot of power in its name too. Now… it’s just a broken sword.”

  “It still lights up and transforms, though… I saw what you did down near the grotto.”

  “That, it does. The person who I got it from helped me figure that out.”

  “Who was that?”

  “A friend of Sera’s…”

  “I’m beginning to realize you’re both much more than you let on… in more ways than I thought.”

  “I need you to promise me something.” Nikolas asked after a noticeable pause.

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t touch the sword. No matter what happens, even if it sounds like Sera or I ask you to. Not the blade, nor its handle. Stay as far as you can from it unless it’s in my hands.”

  “Is it cursed too, like that other Fel blade we saw at the forge?”

  “In many ways, yes.”

  “Alright then, I promise.”

  “Thank you. Sorry but… it’s safer this way.”

  “I do have something I need from you too.”

  “Hmm?”

  “We need to talk. I’ve been seeing you in my dreams again. It… hasn’t been pretty.”

  “. . . My condolences.”

  Clarisse halted in place, fingers clutching to the frills of her sleeve tightly as her brow contorted in frustration. “I’m serious… and I’m also worried about you. Promise me you’re not just going to brush this off.”

  Nikolas stopped a couple of steps ahead of her, looking back. Hesitation lingered in his eyes, and he remained there, contemplating.

  Clarisse gazed back into those troubled irises, one of her only gateways to understanding what went on behind the mask so far. She could only hope he decided to open up to her.

  A few more seconds passed before the avoidance borne from instinct finally gave way to an iota of trust. “I promise. Let’s get our new quest dealt with, and then we can talk. I owe you a better explanation about everything.”

  The rest of their walk remained rather uneventful, although a familiar figure was waiting by the bridges to remedy that.

  “Clarisse! Nikolas!” Bubico jogged halfway up the slope to meet them. “I have learned many things… most of them, unpleasant in nature.”

  “Spill the beans, then,” Nikolas leaned by one of the supporting pillars, giving himself time to adjust to the sudden vibrancy of the world.

  “We had similar luck…” Clarisse shrugged once Bubico finished recapping his meeting with higher ups from a merchant guild he knew. “It’s frustrating to know that we can’t do much about this spell. But, we do have an idea for where we’re going next.”

  “Indeed, it is… do tell.” The artist asked. The weight of knowledge had certainly dampened his enthusiasm, but he remained polite nonetheless.

  “We’re headed towards Atrii to retrieve some ores for the blacksmith we met,” Clarisse explained, hoping to get some aid from the seemingly well-connected traveler. “We need a transport to the old quarry. Do you think you could ask any of your friends to spare a carriage?”

  Bubico’s eyes twinkled with joy once more as he nodded. “I can lend you mine! I have my own driver and a carriage! When do you plan to embark?”

  “As – As soon as possible would be nice. Right, Nik?” Clarisse looked back to ask him, but he seemed to be gazing towards the horizon, deep in thought. Taking it upon herself to make decisions, Clarisse turned to Bubico again. “It’d be nice if we got there sometime tomorrow…”

  “I can make that happen. Come with me!”

  Only when the pair stepped out of his peripheral sight did Nikolas decide to move, following them loosely. He still remained rather quiet, seemingly preoccupied with his thoughts.

  Just as how they had arrived in the misleading, winding, bustling city of Mernilk, the pair of adventurers found themselves sitting in another carriage, ready to depart.

  “Good luck! I pray you will find whatever you have to, and return safely,” Bubico said his goodbyes by peeking under the tarp wrapped around the back. “I would have volunteered to join you, but I have found new inspiration in that lifeless land… I wonder how many paintings will look when made in grayscale…”

  “Take care, and thanks.” Nikolas replied, electing to omit that he would’ve asked for the artist to stay behind had he ever mentioned tagging along with them.

  “We’ll be back soon, hopefully! See you!” Clarisse waved to him right as he disappeared past the tarp. They could still hear him outside, conversing with the carriage’s driver. “We should get some sleep…” Clarisse thought aloud, wrapping herself in a blanket and letting the warmth sink in.

  “Right on… I’ll wake you up if you aren’t already when we arrive.” Nikolas replied, setting his head back against the wooden support as the carriage began to move. It wasn’t long before the mules picked up pace, and the cacophony of the city was replaced by the regular clacks of hooves against cobble in the night.

  It was well past twilight when Nikolas’ bag stirred, and a familiar face stuck her head out of it. The masked adventurer glanced down to watch the doll squeeze through the small opening, before reaching down to open it for her. “Sera.” He whispered, placing a finger over the slits of his mask and then gesturing towards Clarisse asleep sitting across from him.

  “Where are you headed? I thought you were in Mernilk…” Sera took a seat on his shoulder and whispered back to him.

  “We met a Felnaur. I thought we could get Clarisse a better weapon to work with, so we’re taking a detour to Atrii.”

  “Felnaur? Aliwain is going to be stoked to hear that!”

  “They’re not doing too well, actually.”

  “Unfortunate. Do they still make Fel blades?”

  “He has one, but no ore to make another. That’s why we’re going to Atrii.”

  “I don’t think a Fel blade would be good for Clarisse. It could hurt her. Badly.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of a blade… more like a wand or staff. Just something to help channel her magic or hold gemstones.”

  “You could always ask for one from Aliwain’s collection. A safer weapon.”

  “He wouldn’t just give it away –”

  “He would if I told him to.”

  Nikolas stared back at her with a blank disapproving gaze.

  “Alright, alright. That aside… Atrii?”

  “Old Atrii. Do you need me to do anything while we’re there?”

  “No, I don’t think Old Atrii is of any interest to us anymore. Keep your ears open though – anything you can find at the mines could be useful.”

  “I will… how are things on your end?”

  “Slow. Mizar is filling in Derek’s shoes well, but we can’t make any big moves with the hero’s party still in the eastern region.”

  “If he’s still around when we get there…”

  “Yes, I’ll take your help if he’s still there,” Sera conceded, dropping down into the bag from his shoulder. “You should sleep. Or at least pretend to…”

  “. . .” Nikolas silently closed the bag over her, letting out a sigh and leaning his head back. Even with his eyes closed, he was far from allowing himself to rest. The veil of eyelids simply replaced the physical plane with the mana flow around them as the carriage’s wheels rolled on…

  Bubico was quite pleased with himself the next day, pacing back and forth across the verandah of an open-air cafe with his canvas hanging from a line of rope running across the square. The angle gave him a new perspective, he thought, watching his creation from a few feet away. The flourishing artist didn’t notice the party of gold ranks take interest in him until they had effectively surrounded him and the giant placed a hand on his shoulder, breaking his immersion.

  “Looks like you’re pretty good at this. Now, could you tell us where you last saw these two?” Kaara Henderhol asked, putting his arm around Bubico’s shoulder as he held a fiery finger in front of the illustration of Nikolas and Clarisse.

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