^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

Nobody in Hollowmere believed the old rhyme anymore.

Wren Aldren certainly hadn’t, not really, not until the night the raiders’ fires showed up on the ridge and every able hand in the village came back from the fight with less blood in them than they’d left with.

Her grandmother used to sing it to her as a child, the way you sing something you love without quite believing it:

One kindness paid, one word is owed.

Call it once, down the old road.

Three true names, spoken plain.

Skarvane answers. Once again.

A nursery rhyme. That’s all it had ever been.

Until it wasn’t.

Here’s the story behind the story, the one Wren’s grandmother told better than anyone.

Four generations back, a shepherd named Colm Aldren found a wyrmling half-starved in a snowdrift above the treeline, wing torn, too weak to fly home to wherever home was. Hunters were already climbing the ridge with spears, drawn by the smoke of the creature’s panicked breathing.

Colm hid it in his shepherd’s hut. Fed it goat’s milk from his own hand. Told the hunters the smoke had been his own hearth fire, carried strange on the wind.

When the wyrmling healed enough to fly, it didn’t just leave.

It spoke.

Not the shepherd’s tongue. Something older, that settled into his mind like a stone into water and left the meaning behind once the ripples cleared.

You spent a kindness on me that cost you everything you had to lose.

I have very little left to give a creature so small and so short-lived.

But I can give you this. One word, kept. Call it once, when nothing else is left. I will come.

Then it was gone, and Colm Aldren spent the rest of his life being laughed at gently by neighbors who loved him and didn’t believe a word of it.

Four generations is a long time to keep believing in a debt nobody’s ever seen paid.

Long enough that most of Hollowmere had quietly filed the rhyme next to stories about the man in the moon.

“It’s a nice thing to sing to babies,” old Ansel said, the night the raiders’ watch-fires first appeared on the ridge, “and that’s the whole use it’s ever had.”

“Grandmother believed it,” Wren said.

“Your grandmother also believed the well water cured warts.”

“It does cure warts.”

“That’s beside the point.”

The raiders hit at dawn on the third day. Not many of them, maybe thirty, but Hollowmere had never needed more than a fence and a prayer to keep itself safe, and thirty armed strangers is thirty more than that fence was built for.

The first attempt was the village standing together at the gate, farmers and shepherds with hunting bows and their fathers’ rusted swords.

They held for an hour. Lost six people doing it. The raiders pulled back at dusk only because they’d rather burn the grain stores than fight in the dark, and burning takes less courage than fighting does.

The second attempt was worse. A message rider sent for help from the garrison two days south, except the garrison had its own troubles that spring and sent back word that Hollowmere would have to hold on its own a while longer.

A while longer wasn’t a thing Hollowmere had.

By the second night, half the village was already talking about the road east, about leaving everything behind rather than staying to lose it burning.

That’s when Wren’s grandmother, too old and too tired to fight, gripped her hand across the kitchen table and said the only true thing she had left to offer.

“Climb the ridge. Say the names.”

“Grandmother, it’s a rhyme.”

“It’s a debt,” the old woman said. “And Aldrens have never once, in four generations, let a debt go unspoken. Even the ones owed to us.”

Wren climbed alone, at first light, while the village argued below about whether to run or die standing.

The ridge was farther than she remembered from childhood walks. Steeper, too, the kind of climb that makes you reconsider every choice that led you to it.

She reached the place where the rhyme said to stand, an outcrop of black stone scarred with old claw marks gone smooth with weather, and she felt extraordinarily foolish.

She said the names anyway.

Three true names, the ones her grandmother had made her memorize as a girl, syllables that felt wrong in a human mouth, too many consonants crowded too close together.

Nothing happened.

No wind. No shadow crossing the sun. Just the ridge, and the smoke rising from Hollowmere below, and thirty raiders’ watch-fires waiting to become thirty raiders’ torches.

She said the names again. Louder. Then a third time, voice cracking, because the rule of three is the rule of three even when you don’t believe in rhymes.

Still nothing.

She sat down on the black stone and put her face in her hands, and for the first time since the fires appeared on the ridge, she let herself cry.

It was never real. Grandmother’s dying and she’s dying believing a story, and I climbed a mountain for nothing, and Hollowmere burns tonight because I wasted the one morning I had.

She almost missed it. The change in the light.

A shadow, moving wrong for a cloud, too fast, too deliberate, sliding across the ridge like something pouring itself downhill.

She looked up.

Skarvane was not what four generations of bedtime stories had prepared her for.

Old. That was the first thing. Old in a way that had nothing to do with size, though the size was considerable enough, wings that blotted out half the visible sky. Old in the eyes, in the slow, careful way it folded itself onto the outcrop like something that hurt to move and had decided to move anyway.

Scars crossed its flank in old, pale lines. One eye had gone milk-white, blind.

You took your time calling.

The voice arrived the way Colm’s had arrived, four generations of story-telling ago. Not sound. Meaning, settling in like water finding its level.

“I didn’t think it was real,” Wren whispered.

Neither did your great-grandfather’s neighbors. That never once changed what I owed.

It looked past her, toward the smoke.

Thirty of them. Armed. Your village burns tonight if nothing changes.

“Can you stop it?”

The dragon was quiet a moment. When it spoke again, something in the meaning felt heavier than before.

I am old, small Aldren. Older than I look, and I did not look young to begin with. This will cost me more than it would have cost me a hundred years ago.

“Then don’t.”

A word given is a word kept, Skarvane said, or it was never a word at all. Only noise a dying thing made to feel less alone.

What happened on the ridge above Hollowmere that night became its own story eventually, one Wren still doesn’t tell the same way twice, because some of it happened too fast to hold onto clearly.

Fire from the sky where no fire should be. Thirty raiders who came expecting farmers with rusted swords and found something out of the oldest nightmares their mothers ever warned them about instead.

They didn’t stay to find out if the nightmare had limits.

By the time the sun came up, Hollowmere still stood. Scorched at the edges. Smelling of smoke that wasn’t the bad kind. Alive.

Skarvane didn’t linger for thanks. Wren found it on the ridge afterward, resting against the black stone, breathing in the slow, careful way of something that has spent everything it had and isn’t sure yet what’s left over.

“You could have died.”

I very nearly did. It has been a long time since I fought anything larger than my own hunger.

“Why keep the promise, after all this time? Nobody would have known if you hadn’t come.”

The milk-white eye turned toward her, somehow more piercing for being blind.

I would have known. And your shepherd fed a starving, dying thing from his own hand and asked for nothing back. A debt like that doesn’t get smaller because nobody’s watching to see it paid.

It rose, slow, wincing, wings unfolding.

Something that had earned every one of its scars honestly.

The debt is closed now, Aldren. Four generations, and it is closed.

“Will we ever see you again?”

Skarvane considered that a long moment, old eyes on the smoke-smudged village below, on the girl who’d climbed a mountain for a rhyme she didn’t believe.

That, it said, was never part of the promise.

But I find I am not in as much of a hurry to leave as I thought I would be.

It didn’t say anything else. Just watched the sun come up over Hollowmere a while longer, an old and terrible and patient thing, keeping company with no debt left to keep.

Wren sat beside it and let it.

^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

Jeb had been steward of the Kotisi longer than most kingdoms had kept the same flag.

In all that time, there was one day a year they both dreaded and looked forward to, in equal measure.

Between themselves, they called it Loaf Day.

Chuck called it nothing at all. He never gave it a name.

He only appeared in the kitchen doorway on the right morning and tapped the frame twice with one knuckle. Then he said the same four words he’d said every year since Jeb first found him lost in his own hallways.

Three weeks gone, that time. Two stone lighter than he’d wandered in.

“Today’s the day, Jeb.”

By the time he finished the sentence, Jeb was already at the flour. There was no walking involved. There rarely was.

The recipe made no sense...and that, Jeb had decided a long time ago, was rather the point of it.

Bruised zaffra root. Three knuckles of it.

No more. No less.

A pinch of ash from a fire that had to be burning when you took it...never scooped cold.

Milk from a goat that did not exist...Jeb had checked. Forty years of quiet, patient, professional checking, and no such goat had ever stood on this estate or any other they’d managed.

Chuck brought the milk himself, from somewhere Jeb had learned not to watch too closely. It came in a small clay jug that smelled faintly of somewhere very far from the Cottage.

The mixing bowl came down off its high shelf, on its own, and settled softly onto the board. Jeb had not reached for a shelf in thirty years. There was no need.

The whole business took most of a day to bake.

The whole business was never, not once in Jeb’s memory, eaten.

“Smells done,” Chuck would say, hands folded behind his back at the kitchen window. He watched the loaf through the oven glass, still and unblinking. “Get the fire hot, would you?”

Jeb got the fire hot.

Chuck carried the loaf out himself. He never once let Jeb take it, not in forty years. He cradled it the whole way to the pit, like something still asleep.

Then he fed it into the flames. Whole.

He stood there until the smoke thinned out and the smell of it had left the air entirely.

Then he came back in, washed his hands twice, and asked what was for actual supper. As though the last four hours had not happened.

Jeb stopped asking why around the ninth year.

By the twentieth, they’d stopped wondering whether they ever would stop.

This Loaf Day had one complication the other nineteen hadn’t.

The complication’s name was Wendell.

He’d been at the Cottage three days, recovering from something Jeb had decided, on principle, not to ask about. The boy ate on a schedule set by his own stomach and nobody else’s.

Which meant that at the worst possible hour of the afternoon, he followed his nose into the kitchen doorway.

“Something smells amazing.” Wendell leaned in, sniffing. “Is that bread?”

“It is not for eating.” Jeb stepped sideways and filled the doorway, a move forty years of practice had made look like an accident.

“Everything in a kitchen is for eating.” Wendell craned around them for a better look. “That’s the whole rule of kitchens.”

“Not this one.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” Jeb used the voice they kept for guests who had wandered somewhere they hadn’t meant to and needed a graceful way back out. “It belongs to Master Chuck. Master Chuck has very particular feelings about his zaffra loaf. And I would take it as a personal kindness if you carried your very reasonable hunger to the dining room...where a far less complicated roast is waiting for exactly this moment.”

Wendell hovered. Boys his age always hovered near a thing they’d just been told not to touch.

He weighed his curiosity against the roast.

The roast won.

“Weird house.” He was already drifting off toward the smell of dinner. “Weird everything, honestly.”

“You have no idea,” Jeb said, to no one at all, and went back to the oven glass.

Chuck came for the loaf at the usual hour. Cradled it the usual way. Carried it out to the pit, the usual careful distance from the house.

Jeb followed. Close enough to be useful...far enough to stay out of it.

The loaf went into the fire. Whole.

Chuck watched it burn with his hands loose at his sides, his six foot snow-white beard nearly to the ground. None of the restless motion...none of the muttering he kept up over everything else in the world. From his tea to his shoelaces, to the sorry state of Ambaserre’s road tariffs...

Just still.

Jeb had watched him go still exactly one day a year for forty years. It never once stopped being strange to see. All that motion, folded up and set down. A man holding himself quiet on purpose.

The smoke climbed thin and pale.

For just a moment it smelled like snow...which made no sense in the middle of summer. In fact, it made no sense at all. Jeb had also, long ago, stopped bringing that up.

Chuck said something into the fire. Two words...maybe three. Too soft to catch.

Jeb did not ask him to say it again.

Some words aren’t meant for the room. They’re for whoever the smoke climbs up to find.

“You could just tell me,” Jeb said later, over the real supper. Chuck had gone back to his usual volume and his usual seventeen conversations at once.

“Tell you what?”

“What Loaf Day is.”

Chuck stopped with his fork halfway up, which for Chuck was a genuinely long pause.

“You’ve gone forty years without knowing.” He set the fork back down on the edge of the plate. “Best cook I ever hired. Never once burned a single other thing I asked you to burn. No questions. No fuss.”

“I have excellent professional discretion.”

“You’ve got something better than discretion.” Chuck looked at them then, and for about a breath, the wandering, muddled look went out of his eyes entirely. “You’ve got the good sense to know a thing can be private without being shameful. Some things are just mine, Jeb. Steering clear of them doesn’t make you any less trusted. It’s part of why I trust you at all.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed reassuring.”

“You didn’t.” Chuck picked the fork back up, and the twinkle came back with it. “I felt like giving it anyway. A man doesn’t get many chances to thank the people who never made him explain himself.”

Jeb said nothing to that.

There was no version of an answer that wouldn’t have come out soft. And forty years of running an impossible house for an impossible man had taught them one rule about a moment like this.

Let it pass. Don’t grab at it.

So they cleared the plates instead. Put the kettle on. Somewhere upstairs, Wendell was almost certainly halfway into something he shouldn’t be. The whole enormous, ridiculous, far-too-large-on-the-inside Cottage eased back down into its ordinary noise.

Three hundred and sixty-four ordinary days a year.

And one that wasn’t.

One that Jeb had decided, a long time ago, was never theirs to ask about.

That was enough.

It had always been enough.

^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

The bellows breathed. I breathed with them.

That’s the first lesson at Kelvenhearth, before they trust you with iron...before they trust you with fire, even.

Match the bellows. Don’t fight the forge.

Master Kelver used to say a smith who can’t breathe with his own bellows will never hear what the metal is telling him.

I was three years into my apprenticeship the day Aldric Ferrow walked through our door.

He came with a purse fat enough to embarrass a lord, and a deadline that would have killed the commission outright.

“Six weeks,” Kelver told him. “Not a day less.”

“My daughter’s wedding is in four.”

“Then your daughter’s wedding will happen without a bride-chain from this forge.”

I nearly dropped the tongs.

You didn’t talk to Aldric Ferrow that way. Everyone in the valley knew it. He owned half the caravan routes between Andilain and the coast. Traders who crossed him had a way of finding their contracts quietly cancelled the next season.

Master Kelver tugged at his round ear. He always did that when he’d already decided something and was only waiting for the world to catch up.

“Four weeks,” Kelver said again. “Or none at all. Your choice.”

Ferrow’s face went the color of old brick. Then he smiled. The kind of smile that costs a man something to make.

“I’ll pay double.”

“You could pay me the crown jewels of Andilain,” Kelver said, “and the sky-iron still wouldn’t fold any faster.”

Here’s what I didn’t understand yet, standing there with soot on my hands and my mouth half open.

Sky-iron isn’t ore. It’s a gift. And gifts don’t take orders.

It falls maybe once a decade, when the meteor showers pass low over the Kutollum peaks, and what lands is no bigger than a fist. Master Kelver had one piece of it...saved eleven years, waiting for a commission worth spending it on.

Ferrow’s daughter was that commission. A bride-chain. Seven links, each one folded from the raw star-metal seven times over.

Seven folds. Seven weeks. One fold every seven days, because the metal needs that long to settle into itself between the hammer and the water.

Rush it, and the folds don’t bond. They just...sit there. Pretending.

Looks perfect on the anvil.

Snaps the first cold morning it’s worn.

Ferrow came back three days later. A different approach this time.

He didn’t come alone.

The dwarf with him filled the doorway, arms crossed, saying nothing...just standing there being large while Ferrow talked.

“I’ve spoken with the Guild Council,” Ferrow said. “They tell me forge charters can be reviewed. Renewed. Or not renewed.”

Master Kelver didn’t even look up from the piece he was working.

“They can review mine anytime they like.”

“Four days, Kelver.”

“Six weeks.”

“You’ll lose this shop.”

“I’ll lose it with clean hands.”

That night, after Ferrow’s hired dwarf had gone and the shop had gone quiet, I finally asked it.

“Why not just fold it fast? Nobody would know. Not for a year. Maybe two.”

Master Kelver didn’t answer right away. He walked to the back wall, where a length of chain hung on a nail, dull and dark and coiled in on itself.

“My first commission,” he said. “Twenty-two years old. A merchant wanted a ceremonial collar for his prize hound. Needed it in three days, for a competition. I folded it twice instead of seven times, and told myself twice was close enough.”

He took it down. Handed it to me.

It was cold in my hand...and wrong somehow, though I couldn’t have told you how.

“Dog wore it eleven days,” Kelver said. “Snapped while it slept by the hearth. Nearly took an eye out.”

He didn’t say anything else for a long moment.

“The dog’s fine,” he added. “Ferrow’s daughter, though...wearing a chain that snaps at her own wedding feast, in front of every family that matters in that valley...”

He shook his head.

“That, she doesn’t come back from.”

I looked at the ruined thing in my hand.

“You kept it.”

“So I’d remember what fast costs.” He took it back and hung it on its nail. “Rushing doesn’t save time, Bram. It just moves the bill to someone who never agreed to pay it.”

Ferrow’s third visit, he came alone. No hired muscle. No Guild threats.

Just him in the doorway, looking older than he had three weeks before.

“The wedding’s in six days,” he said. “I told my daughter the chain wouldn’t be ready.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“She said...” Ferrow’s voice caught. “She said she’d rather wear nothing at all than something you didn’t have the time to finish right.”

Master Kelver set down his hammer.

For the first time since Ferrow had walked through our door, he really looked at the man.

“Then she understands something her father doesn’t.”

Ferrow flinched. Fair enough. It landed exactly where it was aimed.

“I built this business on speed,” Ferrow said quietly. “Fast caravans. Fast deals. First to market, every time.” He spread his hands. “It’s never once cost me a thing.”

“It will,” Kelver said. “Everything does, eventually. You’ve just been lucky about when the bill comes due.”

The chain finished on the seventh week. One week past what Kelver had promised, because the fifth fold cracked halfway through and had to be started over from raw metal.

I watched him melt down eleven years of waiting without a flicker of hesitation. And start again.

“Doesn’t that kill you?” I asked. “Starting over?”

“What kills you,” he said, working the bellows himself now, matching his own breath to the fire, “is sending out work you know is wrong, and hoping nobody finds out before you’re dead.”

He held the finished chain up to the light. Seven links. Each one folded seven times, each fold showing as a faint grain in the metal, like rings in a very old tree.

It didn’t look flashy.

It looked like it would outlive every one of us in that room.

The wedding had already come and gone by the time the chain was ready. Small ceremony. No bride-chain. Ferrow’s daughter married in her mother’s old wedding band instead, and the word around the valley was that half the guests thought it a lovely, humble touch.

Ferrow came to collect the chain a week after, quiet now, none of the fire left from that first visit.

He turned it over in his hands for a long time.

“She’s going to wear this at the anniversary feast,” he said. “Every year. Long after the wedding’s forgotten.”

Kelver nodded. “Good. That’s what it’s for.”

Ferrow paid what he’d first offered. Not double. Just the price. Kelver had never once asked for more than that, not through any of it, and by then I understood this had never been about the money.

Fifteen years later, I run Kelvenhearth myself.

Ferrow’s daughter still wears that chain. I’ve seen it. Bright as the day it left our forge, not a hairline crack anywhere in the seven folds.

There’s a rushed chain out there too, somewhere. Made by a smith who took a fat purse and half the time. I heard it snapped at a spring fair not long after. Right off the wearer’s neck, in front of everyone.

I think about that dog collar on the wall sometimes. When a customer’s in a hurry, and their coin is very good, and their patience is very thin.

Some things can’t be rushed.

Not because the smith is stubborn.

Because the metal’s telling the truth. And the truth takes exactly as long as it takes.

^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

I sell memory.

Not a popular trade, put that way, so I don’t usually put it that way.

On the sign it says BROKER.
Under that, in smaller letters my grandsire cut, IF IT PASSED THROUGH HERE, I KNOW WHO CARRIED IT.

That’s the honest advertisement.

Crossroads like mine, where the west road crosses the river road and the Andilain trade comes down to meet the coast trade. A thing everyone needs and nobody sells is somebody who remembers.

Who bought the grey wool cheap in the spring and sold it dear in the autumn. Which drover waters his ale and which waters his horses...and which does neither...and is therefore to be watched. What a bale of Iskäri dye is truly worth, as against what a stranger will pay for it.

I keep it all.

Up here, and down here in the ledgers.
The same thing twice.
A gnome’s memory is good, but a gnome’s memory that’s also written down is a fact.

I deal in facts.

Thirty years I’ve kept this post. I have sold ten thousand small memories to folk who needed them. Just a copper or two at a time.

Thought nothing of it.

Then a courteous fellow in a grey coat laid an old coin on my counter.
He bought one, same as anyone.
But then he did a thing nobody in Thirty years had done.

Read more

^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

“It’s a check.”

“I know it’s a check, Telly. I’ve got eyes.”

“I’m just saying, it’s a really big check.”

Freak stood in the middle of the garage floor holding the envelope like it might go off. Nibbles had already abandoned whatever she was soldering, candy bar forgotten mid-bite in one hand, craning over his shoulder to read the number twice.

“That’s not a number,” she said. “That’s a phone number wearing a business suit.”

“It’s from the Trench brothers’ people,” Freak said. “Signed. Cleared. Actual money, in an actual bank, with our actual name on it.”

Tumbler didn’t look up from the vise he was tightening.

“Congratulations,” he said. “Now put it away before you drop grease on it.”

Nobody in that garage had ever seen a check that size in their whole lives combined, and it showed.

Telly kept picking it up off the workbench like it might have changed while he wasn’t looking. Nibbles had gone quiet, which for Nibbles meant something had actually landed. Even Tumbler, three decades a welder and allergic to being impressed by anything, kept glancing over at it between passes of his torch.

“You’re gonna stare a hole through that paper,” Freak said.

“I’m making sure it’s real,” Telly said. “Last time somebody told me good news, it was a landlord telling me the good news was I only owed him half what he thought.”

“This is different.”

“Everything’s different till it isn’t.”

Freak set the check on the workbench, dead center. lIt was a shrine now and this garage was its church.

“It’s exclusive,” he said. “The Trench brothers gave us their whole mechanical contract. Every S.L.A.G. that rolls through their operation from here out, comes through TNT first.”

“Because of Chuck,” Nibbles said.

“Because of Chuck,” Freak agreed.

There was a pause, the specific kind of pause that happened in that garage anytime somebody said the wizard’s name out loud. Where everybody silently agreed not to ask a single follow-up question.

“You ever gonna ask him how he actually did it?” Telly said.

“Nope.”

“Not even a little curious?”

“I’ve decided,” Freak said, with the solemn tone of a gnome who has genuinely wrestled this decision to the ground, “that whatever Chuck did to make three ex-convict mechanics hand us their whole business, I do not want it explained to me over breakfast. Some blessings you just say thank you for.”

“Smart,” Tumbler grunted.

Freak picked the check back up. Held it a while.

Something was shifting behind his eyes. It always happened right before he started talking with his hands, which everyone in that garage had learned to brace for.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Uh oh,” said Telly.

“I mean it. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Ever since Chuck delivered on the first part of his promise, before we even knew if the rest of it would hold. I started asking myself... if it did hold, what would I actually do? How would I want this place run?”

Nibbles set her candy bar down entirely, which was practically a wedding vow from Nibbles.

“Freak,” she said slowly, “what did you do?”

“Nothing yet. I’m just saying.” He was pacing now, the good kind of pacing, the kind where his whole body couldn’t keep up with wherever his mouth had already gone. “I couldn’t just keep paying you a wage. Not after this. Not after everything you’ve all put into this place for years, way before there was a check worth staring at.”

“Freak.”

“So I want to make departments,” he said, all in one breath, like it’d get away from him if he slowed down. “Real ones. You each run your own shop, your own crew eventually, your own say in how it’s done. Nibbles, electronics and armor, that’s yours, full stop, nobody touches it without your sign-off. Telly, fabrication and field work. Tumbler...”

“I’m already running my own corner,” Tumbler said. “Been doing it since before you could reach that shelf.”

“Then it’s officially yours. In writing. With a title, even.”

“Don’t want a title.”

“You’re getting one anyway.”

Telly had gone very still, which for Telly was practically a fire alarm.

“Wait,” he said. “Like... in-charge kind of titles?”

“Manager kind of titles,” Freak said.

“Managers?” Telly’s voice cracked clean up an octave. “Like... people who get to tell other people what to do?”

“That’s generally the job, yeah.”

“I’ve never been in charge of anything in my life! I once got fired from folding boxes, ya know. For folding them wrong on purpose out of spite!”

“That was one time,” Nibbles said.

“It was enough to know you gotta have a good boss!”

Nibbles was grinning now. Spreading the way it did right before she said something that’d get quoted back at her for a decade.

“Individual...,” she started, “you mean we get shops of our own? Actual shops? With doors that say our names on them?”

“If you want doors that say your names on them,” Freak said, “I will personally hang the doors.”

“I want a door,” she said immediately. “I’ve wanted a door since I was nineteen.”

“You’ll get a door.”

She let out a squeal that made Tumbler drop his welding helmet down over his face just to hide the grin underneath it.

“Why though,” Telly said, quieter now, the panic settling into something closer to actual thought. “Why give it away? You built this place. It’s your name over the gate.”

Freak stopped pacing.

For a second he looked less like the fat, jolly gnome everyone teased about his coveralls. He looked more like somebody who’d spent a long time turning a question over in the dark before answering it out loud.

“Because I couldn’t have built any of it without you,” he said. “Not the reputation, not the contracts, not the years we all ate cold soup together waiting on parts orders that never showed. You’re not employees. You never were, not really, not to me.”

He looked around the garage. Grease-stained walls. A workbench that had eaten more knuckles than it had fixed machines. Three gnomes who’d stood in this exact spot with him through every version of broke this business had ever been.

“You’re family,” Freak said. “And family gets a say. Not a wage. A say.”

Nobody said anything for a second.

Tumbler flipped his welding helmet back up.

“That’s real nice,” he said, “and if we don’t get that flying rig finished by Thursday, none of it’s gonna matter, so somebody hand me the torch back before this becomes a hugging thing.”

“It was already a hugging thing,” Nibbles said, and hugged him anyway, torch and all.

Later, once the check had been walked to the bank by all four of them together, because nobody trusted a piece of paper that large to travel unescorted. Freak stood alone a minute at the garage door, reading the little brass plate he’d already ordered before he’d told anybody a single word of the plan.

TNT ... TOP NOTCH TEAM.

Departments coming soon. Ask any manager.

He grinned at it like a gnome who’d just gotten away with something.

Then he went back inside, because a flying S.L.A.G. wasn’t going to weld itself, promotions or not. Tumbler was already hollering that somebody better get back to work before the moment officially wore off.

^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

Selling other people’s leavings for a living, you learn something simple:

Everything has a price.

Everything.

The chipped bowl, the odd boot, the key to a lock that burned down years ago. Hell, I’ve sold a one-eared jug to a man who wanted it more than he wanted his own dignity. I’ve sold grief back to widows one teaspoon at a time.

I have never once, in four years of standing behind this table at Tildan market, met a thing that didn’t have a number on it somewhere.

Then a stranger offered old Faddic six silver for a tin cup, and Faddic told him to go drown in the river.

Six silver.

For a tin cup.

You could buy a goat for six silver.

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^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

The man had the whole common room in his fist.

...and he was lying.

I knew it the way I know a bad coin.

By the ring.

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^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

The wheel was turning, and there was nobody to turn it.

I knew that sound the way you know your own heartbeat.

Forty years of it.

The long groan of the axle, the slap of the paddles taking the Ash, the deep stone hum underneath where the runner kisses the bed.

It was the middle of the night.

The mill was shut.

The key was under my pillow, where it had lived since I buried Tam.

And the wheel was turning.

I lay there and told myself it was the wind. The Ash was up from the spring melt, and a strong current can nudge a wheel a hand’s width and make it moan.

But a hand’s width does not grind grain.

I got up.

I am sixty-one years old and my knees announced every stair, but I went down them anyway.

...because a woman who owns a mill goes and sees about her mill.

The night was cold and clean and full of stars, and my own mill sat there, in the dark, working like a Tuesday.

Light pushed from the cracks of the door.

Not lamplight.

It was that white river-shimmer that comes up off the wheel-house when the paddles throw water. The whole building breathing the way it does under load, warm and busy and mine.

I stood in the yard in my dead husband’s coat, with no earthly idea who was inside it.

I want to tell you I was brave.

What I mostly was, was annoyed.

Somebody was using my mill.

My good runner stone, that Tam dressed by hand twice a year with a pick worn down to a nub.

My grain, if it was my grain.

My river.

I put my hand on the door. It was unbarred from the *inside*.

Then the light went out.

All at once.

...and the wheel slowed, and slowed, and dragged itself to a stop with that little backward knock the pawl makes.

By the time I got the door open, the mill was empty.

Warm floury air. The bed still ticking as it cooled. A film of fresh meal on the stones, so fine it hung in the star-shine like breath.

And not a soul in it.

I am not a woman who runs to the reeve.

Godfry is a decent enough fellow and he means well, but he handles a mystery the way a dog handles a wasp...

With a great deal of noise and no improvement to anybody.

If I told him my mill ran itself at night, he would post a boy at my door. That boy would eat my bread and see nothing. The whole of Ashbrook would then know that the widow at the mill was hearing wheels in the dark.

So I did the **sensible** thing.

I counted my grain.

Tam kept the stores the old way, in bins along the north wall, each marked with a burnt letter. I have kept them the same, because grief makes you tidy...or it makes you a ruin.

I chose tidy.

...and I knew what was in every bin to the double-handful.

I was short.

Not robbed, mind you.

Robbed is a bin turned out and a mess left.

This was careful.

A measure gone from the barley. A measure from the winter wheat. From the *good* milling wheat.

The pale hard kernels the bakers pay for, a measure and a half.

Someone had taken grain from me the way you take a coin from a jar you mean to pay back.

That someone had ground it.

I stood there with the tally-stick in my hand and did the arithmetic.

The arithmetic said a thief.

A patient one, who knew mills, who could set a wheel and dress a load and sweep up after himself...then vanish before an old woman got down her own stairs.

I did not like the arithmetic.

Because the next morning, Bett Aldous came by for her quarter-sack.

...and she was **crying**.

It wasn’t the sad crying.

The *other* kind.

The kind that leaks out sideways when a person has been holding on with both hands and something finally lets them stop.

There’d been flour on her step. A full sack of it, good and fine, sitting against her door in the dark, like the morning left it there on its way past.

“I didn’t order it,” she said. “I couldn’t have paid for it. Merta, you know I couldn’t.”

I knew.

Bett lost her man to the coughing sickness two winters back. She has three little ones and a garden the size of a tablecloth. She has been grinding acorns and pride into the same porridge for a year.

When I “sell” her a quarter-sack, we both understand the ledger. Neither of us says so, because there are kindnesses you can only do if you agree to lie about them a little.

“It wasn’t me,” I told her.

And it wasn’t. I’d have known. My flour has a way of standing that another mill’s doesn’t, on account of how Tam set the stones. They’re close and slow, so it comes off cool. Fast milling scorches. You can taste the difference if your whole life has been flour, and mine has.

I took a pinch off Bett’s step and rubbed it between my fingers and put it to my tongue.

Cool.

Close and slow.

My stones.

My grain, gone in the night, come back as a sack on a widow’s doorstep.

There were more.

Once I knew to ask, I heard them all week, in that sideways Ashbrook way. Nobody announces a thing, but everybody has heard it.

A sack at the Pell house, where the father’s hand was crushed at the quarry and hasn’t closed right since. A sack at old Ren’s, who has outlived everyone who ever owed him anything. A half-sack, even, at the temple door, where the Sisters feed whoever kneels there at supper and never ask what god sent them.

Somebody was stealing from my mill at night and giving it to the people in Ashbrook who had the least.

Somebody was robbing me to feed my neighbors.

Part of me wanted to leave it alone.

The grain was mine to lose, and I was losing it to the exact people I’d have given it to if I could have done it without shaming them past bearing.

Whoever it was had found a way to do the thing I couldn’t.

He fed them and let them keep their faces.

A sack in the dark asks nobody to say thank you.

But it was my mill.

I couldn’t sleep for the sound of it, and a body has to know.

So I sat up.

Third night, I finally caught him, because I stopped being clever and started being patient. The only trick I have ever known that works.

I did not hide in the mill. He’d have heard me breathe.

I hid in the wheel-house, up on the little service ledge over the pit where Tam used to grease the axle. Wedged myself in the damp and the roar, with my knees screaming, and a lantern I did not light.

He came just past the middle of the night.

I heard the bar lift. Heard the sluice-gate go up, easy, by a hand that knew which board stuck. Heard the water take the wheel and the whole world I have lived in start to turn.

Then I climbed down into my own mill, cold and furious and afraid.

There in the meal-light, with his sleeves rolled and a sack held open under the spout, was Corley Fenn.

Corley.

Who cannot count past his fingers. Who Tam kept on for twenty years to haul sacks and mind the sluice, because Corley is strong as a wall and gentle as milk. The good Ashbrook folk called him simple the way they call the river wet.

I let him go, after Tam died.

It’d hurt me to do it, but I couldn’t pay him. Corley never said a hard word. Just touched his cap and walked off up the Ash.

I have felt the size of that ever since.

He saw me and his whole big face fell open like a dropped bowl.

“Merta,” he said. “I put it back. I always put it back. Not the flour, I can’t put the flour back, but I. I meant to tell you the numbers. I’m no good at the numbers.”

“Corley,” I said. “What in the world.”

And he told me.

It took a while.

Corley tells a thing the way the Ash takes the long way round the meadow. Luckily I have all the time a widow has, which is all of it.

A traveler had come through. Weeks back, before the thaw was full.

A young one, Corley said. Younger than he expected, for what he did. Passing along the river road with the look of a lad who’d walked a long way and meant to walk a lot farther.

And he’d stopped, because the mill was silent.

You have to understand what that means, in a mill town. A silent wheel in daylight is a wound everyone can hear. Mine had been silent because the pit-gear had thrown a tooth in the winter and seized. The wheelwright three towns down wanted more to fix it than I’d cleared all autumn.

So I had a mill I could not run and a town that had to cart its grain a day’s ride to Tildan and back.

...and pay for the privilege.

The boy had climbed down into the pit.

“He weren’t afraid of it,” Corley said, wonderstruck all over again. “Most folk are afraid of the pit. He got right down in the wet and he looked at the gear a long time. It was strange, him standing there, talking’ to himself. Then he nodded, and asked me for the pieces. I gave him the tooth I’d kept because I didn’t know what else to do with it, and he. Merta, I don’t know how he did it. He had a way. He warmed it or he sang at it or I don’t know. He set it. He set the gear that Nolan wanted six silver to set, and he did it for nothing, and when it turned he laughed like it was the finest thing he’d ever heard.”

I believe that part without any trouble.

There is no sound in the world like a dead wheel coming back.

“And then,” Corley said, and here he got shy, and turned the empty sack over in his big hands, “then he sat with me on the step and we ate, and he asked me who in the town was hungry. And I told him. I know who’s hungry. Folk think I don’t know things but I know that one.” He looked at me. “And he said, feed who you can, Corley. He said it like it was easy. Feed who you can and let the mill do it quiet, so nobody has to be ashamed. And then he went on up the road.”

“And you’ve been doing it,” I said. “Since the thaw. In the dark. So nobody’d be ashamed.”

“I put it back,” Corley said again, miserable. “The numbers.”

I did not have the heart to explain to Corley Fenn about the numbers.

That you cannot put ground grain back. That a measure of wheat made into a sack of flour on Bett Aldous’s step is gone from my bin forever and does not return, no matter how carefully you sweep.

He’d been putting the empty *sacks* back.

Folding them.

Squaring them on the shelf.

In his mind the ledger balanced because the sacks came home.

How do you look at a man who has been feeding your whole poor town out of your own stores for a season, and tell him he has done a sum wrong.

You don’t.

I put Corley back on.

I can’t afford him.

Did it anyway, and we will grind fine or we will grind each other.

...but I would rather do it with him than without.

And I have kept the night-milling.

Changed nothing but the bookkeeping, which is to say I now know it’s happening. I write it in a bin of its own, marked with a letter that isn’t a letter. If the mill comes up short at year’s end, then the mill comes up short...

Tam can argue with me about it when I see him.

Feed who you can. Let the mill do it quiet.

The boy was right. It was easy. It was the easiest thing I ever agreed to.

There was a song, for a while.

The mill-children made it.

There are always mill-children, the ones too small to be useful and too curious to be anywhere else. They’d caught the shape of the story the way children catch everything you’d rather they didn’t.

A boy who came out of nowhere and set the wheel right. Who fed the town and walked away.

They made him taller in the song. Gave him a sword he didn’t have and a cloak he didn’t have. We never knew his name, so they made one up. Changed depending on who sang it...back again through a dozen small mouths.

It was a silly song. It scanned badly. I loved it the way you love a thing that is entirely your own town’s and nobody else’s.

They sang it at the wheel. It went with the turning.

Then a man came, and it stopped.

I only met him the once.

A courteous fellow, in the kind of grey coat that doesn’t show the road.

He came to the mill in an afternoon and bought a sack he didn’t need. He just stood in my yard. admiring the wheel. Had a way of asking questions that didn’t feel like questions at all. Just a warm, unhurried interest, like the two of you had all day and nothing better.

I told him the story. The whole of it. Corley, the gear, the boy, the sacks in the dark.

I don’t know why I told him. I’m not a teller.

But he was so easy to talk to that the telling just... came out of me, the way meal comes off the stone. By the end I’d given him more than I’d given the reeve.

He paid me for the sack with an old coin. Andilain-struck, worn smooth as a river stone. A generation out of date at least. I remember thinking a man doesn’t carry a coin that old unless he’s carried it a long way.

“That’s a fine tale, mother,” he said. “One more time, if you’d humor me. Just the part about the boy and the wheel. For the pleasure of it.”

So I told it again. And he listened like it was the only thing in the world.

Then he went to the children.

I saw it from the step and thought nothing of it. A kind traveler, giving the little ones a coin each, and them delighted. It was only later I understood what he’d bought.

He’d asked them to sing him a different song.

Gave them each a bright coin and a smile and asked, so gently, wouldn’t they learn a proper one. A real one from a real city, instead of that scratchy little thing about the mill. And children being children, and a coin being a coin, they did.

They sing the new one now.

It’s a better song. It scans.

And the other one is gone.

I’ve tried to call it back. I stand at the wheel some nights while it grinds for the hungry, and I reach for the tune the way you reach for a name that was on your tongue a breath ago.

There’s nothing there.

Just the shape of where it was.

I remember that there was a song.

I can’t remember how it went.

I’ve turned it over a good deal, in the dark, with the stones humming.

Why a man would ride into a river town and pay good silver to buy a story off an old woman, and then pay again to take a song out of children’s mouths. Why anyone would want a kindness *forgotten.*

I don’t have it. I’m a miller, not a wise woman.

I grind what comes and I sweep up after.

But I’ll tell you the one thing I know, the way I know the wheel by its sound.

You don’t pay to bury a thing that doesn’t matter.

Chaff, you leave on the wind.

Chaff scatters itself.

Nobody rides three days to make sure the wind forgets a piece of chaff.

He rode a long way, on old worn coin, to make certain one town forgot one boy.

So somewhere out there is a boy worth that much trouble.

And somewhere in Ashbrook there’s a wheel that still turns in the dark for the hungry.

...whether the world remembers why or not.

Feed who you can.

I can’t recall the tune anymore.

But I know every word.

^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

I shared an awkward interview with the public on Tuesday.

We did the interview, I cleaned it up, then posted.

The rough edges were sanded off because that’s what Field Guide entries do. They’re for information, even if that information is…conditional.

Not that I lied. That’s not what I do.

This was about…safety.

My safety, if I’m being blunt.

Here’s the part I sanded off.

Buddy Keisler ‘drafts’ his own life while he’s still living it. No, that’s not a metaphor. I’ve gone out of my way to confirm this impression from witnesses, including someone who was standing three feet from him in that specific warehouse.

It’s…oh, hell, I call it spooky.

The guy narrates himself in third person while the bodies are still warm! What’s worse, is somewhere in the last week, he sat down and turned that warehouse into an actual manuscript page.

Don’t believe me?

I got a copy.

Don’t look at me like that, you know I’m connected.

Here’s the thing about publishers: if they can use words to make a buck, whether they create them or leak them to get publicity, they’ll do it.

Bookworm’s people leak like a sieve when there’s a good story attached.

…and this is a very good story.

Since you paid to be here,…you get the page Buddy didn’t write for print.

Just…burn it when you’re done, okay?

From an unfinished draft, working title “The Cage Job”

Bookworm counted the guards twice before he moved.

…because a professional always counts twice.

Amateurs gets retired on miscounts.

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^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

I have interviewed kings.

I have interviewed a dying dragon.

I once interviewed a man who was, at the time, on fire.

…ask me later, it’s interesting.

None of them were harder to pin down than a bestselling novelist.

Buddy Keisler writes the epic Acid Rain series.

If you don’t know this thriller series, ask any gnome in Clockworks under the age of two hundred and watch their face change. His hero, Bookworm, is a half-gnome, half-Kutollum assassin with a tragic past and a magnificent jawline.

Buddy Keisler is a gnome.

Full gnome.

No Kutollum blood anywhere in him.

He is also has a secret, which mirrors his fictional character.

I did not know this when I requested the interview. Honestly, I was a bit excited, because I too, am a fan of Mr. Keisler’s writing skills.

Unfortunately, I found out partway through, when he explained... at length... well, you’ll see it soon enough.

Here is what I got out of him,…before he remembered he doesn’t do interviews for free.

H.L.: Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Keisler, it’s a huge honor for me. I’m a fan of your work.

“Are you now? That wonderful. I need a few more fans.”

H.L.: Last count I read was over 200 million dedicated fans. You’re hardly lacking attention.

“316,873,492 dedicated fans to be exact, by my last count.”

H.L.: What?

“I have trackers on my sales pages, and the publishing company is required to provide statistics within 48 hours of any sale through their own channels.”

H.L.: Really!?

“It’s part of my contract.”

H.L.: Fascinating. Well, why don’t we start simple, so we can share a different perspective with potential readers who might not have discovered you yet.

“Sounds great. Shoot.”

H.L.: Bookworm is fictional. You are not. How does that work, exactly?

“What do you mean, ‘How does that work’? I’m a fiction writer. It’s a story. It works however I make it work. I would have thought the most famous fishis in Clockworks, with a specialty in archeological deduction and living in the same tavern as a famous bard, that you’d understand stories.”

H.L.: How…do you know where I live?

“I always do my research before I make a connection with someone who wants public information about me. It’s called insurance.”

H.L.: But…I don’t even live on Pävärios.

“And your point is what, exactly?”

H.L.: I…never mind. My curiosity is about your process. Many writers write from their own life experiences. But your main character is an assassin, so how do you make these books feel so real…and so authentic?

“Bookworm is inspired. There’s a difference. He’s got the tragic backstory, the exotic bloodline, the cheekbones I frankly do not have. I gave him everything I wish I had and kept the actual…well,…’employment opportunities’ for myself. Cleaner that way. Nobody really suspects a guy who writes about something of also doing that something.”

H.L.: And the... doing that something, from Bookworms perspective, is called something specific, I understand.

“I help people retire, Höbin. That’s all. Amateurs use other words. Disgusting words. It’s crude. It has no craft in it. When a job goes clean, that’s a retirement, and the client should be thanked for the opportunity to demonstrate professionalism.”

H.L.: You mean Bookworm.

“What?”

H.L.: You said ‘I help people retire’. You mean Bookworm helps people retire. Don’t you?

“Of course I do.”

H.L.: Uhhhh….okay.

“Are you following what I’m saying so far?”

H.L.: I’m positive I am, actually. Which makes this a curious matter.

“How so?”

H.L.: You’ve published six books in this series: A Clean Kill In Clockworks, A Messy Resurrection, Winner Will Fall, Assumption Games, Momentous, and The Killer Accident. Every single one of your books has hit the #1 spot on the New Yoke Times Best Seller list. All of them stayed in the top three spots for over twenty weeks, and A Clean Kill in Clockworks stayed at #1 for forty-TWO weeks.

“Correct. What’s your point?”

H.L.: I just imagine that you’ve made a considerable number of credits for those masterpieces of word art?

“Still waiting on that point, Höbin.”

H.L.: Bookworm has uttered many times, “A guys gotta pay the rent.” A great line, to be sure…but I’ve heard you say the exact phrase in multiple interviews when people ask you why you write.

“That’s correct. You gotta pay rent. Just a fact of life.”

H.L.: Then why be a….um…well. How do I say this? Then why the ‘extracurricular activities’?

[He smiled then. It wasn’t a polite smile, either. More like a person whose been found out and needs to measure the level of exposure before dealing with situation…]

“Nice save.”

H.L.: It shines a bit of light on the comment you made as you walked in. Clicking off your cell, you mumbled something to the effect of “certain jobs not going clean”?

[His face changed in an instant. I will describe it as a gnome remembering a great personal injury.]

“Four times. FOUR! A bird landed on my rifle. A bird. I have been doing this for decades and a common city PIGEON has cost me more professional dignity than any guild rival ever managed. Then a truck makes a wrong turn, gets stuck in traffic and has to back up, reflecting sunlight into my eyes at the exact wrong…second. What are the odds, right? Then my own grenade launcher decides to have opinions. I have never, not once, had a job go this poorly, and I’ve retired people at their own weddings.”

H.L.: You mean Bookworm.

“What?”

H.L.: You mean your main character, Bookworm, has retired people at their own weddings.

“Of course he does. That’s his job.”

H.L.: Did you consider that the universe might be telling you something?

“I considered several things, most of them profane.”

H.L.: You found out, eventually, that your target was a reader. A fan, even. I’ve heard…rumors…that you have a strict code to never ‘retire’ a fan?

[It was here that his whole posture changed. His shoulders relaxed, then adjusted his thick glasses on the bridge of his nose. The assassin had left the room and only the author remained in his place.]

“I have a rule, Höbin, and it is the only rule I have never broken. I do not retire my own readers. I don’t care what the contract says. I don’t care what they’re paying. If you have read my books, if you have loved Bookworm the way I meant him to be loved... you are safe from me. That is not negotiable. Frankly I was insulted anyone thought I’d need reminding.”

[When I asked him what happens to a contract when the client finds out the assassin quit on principle, he smiled. It was a smile I did not entirely enjoy and he said that was a conversation for another day.

I believe him….and decided not to ask further.]

Höbin’s Verdict

I have met professional killers before. Most of them are dull men with sharp tools, and there is nothing interesting to write about a dull man.

Buddy Keisler is not dull. He is a gnome who has built a whole second identity purely so the first one has somewhere safe to hide. Somewhere in the building of it, the second identity became more real to him than the first ever was.

He loves his readers more than he loves his contracts.

That is either the most unprofessional thing I have ever heard from an assassin, or the most gnomish.

I suspect both.

His next book, whenever it lands, will sell obscenely well.

I intend to buy it.

I will not be telling him that.

...more when (and IF) I get the nerve to ask him anything else.

Believe everything until you prove it otherwise.

— H.L.

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^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

The Black Market does not employ locks.

It employs witnesses.

I’ve said this to visitors for thirty years and watched exactly none of them believe me, right up until the moment they did. Humans especially. They walk into the Market expecting shadows, blades in alleys, the usual cheap theater of the criminal underworld, and they miss the actual machinery entirely.

The machinery is attention. Old, patient, and total.

This is the account of what that attention did to a family named Vail. I’ve pieced it together from Sänä testimony, the Triad’s own record, and one very reluctant interview with a locksmith’s niece.

Some names I’ve kept.
A few, out of what remains of my professional decency, I have not.

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_{FieldScribe’s note. I have spent my life writing down other people’s histories... kings, wars, creatures that would happily eat the lot of us. This one is mine. I am putting it where strangers can read it, which every careful instinct I own calls a mistake, and I am doing it anyway. Some things kept in a drawer help no one. What follows is a letter I wrote to my daughter, Alhannah... about her mother, and the principles two stubborn gnomes built a life on. Beneath it is a shorter one, written long before, in a hand I still cannot read all the way through without stopping. Take what’s useful. Leave the rest.
...H.L.}

My Life With Your Mother

You’d think things would become easier after I won your mother’s heart, but nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, everything got infinitely harder. No one liked the idea of me marrying your mother but my own parents. Your mother had to fight to marry me. She finally had to turn her back on everyone, including Grandma and Grandpa Gearspinner, and walk away with me.

Oh, everyone eventually came around... especially when I started winning research awards... but only because they finally saw my dedication and devotion to your brilliant mother. These experiences taught me a great deal about life, people, and what it takes to stand firm within our own lives.

Sometimes we want to yell and kick and scream at Tgii for the cruel tricks played on us. Maybe you personally need to cut off a few extra limbs from an enemy. But the point is... we need ways to vent. That’s ok. We’re not less as people because of it. It’s that little screw on the top of the old steam cooker. You have to turn it, letting the pressure out, before the whole pot explodes.

You’re a tough cookie, just like your beloved mother... but I want to share a few things with you.

Alhannah, you asked me once how I did it. You hear about the “perfect” marriage your mother and I had. Our marriage wasn’t perfect, sweetheart, but we did have principles we lived by. This began with the loving relationship we had, but when I sat down to write it out, I realized the same would apply to most relationships in life. Friendships included. So don’t think I’m trying to sway you in your life choices. I’m not. Just consider this a story about your parents... and if by some remarkable stroke of luck you can use it, feel free.

All I ask is that you put your assumptions aside, open your mind, and accept what I have to say at face value. Put it to the test and see if things don’t happen for the better.

Know Who You Are

The best thing you can do for yourself, sweetheart, is to know who you are. I know you well enough, Alhannah, to know you’re going to balk at this. Don’t. You have yet to take the time and make the effort, the true effort, to discover who you are. You’re more than you realize. This takes time, and extraordinary circumstances, to uncover and discover for yourself.

The reason I stress this so much is that it is the foundation of your existence.

Alhannah, you must know and understand your place, your heart, your mind... your very worth as a woman and a warrior. You have a tendency, a belief, that you need outside sources to confirm your value... and that’s wrong. You don’t. It’s not that it wouldn’t be wonderful, but the opinions of others can’t be the foundation of your world. Not if you want to reach your full potential. Your life has to be built on who you are... and on being a complement and a helpmate to others.

Friends, family... it’s all the same.

The most damning word I have ever heard used is “compromise.” The word is misused so often. Yes, compromise means to come to an agreement or a concession with another, so common ground can be created. But too often it is applied to principles, which should never be compromised. Knowing who you are and what you stand for allows you to live without compromising your principles while navigating the plethora of personalities you’ll encounter.

There is nothing wrong with changing your views according to new knowledge and information you receive, but you should never compromise the principles you live by. The challenge, then, is for you to truly understand what those principles are. Once you know... not believe, not have faith, but know... you are going to be pleasantly surprised at how much simpler your life becomes. When your life is based on established principles, your decisions in any given predicament are already made.

Don’t Settle

I know I’m your father, and a father’s opinions only go so far, but you need to know that you are a beautiful young lady. When I say beautiful, I mean it in every definition and possibility of the word. You are also strong, both in will and in mind. That being said, my biggest fear is that you become so anxious, so frustrated and desperate because things are not going the way you want or hope, that you make the wrong associations.

Never, never, NEVER settle when it comes to relationships. I don’t care if he’s 2’1” tall, hair black as slag oil, teeth white as snow, eyes blue as the sea, and a credit account as large as Philbert Bellows’. He could still turn out to be an egotistical, chauvinistic dirtbag without scruples or conscience. Don’t settle. It doesn’t matter if it’s a partner for a job or someone you meet through one. Associate with gnomes who are your equal.

People don’t have to be your equal in all things, and they won’t be, but friendships and long-term relationships should match your intellect, your heart, your desires, and your convictions. Everyone has value, but not everyone has the same value... it doesn’t make a person better or worse or less than you, but it could mean they are less compatible.

The key is this: if you want any relationship to last, look for those who share your values and beliefs.

Say What You Mean

You’re not one to hold your tongue, Alhannah, but that doesn’t mean you speak from the heart. This will always be a burden to you if you don’t overcome it. There are dangers to speaking your mind and to speaking your heart. Dangers, disappointments, and heartache... but you have to build a life on what can be, not on fear. Learn to say what you truly mean, so that others can understand you.

It took a long time for me to understand this with your mother. We had different definitions for the same words, which caused a lot of confusion early in our marriage. I had the same problem with Morty Teedlebaum. Making the effort to be honest and open with one another... not unkind, not blunt to the point of rudeness, but open and willing to explain our definitions... allowed us to communicate. Over time, we learned one another’s individual languages. In your mother’s case, we discovered our language of love. Mine was to show her through my actions, through gifts and attending to her needs, while she expressed her heart through her words and through being physically close to me.

By understanding this about one another, and remaining open, asking patiently and softly for clarification when confused, we grew closer every day. That’s what other people missed... it’s not that we never had disagreements or misunderstandings, but we worked everything out in a loving and respectful way. I spent more time holding her hand and cuddling, leaving her notes when she least expected them. Your mother, in turn, became ever attentive to the small details of my life... listening to my excitement over work, helping me organize my files and artifacts. It was heaven.

The same principles apply to friendships, or any relationship, both personal and professional.

The male species will never truly understand the female species unless, through patience, we work together. That’s what I learned through twenty-two years of marriage. We cannot read your minds, as much as you wish we could, nor can we discern the subtle hints you make. My counsel to you, my dear, for your sake and for the sake of those you associate with, is to say exactly what you mean, and to mean exactly what you say.

The Night Grammy Slapped Me

I’ll never forget what happened right after I proposed to your mother.

I was so excited. It hadn’t been more than a week after having my fingers bitten off that I felt the urge to ask your mother to marry me. To her, of course, it seemed awfully sudden... but for me, well, I’d been in love with her for years, waiting patiently for her to notice me.

It was a long weekend, and because I was doing so much work for the government, I was away most of the time. It didn’t make any sense to find a place to live, shelling out money for a home I didn’t use... so I still lived with papa.

It was over dinner.

Your mother was supposed to come over and eat with us, but she had an assignment to complete.

I’m sitting at the table, laughing over a silly joke your papa told... something about fungus and the underwear of a Therrin. Your grandmother comes out carrying a platter of mushrooms and beets from the garden, and I said aloud, “I proposed to Sylvia, and she said YES!”

Without warning, your grandmother’s hand whipped out and slapped me across the face.

My mother, who had rarely so much as raised her VOICE, had actually struck me.

“What did you do that for?” I asked.

“Did you ask her father’s permission?” she asked.

I looked at her curiously, and I have to say, I was utterly confused. Your papa, on the other hand, who has always been the strong role model for me, sat there in silence, eating his mushrooms. He didn’t even bother to look up at me. My mother stood over me like a volcano ready to erupt.

Not sure what to say, I replied, “Why would I do that?”

My mother proved to me that night that the national quick-draw competition had nothing on this old bird. Her hand whipped out a second time, faster than I could blink, and slapped me so hard my head spun.

“OW!” I yelled. “What was THAT for?”

Shaking her head, she said, “Höbin Luckyfeller, I certainly hope you intend to rectify this.”

My father looked up and nodded without a word. That was all I ever got from my own mother, bless her heart. But it was that night that I heard, for the very first time, the proper etiquette of family government. I had no clue it was expected of me... not out of law, but out of respect and honor for our family... to go through the proper channels and ask for your mother’s hand in marriage.

My father and I talked through the night until breakfast. He shared important rules for a gnome to live by, and I think it’s important to share them with you. My hope, Alhannah, is that you’ll use them to judge the worthiness of the gnomes around you. These are the very same rules and beliefs I live by, and the ones I built our family upon.

My father taught me that nothing should be desired more in a family than peace, love, and union. He said these are essential to happiness, and it has been my experience that he was absolutely correct. But in order to have these desirable things, my father recommended I observe the following rules... many of which you will recognize as I relate them.

RULE ONE: If I decided to be a husband and to secure a helpmate, I should find that right person, or “The One,” by BEING that one first. I needed to be a good person, able to govern myself. He said that if I could not govern myself, I certainly could not govern a family. I was to give my life in service to others, for by serving others I would develop the character worthy of a good companion.

RULE TWO: Next, I was told to use wisdom in the choice of a wife. He stressed this for a specific reason. The male species tends to look wholly at the beauty of the countenance and the splendor of the apparel, and is drawn by artful smiles and the affected modesty of females. You are not immune to this, Alhannah. You are more lovely than you realize, and gnomes see it. But, papa cautioned, all of these, without genuine virtue, are like dewdrops just before sunrise. They glitter for a moment in the sun, dazzling our eyes, and then they vanish.

Instead, he said, look for a kind and amiable disposition; for unaffected modesty; for industrious habits and sterling virtue; for honesty, integrity, truthfulness, and cleanliness of person and apparel. He said to look for skills to assist in your lives together, and for cheerfulness, patience, stability of character, and above all... the genuine ability to control and govern one’s every thought and deed.

Alhannah, can you see how perfectly your mother fit that list? She was disciplined and skilled, intelligent and wise... with a kindness and love and patience so deep I have never seen it equaled.

RULE THREE: Papa said that since I had found your mother, possessing these very qualifications, I should seek to obtain her hand lawfully and honorably, through the Council of her father.

It was only then that I realized why my mother had slapped me. I never knew it was my duty, or even respectful, to approach your grandfather and ask his permission. I’d never heard any of this. But my desire to do what was right... to formally ask to court and marry his daughter... made a HUGE difference.

Luckily, my adventures with your uncle Chuck and Dax proved to be the greatest assistance in winning your grandfather’s approval. Visiting lower Humär, I was fortunate enough to attend a betrothal ritual. Prince Molimau had been courting a local chieftain’s daughter and was preparing to ask for her hand. Chuck pointed out that the custom in the islands of the southern seas is to bestow a gift upon the father, for the young man is seeking a blessing. In this case, Prince Molimau offered twenty goats and twelve cows, which he gave to the chieftain.

When I explained to your mother my intention to speak with her father, she went home over the weekend and arranged the meeting.

I was invited to their home. We had a simple dinner, mostly in silence. Your grandfather retired to his study without a word, poring over the intricate watches and clocks of his trade. What I knew, however, was his little-known passion for the exotic races and customs of the world. It was my ace up the sleeve. It had come to my attention only weeks before, through my own father, who had heard your grandfather request a rare book on island cultures while in Boltbottom Books.

It was a lovely evening... time spent with your mother and my soon-to-be mother-in-law... but your grandfather never called me to his study. I was about to go home when your mother marched into the study and reminded your grandfather that I had come to speak with him in private. He quickly called me in.

The talk was a short one. I have to admit... I was terrified. Your grandfather was a very large man, and it’s hard not to shake in your boots when a 3’6” gnome towers over you. But I stood my ground, spoke respectfully, and asked for your mother’s hand in marriage. What your grandfather wasn’t expecting was an offering.

I didn’t have goats or cows, but I had spent the previous night hunched over the kitchen table, drawing a collection of cartoon cows. Each bovine was actively engaged in an island custom or tradition, such as a fire dance or a slap dance. Nine cows, and a sketch of a burger on a grill, all tucked into an envelope.

The reaction was unexpected. Your grandfather burst out laughing, and it grew louder with each cartoon he turned to. Before the meeting was over, he gave me his word that he would seriously consider my proposal and discuss it with your grandmother.

The very next day, during lunchtime, your mother burst into papa’s shop, screaming, “HE SAID YES... HE SAID YES... HE SAID YES!” Then she stopped herself, slapped a hand over her mouth, and whispered, “But you can’t know that. I’m supposed to bring you to my father.”

So I can witness that this rule, this law, is for good reason. And I have maintained, to this day, a wonderful relationship with your grandparents.

RULE FOUR: Papa stressed how important it is never to betray the confidence of others. There are many things an affectionate, confiding spouse, or even a friend, may wish to share with you that they would be very unwilling to have shared with others. Keep the secrets of those close to you.

RULE FIVE: Never speak of the faults of those close to you to others. In doing so, you speak against yourself. No one is perfect, so you should never speak of another’s imperfections. By doing so, you not only injure yourself in your friend’s or your spouse’s estimation, but they will come to expect that you’ll speak against them when they’re not around. This weakens their confidence in you and sows division in your relationship.

If you must tell someone of their faults, always do so in private, and always in the spirit of kindness and love.

RULE SIX: Avoid anger and a fretful, peevish disposition in your relationships. Papa said this applies especially within your own family. If you allow yourself to be overcome by a hasty spirit, using harsh words, you will sour the feelings of others against you, and most likely beget the same in return.

It was here that my father gave me the wisest counsel concerning these rules. He said to do my very best to keep the right, loving spirit within me, a gentle disposition, and to avoid finding fault with every trifling error I might see. Not just in my own life, but in my children. He said this would discourage my family, that my children would begin to think it impossible to please me. Or worse, that you would all become indifferent to me, and wish for my absence.

I hope that has never been the case.

RULE SEVEN: You should always practice impartiality, as far as circumstances allow. Let your love and your kindness abound toward all. Though it may be hard, you must use your own judgment regarding your duties to others... never swayed by feelings over principle, including your own. Don’t decide hastily on partial evidence. Weigh everything in open light, to avoid becoming unjustly prejudiced. Again, everyone has imperfections and weaknesses, each growing and learning at a different rate.

Be patient.

When your mother and I were about to be married, she called me into a side room. We were all dressed up, ready to meet the guests, ready to stand before the priest, and she said, “We need to talk.”

I’m thinking, NOW? We’re about to get married, then run off for the honeymoon... and you want to talk about something NOW?

What your mother explained to me is something I will never forget.

She expressed her devotion and dedication to who she really was, and to the principles she lived by. You see, Alhannah, your mother had two simple goals. She wanted five children. Five! It’s what she’d always wanted, but she’d had to set that dream aside because she couldn’t find The One. Her other goal was to be a mother. You’re old enough to remember how dedicated she was, how much time she spent with you and your brother. She made me promise that after our first child, I would care for the family... and she would never have to work again. The military hated me for it, and even her parents disagreed, but she didn’t care. That was her dream, and I kept my word.

It’s one of the great regrets of my life... that your mother accepted that last job from N.E.R.D.S., the one that claimed her. The one time she herself made an exception...

That’s how I met your mother, sweetheart. All the trials, and all the patience, it took to secure her love.

One last thing.

As I was preparing to write to you, I found a set of old letters your mother had written. Some were to me... some of our correspondence... but I found something else.

Next time you come to see me, I’ll give you the original.

For now, just enjoy.

My Little Dumpling,

I know you wanted to come with me this time.

I’m sorry I had to leave you behind, but I’ll be home soon.

The world isn’t always a nice place for the little people, so I promise you... after this last trip, I’ll never leave you again. I’ll be the warrior-mommy, and you can be my Dumpling.

Your job, until I get home, is to obey daddy and to protect Green.

Alhannah, I am so proud of you. You’re growing so fast, and I just know you’re going to surprise everyone and become the most amazing warrior-princess. When I get home tomorrow, we’ll dress up in our blue jumpsuits and battle the bad guys together.

Just mom and her little girl.

Love you. Always and forever,

Mommy

I love you also, Alhannah.

Please be safe.

Dad

_{That is where I’ll stop. A scholar is meant to end with a conclusion. I find I don’t have one... only the rules, the people who taught them to me, and a daughter I would trade every cybernetic and every field guide I own to keep safe. If you have someone like that... go and tell them. Now. Don’t make my mother slap you first.
...H.L.}

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I told myself it was the archive.

That was the reason I gave, anyway.

Clean.

Professional.

Entirely defensible to anyone who might ask, including myself.

The Grandfather District Records Hall holds two centuries of pre-Consolidation census data, guild charters, and land registrations that the FAF hasn’t digitized yet. Important material. Legitimate research. Perfectly good reason to take the lower lifts all the way down to the old city levels.

Nothing to do with the fact that I grew up here.

District 9 hadn’t changed much. That was the first thing I noticed when the lift doors opened and the district spread out below me in the grey morning light. Same cluster of squat stone buildings pressed together like old men sharing warmth. Same narrow streets. Same smell of machine oil and coal smoke that the upper districts like to pretend doesn’t exist.

The clock tower at the center of the old market square still leaned two degrees to the left, which it had been doing since before I was born and would apparently continue doing until someone important cared enough to fix it.

They never would.

The bakery on the corner of Gear Lane and Ninth Main still had smoke rising from its vents, which meant old Perra’s granddaughter had kept the place running.

Both good and bad, I suppose. That summed up my little footprint of District 9 rather neatly.

I paid the lift operator twice what the fare required, because he hadn’t recognized me and that felt like a gift worth rewarding. I was not in the mood for the long version of events.

The Records Hall was a low, wide building wedged between what used to be the mill works and what passed for a district courthouse. Heavy stone. Narrow windows. The kind of architecture that says *we take record-keeping seriously here* in a way that also says *we don’t trust you.* I’d always liked that about it.

The archivist behind the front desk did not look up when I walked in.

“We open at ninth bell,” he said. “It’s eighth bell.”

“The door was unlocked.”

“That’s because I was airing it out.” He still hadn’t looked up. He was copying something from one ledger to another, very carefully, as though the fate of several factions depended on his penmanship. “Please come back at ninth bell.”

I set my satchel down on the counter. The metal arm clinked against the edge. That got his attention.

He looked up.

I’ll give him credit: he composed himself quickly. Gave me the full top-to-bottom assessment, landed on the telescopic eye and the white mustache, and arrived at the correct answer in about four seconds.

“You’re Höbin Luckyfeller,” he said.

“Guilty.”

“The historian.”

“That is my understanding, yes.”

He set down his pen very precisely. “We have three of your books.”

“Which three?”

He blinked. “I...don’t know offhand.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I pulled out my research credentials and slid them across the counter. FAF official seal, current year, full access notation. “I need the pre-Consolidation records. Guild charters, settlement registrations, district boundary agreements. If they’re not catalogued, I’ll work from raw storage.”

He looked at the credentials. Then at me. Then at the credentials again.

“I’ll have to get approval from the Chief Archivist,” he said.

“Of course you will.”

“She doesn’t come in until tenth bell.”

I looked at the ceiling.

Tgii help me, the ceiling hadn’t changed either.

The young archivist seemed to feel he owed me an explanation. “It’s policy. Full access requests require Chief Archivist sign-off. It’s not personal.” He said it the way people say *it’s not personal* when they want to make sure you know it is, in fact, entirely impersonal, which they feel is worse. “If you want to wait...”

I waited.

As I sat in the hard chair by the window, I watched District 9 go about its morning. The mill workers came first, crossing through the market square in pairs, talking in the quick shorthand of people who’ve worked alongside each other for years. Then the shopkeepers, rolling back the iron shutters over their storefronts. Then the school children, which was the worst part, because they were loud and happy and completely unaware that anything had ever gone wrong in the world.

I hadn’t planned to come back. I’d like to be honest about that, at least in my own notes.

The FAF had been asking me to digitize the Grandfather District records for three years, and for three years I’d found other things to do first. There was always another archive, another lead, another corner of the world that needed a competent historian more urgently than a district that already knew my name.

The problem with places that know your name is that they also know what came before it.

District 9 knew about the Bloodsticks years. The long ones. The years I don’t write about in the Field Guides. The years my daughter grew up without me nearby, which I have made peace with in the way that you make peace with a crooked clock tower: it still works, you’ve stopped waiting for it to straighten, but you can’t look at it without knowing.

What did I want from this?

Honestly, I couldn’t have told you.

A researcher’s answer: the records.

A true answer: something else, something I didn’t have a clean professional word for.

To walk these streets and have them be just streets. To eat a roll from that bakery and have it be just a roll. To stand in front of the building where my mother’s workshop used to be and not feel anything in particular.

I’m not sure that last one was ever going to happen.

The Chief Archivist arrived at quarter to tenth bell, which I noted approvingly. She was older than I expected. White hair, cropped short, and the particular posture of someone who has spent forty years defending the integrity of physical records against people who want to handle them carelessly. She looked at the young archivist’s note, looked at my credentials, and looked at me.

“I read your book on the Demoni Vankil,” she said.

“Most people have, apparently.”

“I didn’t like the ending.”

“Most people don’t.” I stood. “Do I have access?”

She studied me for a long moment. The authoritative disparity between us was not lost on either of us, and I want to be clear that I found it entirely reasonable. I was a famous historian with full FAF credentials. She was the Chief Archivist of a district records hall in the lower city. By any external measure, this should have been straightforward. But she held authority over records in her physical custody, in her building, in her district, and no amount of credentials changes who has the key.

That’s how it should work, actually. I’ve said as much in print.

“Full access,” she said finally. “Keln will show you to the pre-Consolidation storage.” She glanced at my metal arm. “Please don’t touch the oldest folios with that.”

“I know how to handle old paper.”

“I’m sure you do.” She turned back toward her office. “There’s a kettle in the reading room. The cups are on the left shelf, not the right. The right shelf cups have a chip problem.”

I almost smiled. “Thank you.”

She paused without turning around. “My grandmother talked about you,” she said. “You came through this district when she was young. She said you were...well.” A small pause. “She said you were both good and bad, depending on the day.”

“That’s fair.”

“She also said you were always honest.”

“Debatable.”

She made a sound that might have been a laugh and closed the office door behind her.

I followed young Keln into the pre-Consolidation storage, which smelled like every old archive smells: dust and dried ink and the particular weight of things that have not been touched in a very long time. I pulled on my cotton gloves and started on the first shelf.

By noon, I had forgotten entirely about the crooked clock tower. I had forgotten about my mother’s recipe for gear rolls, which the bakery had apparently changed. I had forgotten, for several very productive hours, about all the things I didn’t know I wanted.

There was only the record. The careful, patient, irreplaceable record.

This, I have always known. Everything else is complicated.

The work is not.

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I’ve stood in front of dragons, you know.

Real ones.

There’s a smell to them. Heat and bone and something ancient that doesn’t care if you’re brave. When you face something like that, your body already knows what to do. Your heart pounds. Your hands shake. You either step forward or you don’t.

There’s clarity.

Loving Lili isn’t like that.

It’s quieter.

And somehow…worse.

She brushed past me in the courtyard this morning and said, “Oh—sorry, Wendell,” like I was a table she almost bumped into.

I smiled.

But I always smile.

It would be so much easier if she were cruel.

If she rolled her eyes. If she ignored me entirely. Or maybe if she laughed when I talked…not with me, just at me.

But she doesn’t.

She’s kind.

I know this sounds stupid, but that’s the problem.

Dax caught me staring after her. “You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“The slow blink. The pretending-you’re-fine thing.”

“I am fine.”

He gave me that look. The one that says he knows I’m lying but he respects me enough not to press too hard.

Across the courtyard, Lili was laughing at something Chuck said. She touched his sleeve when she laughed. Not intentionally. Just naturally. Like that’s where her hand landed when she talks to someone she’s comfortable with. She did the same thing when we stayed in the warehouse back in Clockworks City. She did it with Morty, with Freak, with Nathan…even Shamas.

I hate that I notice those details.

I don’t hate any of them.

Of course not.

That’s the strange part.

I don’t want to replace anyone else. I don’t want to shove anyone out of the way.

I just… want to be the person she turns toward.

Chuck found me by the river later.

“You’re heavy today,” he said.

“That’s specific.”

“It’s accurate.”

I skipped a stone. It bounced twice and sank. “She doesn’t see me.”

Chuck didn’t correct me. That’s how I knew it was true.

“She sees you,” he said carefully. “She simply doesn’t see you the way you wish.”

That was worse.

I don’t blame her.

That’s important.

I don’t sit around thinking she owes me anything, or that she should even change in the slightest. She doesn’t. Feelings aren’t assignments. You don’t get paired up because you were patient or kind or loyal.

If that were true, the world would be much simpler.

Gosh, wouldn’t THAT be nice?

I love the way she thanks people by name. I love how she frowns when someone cheats at cards. I love that she argues with anyone when she thinks they’re wrong.

I love that she’s strong without needing to prove it.

And she does laugh with me. She trusts me, now. She asks for my opinion.

Just not the kind that leads anywhere.

“Have you told her?” Dax asked later that evening.

“And accomplish what?”

“Closure.”

“Humiliation,” I said.

He shrugged. “Same thing sometimes.”

Maybe.

But if I tell her and she looks at me with that careful, apologetic expression people use when they’re about to let you down gently…

I don’t know if I could survive that without something inside me breaking.

Not in some dramatic way.

In a quiet one.

The kind that turns good intentions into bitterness.

That would be horrible, and I refuse to let that happen.

…but I have a feeling that break would be something I just wouldn’t be able to fix.

She called my name tonight.

Just my name.

“Hey, Wendell.”

That’s it.

No glow. No revelation. Just recognition.

“You coming to the planning meeting tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. We could use your brain.”

I forced a laugh and smiled. “Happy to lend it.”

She smiled at me.

Not differently.

Just warmly.

Then she turned back to the others.

I’m pretty sure I stood there a moment longer than I should have.

I could have told her then.

I could have stepped into the gap and said the words.

But I walked away.

Because loving someone doesn’t mean forcing them to pivot toward you.

It means wanting their happiness… even if it doesn’t include you.

That doesn’t make it easy.

It hurts.

It hurts in a way dragons don’t.

Dragons are honest.

This is slow.

But I’d rather carry this ache than become the kind of person who resents her for not choosing me.

Yeah, this sucks, but that wouldn’t be me.

She deserves freedom.

Even if that freedom doesn’t point in my direction.

I’ll be fine.

I have to be.

Because if I let this turn into something ugly… then it’s just proof that I never loved her in the first place.

And I do.

It’s something I just can’t explain, but I feel it down to the soles of my feet and with every beat of my heart.

That’s the worst part about all this.

…but it’s also the best.

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Cyril’s hands were numb before he saw the Chasm.

Not from cold exactly… from the kind of damp wind that steals heat. The air smelled like wet stone and iron-rich mist. Somewhere down below, freshwater and magma argued until the whole world sweated.

The Dragon’s Chasm didn’t announce itself with a cliff edge.

The land simply stopped.

Cyril crouched behind a boulder and looked out into the haze. Rumors told him a thousand feet down, was a world, wide and dark, swallowing the sky’s reflection in broken pieces. Mist rolled over everything, soft and constant, turning distance into a lie.

Weather here wasn’t background. It was an active force.

A living filter.

It decided what existed and what didn’t.

He tightened his cloak and checked his crude map again. He didn’t have a compass. He had something better… and worse.

A small brass box.

The gnomes called it a sensor.

Humans called it black magic.

Cyril called it proof that the world wasn’t as simple as the priests pretended. The box he’d ‘permanently borrowed’ from a gnome merchant, clicked faintly in his palm, like a nervous insect. A green needle twitched, then steadied.

He swallowed.

Finley Greenhopper was a name whispered among gnomes venturing out in the world. Gnomes admired this zoologist, and for good reason. His outpost was supposed to be hidden just inside the rim… a research station anchored into the rock, shielded from sight by mist and angle. A secret vessel for studying dragons, carnivorous plants, and whatever else survived down there.

Cyril had no business looking for it.

That was the point.

He shifted his weight and a loose stone rolled. It clattered into the fog and vanished without an echo.

…until something screamed far below.

Not a human scream. Not even a dragon scream.

Just a thin, sharp cry that made Cyril’s skin tighten.

He stayed still, breathing through his nose like he’d taught himself in orphan alleys when fighting wasn’t an option. He loved animals. Loved them enough to learn their rules.

Predators notice panic.

Prey survives by not advertising.

He waited until the wind changed.

Then he moved.

The path down…wasn’t a path. It was a series of wet ledges, narrow breaks in the cliff face, and what looked to be old trapper holds carved by desperate hands.

Cyril didn’t rush.

He couldn’t.

The mist made everything look closer than it was, until you stepped… and found empty air.

Halfway down, the weather turned sharper.

Warmth rose from below in sudden waves, like breath. Then cold slapped it away. Mist thickened. Water condensed on his eyelashes. The cliff face became slick.

His fingers slipped once.

His stomach fell.

He caught himself on a root that shouldn’t have existed at this altitude. There was no turning back. So he held on and kept going.

That’s what being an orphan teaches you.

Clarity.

Sharp bluntness.

The truth that if you stop, no one comes.

He reached a shallow shelf where the rock folded inward, protected from the worst wind. His sensor box clicked twice. The needle swung hard left, then trembled, almost afraid of what it was pointing at.

Cyril looked.

A shadow sat in the mist.

…and it wasn’t a natural shadow.

For a second his heart lifted, stupidly hopeful.

Then a voice spoke from the haze, calm and irritated.

“Hold still. If you move three inches left, you’ll trigger the net.”

Cyril froze.

A small shape stepped out of the fog. The gnome wore weather-stained work clothes with goggles pushed up on his forehead. His thin beard was neatly tied, which told Cyril more about him than any introduction could.

He held a short device in one hand, and in the other, a notebook.

The gnome looked Cyril up and down. “Human,” he said.

Cyril nodded once. “Cyril.”

The gnome’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not from here.”

“No,” Cyril said. “That’s why I’m here.”

The gnome stared at him, unimpressed. “That’s not how that sentence usually works.”

Cyril swallowed. “Are…you Finley?”

The gnome didn’t answer right away. Behind him, the mist shifted and Cyril saw it… the outpost. A structure anchored into rock with metal ribs and sealed panels. A hidden mouth in the cliff face. Lights glowed behind narrow slits. Not torchlight. Not lantern light. Clean, steady illumination.

Black magic, the world would whisper.

Technology, the gnomes would say.

Truth, Cyril thought.

Finley finally said, “Yes.”

Cyril exhaled. “I need help.”

Finley’s expression didn’t soften. “No you don’t.”

Cyril blinked. “What?”

“You need permission,” Finley corrected, blunt as a hammer. “Help implies you already belong in the conversation.”

Cyril forced himself to hold Finley’s gaze. “I know about your station.”

Finley lifted his notebook slightly. “Obviously.”

“I know you study dragons,” Cyril pressed. “Not as legends. Not as curses. As animals.”

Finley’s eyes flicked, just once, toward the Chasm. Something large moved in the mist below. A silhouette. Wings, maybe. Or just fog pretending.

Finley spoke quietly. “Why did you come?”

Cyril’s hand tightened around the sensor box. “Because the weather is wrong where I’m from.”

Finley’s brow raised a fraction.

Cyril hurried on. “It’s hunting. Not like… a beast. Like a pattern. It comes when certain things happen. Animals know before people do. I… I know before people do.”

Finley looked at him for a long moment. Then he said the sentence that cracked Cyril’s hope like thin ice. “Who do you think will notice?”

Cyril’s throat tightened. “I will.”

Finley’s voice stayed flat. “And?”

Cyril didn’t have a clean answer. That was the cruelty of it. The world had taught him to be invisible. Now he was trying to be seen by the only people who could explain what he’d found… and even they didn’t want to see him.

The weather surged again. Warm mist rolled up, carrying the smell of lake water and minerals and something like burned flowers. Cyril tasted copper on his tongue.

Finley stepped closer, eyes sharp now, not unkind… just exact. “This place isn’t built for hero stories,” he said. “It’s built to keep dragons from noticing we’re here. If you’re seen, you’re a risk.”

Cyril’s voice came out steady, even when his hands shook. “I’m already a risk because of what I see. I’m also alone. And I’m not scared of what people call black magic.”

Finley’s head cocked to the side, his expression softening. He studied the boy for a long moment…the outpost hummed behind him, quiet and alive.

Below, something moved abruptly, massive enough to disturb the mist.

Finley’s jaw tightened.
Decision.
Calculation.
Mercy, maybe.
He leaned over and pointed at Cyril’s sensor box with one finger. “That’s not yours.”

Cyril pulled the device closer to his chest. “I found it.”

Finley’s eyes narrowed. “You stole it.”

Cyril’s cheeks burned. “I borrowed it from people who were going to burn it.”

Finley snorted once. “That’s called stealing with a conscience. It’s still stealing.” His expression returned to serious. “You’ll be leaving it behind.”

Cyril held his ground. “Then you might as well throw me off the cliff.”

That’s when Finley smirked.

When the gnome shifted, Cyril flinched. But Finley stepped aside, exposing a narrow doorway in the rock. “Get inside,” he said softly. “Before the weather decides you’re interesting.”

Cyril didn’t move. Not yet. “You’re…going to help me?”

Finley’s voice was sharp, blunt, but somehow… not cruel. “I’m going to observe you,” he said. “Help is earned.” He nodded at the door. “When I’ve come to my conclusions about you, well make the next decision. Alright?”

Cyril nodded once. That was enough.
Behind him, the mist shifted.
For one breath, the Chasm felt like it leaned closer. And Cyril realized, with sudden clarity, that the question was never about finding the outpost.

It was whether, once the world noticed him… would it ever let him go unseen again?

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“Is this absolutely necessary?” Payton asked.

I nodded. “The lawsuit has nothing to do with the FAF, but they wanted your testimony on record anyway.”

Payton frowned. “But you’re a historian, not a court stenographer.”

My grin grew bigger than I wanted it to. “Drinking money is drinking money, “ I said. Setting the recorder on the table between us, I pressed the red button. “From the beginning. In your own words.”

———————

The weather surge arrived twelve minutes early.

That may not sound like much, unless you’re responsible for a city that breathes through vents and lives on pressure balance. Twelve minutes is the difference between a celebration and a casualty report.

I stood on the signal balcony with my hands resting on the brass rail, feeling the vibration before the instruments admitted it. The air tasted wrong. It was too warm. Too metallic. A pre-storm flavor the city only produces when systems argue with each other.

The Founders’ Festival was already in full bloom.

Banners stretched between towers, bright fabric snapping in a wind that wasn’t scheduled. Food stalls glowed with heat coils. Music drifted upward in cheerful, poorly tuned defiance of reality. Children ran between adults who believed, sincerely, that today was protected by tradition.

Tradition is not a load-bearing structure.

A junior tech leaned over the rail beside me, goggles fogging. “It might pass.”

“It won’t,” I said.

He glanced at me. “You’re sure?”

Sharp bluntness saves time.

The anemeters began to spin faster. Pressure differentials climbed, small at first, then with purpose. This is why I was hired. I know these things like my own bulbous nose. Heat rose from the lower ducts, colliding with cooler upper drafts and creating pockets of unstable lift.

The weather was building leverage.

Somewhere below, a string instrument squealed into tune and failed.

Laughter followed.

I opened the control ledger.

“Protocol says we shut it down,” the tech said, voice tight. He already knew. That was the problem. But knowing doesn’t make obedience easier.

“Yes,” I said.

“But the Founders’ Festival only happens once every six years.”

“Yes.”

“If we seal the turbines, the lifts stop.”

“Yes.”

“The food stalls lose heat.”

“Yes.”

“The light rigs go dark.”

“Yes.”

Each confirmation landed heavier than the last. The tech swallowed.

“That’s going to turn ugly,” he said.

The weather howled through the vent stacks. It had an opinion about that, telling me what had to be done.

I pressed the seal key.

The response was immediate and absolute.

Lights dimmed in visible tiers, rolling outward from the control core. A held breath finally released. Music faltered, then collapsed into confused silence. Heat coils powered down with a collective hiss.

The crowd noise shifted in stages.

Joy turned to confusion.

Confusion shifted to anger.

…and anger loves an audience.

A gnome charged up the stairs two at a time, face flushed. I remember his hair was immaculate, completely unbothered by the wind.

“What are you doing?!” he shouted.

“Preventing casualties,” I said.

“You just killed the festival!”

“The weather is doing that,” I replied. “I’m limiting its success.”

He scoffed. “This surge wasn’t on the forecast!”

“Forecasts predict,” I said. “They don’t decide.”

As if to punctuate the point, a sudden gust slammed into the tower. The pressure gauge spiked hard enough to make the needle rattle. Below us, one of the festival banners tore free and snapped through the air like a blade.

If the turbines had still been running, it would have been pulled straight into the intake.

Fabric, rigging, possibly people.

The supervisor stared at the wreckage in stunned silence.

Then he turned back to me. “You didn’t have to be so cold about it.”

I closed the ledger. The brass cover clicked shut, final and impersonal.

“Warmth is for celebrations,” I said. “This is infrastructure.”

The rain came moments later.

It was hot and heavy, mixed with soot and steam. It soaked the festival square in seconds, flattening decorations and sending the remaining crowd scattering toward cover that suddenly felt inadequate.

Arguments broke out.

Accusations followed.

Names were taken.

Mine, among them.

Obviously.

The tech beside me exhaled shakily. “They’re going to file complaints.”

“Yes,” I said.

“They’ll say you overreacted.”

“Yes.”

“They’ll say you ruined something important.”

“Yes.”

He looked at me, searching for something. Regret, perhaps. Or reassurance.

That’s not my job.

The city groaned as pressure equalized. Systems stabilized. No alarms sounded.

No explosions. No screams.

“That’s going to cost you,” the tech said quietly.

I nodded. “That’s acceptable.”

We watched the square empty, steam rising from stone.

The city shedding tension.

No one thanked us.

That’s fine.

The city didn’t explode.

That’s better.

————————

When Payton finished, I stood up without a word, collected my things and headed for the door.

“I was just doing my job, you know.” He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I didn’t do anything wrong. The only thing you’re going to get from that recording is drinking money.”

Turning back, I smirked. “That’s acceptable.”

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Grindlewick Brasseye had washed his hands three times before leaving the lower lifts.

That was the mistake.

In the soot districts, grime was a badge. Proof you worked where the city breathed and burned. Proof you mattered.

But up here… up here the stone gleamed like it had never known a hammer.

Grindlewick hauled the small iron compressor cart himself. He could’ve waited for a lift team, but he wanted to arrive early. He wanted to be seen as dependable. Useful. Worthy.

The upper district smelled wrong.
Clean. No oil tang. No hot metal.
Just polished stone and perfumed steam vents shaped like flowers.

A gnome in a white coat glanced at him, then immediately looked away.

Another stepped aside, not to help, but to avoid brushing sleeves.

Grindlewick stopped at the intake desk. “Delivery for Infrastructure. Lower District fabrication. Sector Twenty Four.”

The clerk wrinkled her nose. “You’re dripping.”

Grindlewick looked down. A thin line of dark water trailed from his boot.
Soot residue, diluted.
Harmless.

“I cleaned,” he said quickly. “Best I could.”

She sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”

She waved him toward the wall.
Not the counter.
The wall.
“You’ll wait there.”

He waited.

Minutes passed.
Then longer.

Gnomes walked by without looking at him. Conversations flowed around him like he was a post, not a person. His cart sat untouched.

Finally, a supervisor arrived. Tall. Immaculate. Hands never calloused.
“This unit is late,” the supervisor said.

Grindlewick swallowed. “I came as fast as—”

“You people always do,” the supervisor interrupted. “But this area has standards.”

Grindlewick’s ears burned. “Sir… the compressors you use up here… we build those. The vents. The lifts. The boilers. None of this works without—”

The supervisor raised a finger.
Not angrily.
Casually.
“You’re not from here,” he said.

The words landed flat.

Final.

Grindlewick nodded once.

That was the truth. He was from below.
From the heat. From the noise.
From the work that kept the city alive.

He turned his cart around without another word.

As he headed back toward the lifts, he noticed something he hadn’t before.

The polished stone floors were cracked.

Hairline fractures.
Everywhere.
Hidden under the shine.

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Weather in Clockworks City is not like weather elsewhere.

Outsiders think rain is rain. Wind is wind. Cold is cold.
How charming.

In the lower districts, the sky is a suggestion and the air is an argument. Warm drafts slide down the vent shafts, then collide with older, colder currents that rise from the underworks. The result is a drifting fog that tastes like pennies and old regret.

Yesterday the fog had teeth.

I watched a shop owner, wrapped in a wool cloak that had never seen proper soot, stand at the edge of District 13 and stare down into the steam gutters like he was trying to hear a secret.

“You’re not from here,” I told him.

He looked at me too quickly. Like my words were a knife.

“I’m from here enough,” he said.

Sharp bluntness. No poetry. Just a truth hammered flat.

The wind rattled the pipework overhead. A loose valve squealed, then went silent. Even the machines sounded like they were listening.

The gnome’s eyes tracked the fog as it curled around his boots.

“Do you know what they call this,” he asked.

“Tuesday,” I said.

He almost smiled.
Almost.

Then he leaned closer to the gutter grate and whispered, not to me, but to the city itself.

“Who do you think will notice?”

The fog answered by slipping between the bars.

I stepped back.

“Don’t,” I said.

He did anyway.

And the weather, as always, took notes.

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Chapter 25 — A New Legend

The Tavern of Lost Causes is warm again.
That alone feels like a miracle worth writing down.

Snow whispers at the windows. Firelight climbs the walls and refuses to come down. Cinnamon lives in the same air as old ale and neither complains. Someone has polished the brass sign over the door so it sits straight for once. It reads very simply:

Welcome Back.

We take the same table we always pretend not to favor.

Same scars. Same stains. Same notch in the edge where a knife learned humility. Chuck hangs the red coat on the peg by the hearth and it behaves itself. No heat in the seams. No guilt in the cloth.

Just a coat… resting.

I climb onto my stool, ledger open, quill ready. Dax claims the chair by the fire, one bare foot on the hearth, the other already losing a fight with gravity. He snores with the confidence of an evolu who has once again postponed maturity.

The cigar rides safe in his waistband.

Polka-dotted boxers, of course. No boots. Never boots.

Chuck wraps both hands around a mug and lets the steam do the talking. “So,” he says, eyes on the flames, “is this the part where I draft a profound ending?”

“Readers adore closure,” I say, wetting the nib. “Also pithy last lines. Preferably quotable on tea towels.”

He smirks into his drink. “They also expect Santa to be jolly.”

“We cannot always honor expectation,” I say. “But we can honor truth.”

He studies the reflection of the fire in the surface of his tea. It is steady and whole. “Truth and I had a complicated marriage,” he says. “I ran from it. Then I tried to rewrite it.” He lifts the mug. “Now… it is simply a story.”

“That will do,” I say. I don’t write it yet. I let the sentence cool.

The coat by the hearth gathers a little light. Not magic. Comfort. If you sit very still, you can feel the room unclench.

The door opens and snow comes in with a handful of people attached. Families. Travelers. The sort who arrive with faces that look like maps and relax when the smell of bread draws its neat little circle around their shoulders. A girl slips out from the group and makes for the hearth, cheeks pink, hair crusted with honest winter.

She stops at our table. Looks from me to the coat to the man with the quiet eyes.

“Mister,” she says, voice careful in holy places. “Is Santa real?”

Around us the tavern pauses. Spoons hover. A chair creaks and then remembers its manners. Dax’s snore hiccups and turns into a fake cough.

My quill waits above the page, afraid to ruin anything.

Chuck sets the mug down. He leans forward, elbows on wood worn smooth by years of stories. His smile is warm without being clever.

“Turns out,” he says, “I know for a fact that he is, indeed, real, little one.”

The girl’s grin wakes the room. She pivots on the balls of her feet and runs back to her people, whispering the news to a mother who pretends not to worry.

Above the hearth, the red coat answers with a single breath of gold.

Once.

Dax opens one eye. “You think she’ll believe it?”

“She already does,” Chuck says. “That’s enough.”

I let my quill touch the paper.

Entry: the wizard who made Santa, broke the world…then fixed it by forgiving himself. Turns out forgiveness makes the best kind of magic.

I close the ledger and feel its warmth through the leather.

“You realize it will turn into myth again,” I say. “That is how useful truth survives.”

“Good,” Chuck says, leaning back until the chair considers and then accepts it. “Let it. We could use more legends that tell the truth.”

The fire pops. The windowpanes hum with wind that means no harm. Outside, bells test their voices and decide to keep singing for a while.

A tavern maid arrives with bread the size of her forearm and sets it down with the authority of a priest. Chuck tears a piece and hands it to me first.

That’s new.

Dax wakes enough to steal the crusts and declares himself a hero.

That is not new.

We eat and drink and let the room decide where to put us.

“Now we just need a hero to fix all the truly big problems,” he says. “In the meantime, we can fix a few wrongs, tell the truth., and get some sleep.” He looks at the door like it owes him. “Teach people to give without someone watching.”

“That last part ruins my business model,” I say.

“You’ll survive,” he smirks.

“Regrettably,” I say.

Dax leans back so far his chair decides to gamble and loses. He hits the floor, bounces once, and sits up with dignity. “Don’t put that in the book,” he says.

“I am writing it down with mercy,” I say. “Which is to say… very large letters.”

Laughter loosens the rafters. Stew bowls clink. A fiddle player finally wins the argument with his strings and coaxes something sweet into the room.

I catch Chuck listening with his eyes closed.

A man who misplaced peace and found it again does not brag.

When the music ends, he stands and takes the coat from the peg. He folds it once and lays it across the chair by the fire like a guest who intends to stay on good terms. He slips his palm over the pocket and the coal answers with a small faithful warmth.

“Time to walk home,” he says.

“You leavin’ that?” Dax asks, already pulling his chair upright.

“Yes,” Chuck says, and the answer fits. With a snap of his fingers, his dragon cane floats through the hearth and into his waiting hand. With the other hand, he makes a waving gesture and a wide rim, pointy gray hat appears. “I have an image to maintain.”

He flips the hat up onto his head.

We step outside together into a snowfall. Smoke climbs the straight air.

Behind us, the tavern settles into its new old shape. The sign over the door shines without demanding attention. Inside, in the warm the fire has decided to share, the red coat is placed on its peg, quiet and sure.

Someone will look up from their stew later and see it, and smile, and say nothing.

By then the little girl from earlier will be home, telling the story to a mother who does not argue, to a grandmother who nods, to a brother who pretends not to listen and listens anyway. Someday her children will ask, and she will say what she believes about Santa…and knows without needing proof.

Give a little more.
Forgive a little sooner.
Believe a little longer.

That is how magic lives when it has nothing left to prove.

Dax shoves his cigar behind his ear and declares himself off duty.

Chuck laughs without flinching.

We walk.

The snow goes on falling. The light goes on being kind.

And the legend does what good legends do…

It begins again.

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EMPLOYMENT AGREEMENT FOR HISTORICAL RECORDING SERVICES

Between Morphiophelius Smith (the “Employer”) and Höbin Luckyfeller (the “Historian”)
Effective Date: The First Day of Yule, Year of Whatever Frostbite Fancies

RECITALS

WHEREAS, Morphiophelius Smith, also known in certain circles and warrants as “Chuck,” a duly self-proclaimed mägo (wizard of unpredictable temperament and reputable mischief), desires to engage the professional services of Höbin Luckyfeller, esteemed gnome historian, author, and chronicler of both sensible and improbable events (collectively, the “Historian”);

AND WHEREAS, the Employer seeks an accurate, complete, and occasionally humiliating record of his deeds, misdeeds, and related magical activities during one (1) Holiday Season (the “Term”);

AND WHEREAS, the Historian, being of sound mind, sturdy quill hand, and marginal self-preservation instinct, agrees to accept such engagement under the terms and conditions set forth herein;

NOW, THEREFORE, in consideration of the mutual covenants, promises, and hazards contained herein, the parties agree as follows:

ARTICLE I — DEFINITIONS

1.1 “Insight Juice” shall refer to a single (1) vial of enchanted liquid, brewed by the Employer, which upon consumption shall grant the Historian empathic and telepathic resonance with the Employer’s emotions, intentions, and elevated stress levels while within a proximity of fifty (50) feet.

1.2 “Events” shall mean all activities, incidents, and occurrences involving the Employer during the Term, whether mundane, miraculous, or catastrophically inconvenient.

1.3 “Holiday Season” shall mean the continuous span beginning upon the first official snowfall and concluding upon the ceremonial extinguishing of the last post-solstice fruitcake, unless otherwise extended by magical necessity.

ARTICLE II — TERMS OF EMPLOYMENT

2.1 The Employer hereby engages the Historian for the duration of one (1) Holiday Season, and the Historian hereby accepts said engagement under the following conditions:

(a) Consumption of Insight Juice. The Historian shall, prior to commencing duties, ingest the aforementioned vial of Insight Juice, accepting all associated side effects including, but not limited to, heightened empathy, spontaneous emotional monologues, and mild facial twitching.

(b) Accuracy of Record. The Historian shall faithfully record all Events, omitting no detail, embellishing no account, and refraining from the willful fudging, dramatization, or omission of any fact, dialogue, or embarrassing wardrobe malfunction.

(c) Diligence. The Historian shall be the first awake and the last asleep each day during the Term, maintaining continuous observation and accurate notation of all Events of relevance, significance, or comedic potential.

(d) Access to Journals. The Historian shall be granted unrestricted access to all personal journals, grimoires, doodles, or magical diaries belonging to the Employer that pertain to the Events in question.

(e) Proximity and Presence. The Historian shall accompany the Employer wherever he may go, whether through snowstorm, temporal rift, infernal banquet, or spontaneous dimension-hop, regardless of physical danger, moral hazard, or lack of plumbing.

ARTICLE III — COMPENSATION AND BENEFITS

3.1 In exchange for faithful and reckless service rendered, the Employer shall provide the Historian with the following:

(a) Expenses. All living, travel, lodging, and medical (pre- and post-mortem) expenses incurred during the Term.

(b) Supplies. An unlimited supply of parchment, paper, ink, and pens, with rune-protected journals to ensure legibility, permanence, and flame resistance (within reason).

(c) Compensation. A daily stipend of one hundred (100) gold coins, payable for each day of completed work, defined as “notes taken, arranged, and expanded upon in chronological order,” provided said notes are not illegible or entirely composed of expletives.

(d) Funeral Provisions. In the unfortunate event of the Historian’s demise, the Employer shall bear all funeral and interdimensional repatriation expenses, including, but not limited to:

• Disintegration, combustion, implosion, or partial vaporization;

• Falling, crushing, freezing, melting, drowning, or devouring (sentient or otherwise);

• Transmutation into flora, fauna, or emotional baggage;

• Curse, hex, or poetic irony.

(e) Royalties and Residuals. Should the recorded Events be adapted for stage, screen, or otherworldly broadcast (including but not limited to “motion pictures in Hollywood”), the Historian shall receive co-publishing rights and a three and one-half percent (3.5%) share of all merchandising, franchise, and souvenir profits derived therefrom.

(f) Acknowledgment. Upon successful completion of duties, and subject to the Employer’s personal satisfaction, the Historian shall receive one (1) genuine, heartfelt pat on the back, delivered without sarcasm, hesitation, or protective gloves.

ARTICLE IV — WARRANTIES AND COVENANTS

4.1 The Historian warrants that he possesses the physical stamina, moral fortitude, and questionable judgment necessary to perform the obligations herein.

4.2 The Employer warrants that he will not intentionally lead the Historian into danger without first warning him with the customary phrase, “Duck.”

4.3 Both parties agree to hold each other harmless for emotional distress arising from the effects of the Insight Juice, particularly in cases of unintentional telepathic overshare, mental feedback loops, or mutual crying.

ARTICLE V — CONFIDENTIALITY AND PUBLICATION RIGHTS

5.1 The Historian shall maintain strict confidentiality of all personal revelations, magical formulas, or embarrassing dreams disclosed by the Employer during the Term, except insofar as such information is relevant to the faithful recording of the Events.

5.2 The Historian retains the right to publish his account upon completion of duties, provided such publication honors the factual accuracy stipulated in Article II(b) and does not exceed the bounds of good taste, narrative pacing, or common decency (as loosely defined).

ARTICLE VI — TERM AND TERMINATION

6.1 This Agreement shall commence upon the Historian’s first sip of the Insight Juice and shall conclude automatically at the cessation of the Holiday Season, unless extended by mutual consent or court-mandated sequel.

6.2 Early termination may occur only upon (a) the mutual death of both parties; (b) the irreversible destruction of all recording materials; or (c) the Historian’s transformation into an inanimate object incapable of transcription.

ARTICLE VII — MISCELLANEOUS

7.1 This Agreement constitutes the entire understanding between the parties and supersedes all prior oral or written negotiations, drunken promises, or telepathic agreements.

7.2 Any amendment must be made in writing, signed by both parties, and notarized by a third-party cleric of unimpeachable reputation (or at least decent penmanship).

7.3 This Agreement shall be governed by the Laws of Narrative Continuity and the Common Sense Statutes of Elämä.

7.4 In the event of dispute, arbitration shall be conducted by a neutral party of elvish descent with a minimum of two hundred (200) years of patience.

SIGNATURES

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, the parties hereto have executed this Agreement as of the date first written above:

Morphiophelius “Chuck” Smith
(Employer / mägo of Questionable Sanity)

____________________________________

Höbin Luckyfeller
(Historian / Gnome of Mild Regret)

____________________________________

Witnessed by:

____________________________________

Dax
(Totally Unqualified Observer)

APPENDIX A — CLARIFICATION OF POTION CONTENTS

Subnote: Should the Historian detect a hair in the Insight Juice, said hair is confirmed to originate from the Employer’s beard. It poses no hazard, imparts minor wisdom, and is included unintentionally. Sorry about that.

— Chuck

…AND WHAT’S CHRISTMAS WITHOUT A PRESENT?

I just…wanted to give you something extra.

Maybe something for the younger kids, or if you’re a kid at heart, it’s the right thing for you.

Coloring pages.
From me to you.

All you have to do is download the PDF and print them off.
…as many times as you want.
Share them around.

Love you tons,
Merry Christmas

Jaime

Chuck And Baby Dax Hair

4.35MB ∙ PDF file

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Chuck With Baby Dax

5.01MB ∙ PDF file

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Chuck

3.54MB ∙ PDF file

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Wendell Scared

5.68MB ∙ PDF file

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Höbin

10.2MB ∙ PDF file

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Chapter 24 — End of the Flight

Morning stretched long and bright across the land, then thinned into a clean blue that tasted of snow and woodsmoke.

We circled the city of Andilain one last time. Bells chimed somewhere below and kept chiming until the sound became part of the air. The sleigh glided without complaint.

The rails sang.

Even the harness bells sounded content rather than busy.

Chuck guided us along the base of the mountain where the immense capital sat.

We followed the dirt roads, still covered in snow, until we reached the market square where farmers sell their wares to travelers along the outer wall.

The first stalls were opening.

Lanterns winked in doorways. A woman stepped outside with a broom and paused to wipe her eyes with the back of her wrist. She didn’t notice us…just leaned on the handle and listened to a quiet only she could hear.

“Last pass,” Chuck said. His voice starting to sound tired, with a hint of gravel to it. “Then home.”

“Why Andilain?” Dax asked with a lazy grin, feet on the railing, chewing on a dead cigar.

“Aren’t you curious how far this has affected our world?” Chuck asked. “How it’s affected the largest population?”

The coal in his pocket kept a steady warmth. The scraps of the bear glowed where it sat between us. No pulse. No urgency. Just that soft approval that had threaded our whole morning.

We skimmed the old north wall, flying over the water channel of the whole city. Fresh mortar filled the cracks. Someone had hung evergreen across many of the stones, not for holiday, but for thanks. At the far end, where the wall once fell away into rubble, Gwen’s rune had been chalked on a new arch.

The chalk glittered in the light.

“Who drew that,” I asked.

“My guess is someone who understands,” Chuck said.

We turned east, up and over the main wall…swooping down towards the various sections of the city. We slowed as children ran along the high road and kept pace for a time, cheeks red, breath steaming.

Dax waved both arms, then nearly fell out of the sleigh and had to grab the rail.

The children shrieked with laughter.

I wrote that down.

History is built on the moments that keep people laughing.

The city dropped behind us. Forest rose ahead. The trees were dressed in frost that caught the sun until whole swathes of hillside looked like spilled sugar. We flew low between the trunks where shadow still held the night. The reindeer spirits moved their heads and their breath made little clouds that drifted behind us in neat rows.

“Question,” Dax said. “How many souls did we accidentally save?”

“No way to tell,” I said. “The only way we’ll know is watching for variance over time.”

“High variance,” he said.

“That would definitely be a sign…but not completely accurate.”

Chuck laughed and let the sleigh climb. We broke out above the trees and the world widened. Lakes lay scattered like old mirrors. Far out on the tundra a caravan moved in a thin line, tents already packed, sleds pointed south. We watched a woman kneel in the snow and lift her face to the sun. She held her hands like she was warming them at an invisible fire.

“Do you hear it,” Chuck asked.

“Hear what,” I said.

“The relief,” he said. “It has a sound.”

I listened. Wind played the railings and made a low silver hum. Distant water cracked on a lake. Farther still, someone sang to a baby and did not mind the tune. That must have been it.

The world sounded like people who had set something heavy down.

We angled toward the shore. The sea waited calm and flat, a great piece of metal hammered smooth and left to cool. The aurora had thinned to pale threads. Daylight owned everything else. Still, when we looked out toward the horizon, a faint band of green pressed against the line where water met sky.

The old promise had not left.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

Chuck shrugged. “I think it’s about time for that drink.”

Dax grinned. “Now yer talkin.”

Chuck took the coal from his pocket and lifted it so the light moved across his fingers. The rune on its face caught a spark and held it. He closed his hand and rested his fist over his heart.

He took a deep breath and let it out. “That,…was definitely an adventure, boys.”

We turned inland again, following a thin ribbon of road until the hills opened into the wide pasture north of the Tavern of Lost Causes. Smoke lifted from the tavern chimney and drew a line through the clear air. Fresh boards patched the roof. Someone had raised a little pole out front and hung a small sock on it.

Not a stocking. A sock.

Honest and neat and already stiff with frost.

Dax saw it first. “That for us?”

“No clue,” Chuck said. “But we’re about to find out.”

He brought us down in the pasture. Snow puffed around the runners and sat back into itself. The reindeer stepped forward, hooves ringing on the packed crust. The sleigh settled. The rails purred once and then went quiet.

I closed my ledger and set my quill across the top.

We sat there a while without getting out.

Even Dax held still.

The cold pushed in a little, then thought better of it. The coal warmed the pocket it lived in. The bear scraps dimmed to a stitch of gold that matched the color of light on the tavern windows.

“You ever think about how many lives you changed over the years,” Dax asked. He said it to the air so Chuck could ignore him if he wanted.

“Every day,” Chuck said. “Which is why I stopped keeping score.”

“Healthy,” Dax said. “Maybe I’ll try that.”

“No you won’t,” I said.

“No,” Dax snorted. “Probably not.”

Chuck climbed down first. Snow creaked under his boots. He stood with his hands in his coat and stared at the tavern long enough for the door to open. The owner leaned out and peered across the yard. He saw us, or thought he did.

He did not wave. He simply nodded once and set a cup on the stoop for the cold steam to take.

We followed Chuck toward the fence.

“Time,” he said.

“For what,” I asked.

“For being ordinary,” he said. “It is the hardest good.”

Dax grunted. “One drink first.”

“Three,” Chuck said. “To get a jump start.”

“You’re buyin’,” Dax said.

Chuck opened his mouth, then stopped. He slowly grinned. “My treat.”

I took my spectacles off and wiped the corners with my sleeve. The cloth had frozen sweat on it. The lenses smeared. I put them back on and saw worse than before.

That felt right.

“Entry,” I said under my breath. “End of the flight. Condition of crew, improved. Condition of world, receptive. Conclusion, mercy is contagious when given permission.”

I tucked the ledger away.

Chuck looked at me. The coal was back in his pocket, his shoulders directly under his head…and nothing heavy was on them.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what,” I asked.

“For keeping the truth when I was too tired to carry it,” he said. “For mocking me when I deserved it. For making me laugh before I remembered how.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, and my voice cracked on the second word, which I will deny later. “Uncle Chuck.”

That made him smile. “I told your father you were going to be someone special.” He gave my shoulder a light squeeze. “Appreciate you proving me right.”

Dax coughed and looked away. “We going to stand here crying until the river freezes solid or we going to drink?”

“Eat first,” Chuck said. He opened the gate toward the tavern, then stopped and turned back to the sleigh. He walked to the rail and rested his palm on the warm wood.

“Rest,” he told it. “You’ve earned it.”

The bells gave a tiny friendly reply. The reindeer lowered their heads and nosed the snow like horses looking for grass. For a moment I could see through them to the pasture beyond. Then they deepened into slid color.

Myths purposefully stepping down.

The tavern door opened wide and heat pressed against our faces. Someone laughed inside. Someone else argued about the price of eggs. A stringed instrument complained in the corner while its owner tuned it. The sound made a knot open between my shoulders.

“After you,” Chuck said.

I bowed and swept my arm and ruined the bow by nearly tripping on the threshold. Dax laughed. I wrote that down in my head and promised myself I would pretend it never happened.

We took a table near the hearth.

A girl brought bread and thick stew and something that called itself coffee. It tasted like repentance with cream. We ate without hurry. People came and went. Some glanced our way. None stared.

The world had better things to do than point.

When we finished, Chuck set a coin on the table and stood. He looked around the room like a man who had been away too long from something that never stopped waiting. He nodded to the hearth. He nodded to the door. He nodded to us.

“End of the flight,” he said.

“End of the flight,” I echoed.

“Well I ain’t leavin’,” Dax snorted, “cause the drinking hasn’t ended.”

“You have coin, monkey?” Chuck asked.

Large green hands patted pockets you couldn’t see. He grumbled. He grunted. “End of the flight,” he sighed.

We stepped back into the cold. The sky had turned that pale blue you only get when the day is young and confident. Smoke climbed straight up. The sleigh had vanished. The reindeer were gone too. The pasture lay quiet where we had landed.

Footprints already softened where our boots had pressed.

“Home,” Chuck said again. It fit better the second time.

We walked together toward the fence, then along it to the path that would take us to everything that still needed doing.

The aurora had gone.

I opened my ledger one last time and wrote three words.

“Entry complete. Peace.”

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