There was no class today.
That fact sat in my head the moment I woke up, as clear as the ache in my ribs and the tug of my sling. Miss Nanda's class only happened twice a week—Monday and Thursday—so the days in between were supposed to be for errands, chores, and whatever "growing stronger" looked like when you weren't standing in a line getting yelled at.
For me, it meant one thing.
Money.
I sat on the edge of my bed and counted my coins again.
The number was smaller than yesterday.
It always felt like that.
I didn't let myself linger on it. I just tied my pouch closed, tucked it deep, and stood carefully so my ribs wouldn't punish me for being alive.
The plan was simple:
Go to the guild. Find someone—anyone—willing to escort me outside the wall so I could take gathering quests. Because errand quests inside the city were small coin for too much running, and I couldn't keep living like I was balancing on the edge of an empty bowl.
I stepped out, locked up, and walked toward the guild with my good hand tucked in my pocket and my sling held close to keep my arm from swinging. The streets were already busy, but the kind of busy that didn't feel like danger. Vendors calling. Carts rolling. People laughing like the world wasn't full of walls and rules.
I kept my head down and my pace steady.
Find an escort. Don't look desperate. Don't say too much.
It was easier to say that in my head than to do it with my body.
Halfway to the guild, a familiar shape cut across the street ahead of me—broad shoulders for a kid, stiff posture, walking fast like he had a job and the job was allergic to waiting.
Bruen.
He carried a backpack so full it looked swollen, and the tops of tools jutted out like they'd tried to escape. A wooden handle. A length of metal. Something wrapped in cloth that clinked faintly with each step. The strap dug into his shoulder, but his face didn't show strain.
He spotted me at the same time I recognized him.
"Trey," he said, as if names were tools too—something you used once and put away.
"Hello Bruen," I replied.
He kept walking, but slowed just enough that I could fall into step beside him.
I almost walked right past.
Almost.
Because my goal was the guild.
But my goal was also to find an escort, and Bruen was the kind of kid whose life had adults around him—workers, craftsmen, people who did things that needed protection outside the wall.
Connections.
I swallowed, then asked the simplest thing I could.
"Where are you going?"
"Blacksmith," Bruen said.
I blinked. "A blacksmith?"
He nodded once. "Tools repair."
That surprised me enough that curiosity slipped through my guard.
"I didn't know you… did that," I said.
Bruen looked at me like I'd told him I didn't know water was wet.
"My dad's workshop," he said. "We use tools."
Right. Carpentry. Of course.
I hesitated. Then pushed.
"Can I come with you?"
Bruen stopped walking so suddenly I almost bumped into him. He turned his head, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Why?"
The directness made my tongue stumble.
Because my real answer was because maybe you know someone who can get me outside the wall, and I wasn't ready to say that out loud—not yet.
So I grabbed the nearest truth.
"I don't know," I said. "I'm just… curious."
Bruen stared for a long beat, then shrugged.
"Sure," he said. "It's boring anyway. Company's fine."
Relief loosened my shoulders.
"Thanks," I said quickly.
We walked together—past the road that led toward the guild, and then right by it.
The guild doors were visible in the corner of my vision for a moment, and I felt a small pang like I was betraying my plan.
Then I reminded myself: this was still part of it.
Just… a longer route.
As we passed into the market area, Bruen's backpack clinked again. I eyed it.
"Do you do this often?" I asked.
"No," he said. "Once a week. Or when something breaks fast."
I stared at the tools sticking out. "That's a lot."
Bruen shrugged. "Tools break. We fix. Work continues."
It was such a Bruen answer that I almost smiled.
I nodded toward the bulging backpack. "Isn't that heavy?"
"Just a little," Bruen said.
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close.
"Want to try?"
He stopped, slipped the straps off his shoulders, and dropped the pack to the ground.
It hit with a heavy thud that made my ribs ache in sympathy.
The clanking inside sounded like angry metal.
I stared at it. "You said 'a little.'"
Bruen's eyes held that faint amusement. "Try it."
I hesitated—then stepped forward.
With one arm in a sling and my side still sore, I already knew this was a bad idea. But Bruen was watching, and pride is stupid even when you're ten.
I hooked my good hand under the strap and pulled.
The backpack didn't move.
I pulled harder.
"Hnnngh—!"
It shifted maybe a finger's width—just enough for the tools inside to clank again like they were laughing at me.
I froze, face heating.
Bruen made a soft sound. "Heh."
I let go and stood back like I'd meant to do that.
"It's too heavy," I said quickly. "You're not normal."
Bruen swung the pack up like it weighed nothing, settling it onto his shoulders with a single motion that made my arm ache just watching.
"It's normal," he said. "You just need to work with your body more."
My eyes dropped to my sling.
I lifted it slightly, deadpan. "I guess I can work on it later."
Bruen huffed—half laugh, half breath—and kept walking.
"Let's go."
We moved past the market noise into quieter streets, then into a narrow alley that looked like the city had forgotten it existed. Old stone walls. Shuttered stalls. Dust in corners. Not abandoned exactly—just… ignored.
"Here," Bruen said.
I slowed, peering around. "Here? Is there really a blacksmith here?"
Bruen didn't even look back. "Yes. Best one."
The alley didn't look like it held anything "best."
Which usually meant it did.
***
Bruen stopped in front of a plain building.
No sign. No swinging iron symbol. No painted letters shouting BLACKSMITH like the shops near the market did.
Just an old door and stone walls that looked damp even under daylight.
I frowned. "Are you sure this is the place?"
Bruen looked at me like I'd asked if he was sure his own hands were attached.
"Don't worry," he said. "Been here hundreds of times."
Then he opened the door like he owned the building.
We stepped inside.
The air changed immediately.
Cooler. Damper. Thick with the smell of oil and old metal and stone that had soaked up smoke for years. The front room was dim, lit by a weak crystal lamp in a corner. Rows of empty lockers lined the walls—weapon racks, maybe, or storage displays that used to hold tools for sale.
Now they held nothing.
The place felt like it had been cleaned once, a long time ago, and then forgotten by time.
A counter sat at the far end—wood scarred by dents and burns. Behind it, darkness stretched into a deeper back room, and I could feel it: a faint, lingering heat like an old forge still kept a stubborn ember.
Bruen walked up to the counter, set his pack down with another heavy thud, and knocked three times.
Then he shouted like this was normal.
"ARGUS! It's me! You home?"
I stared, baffled.
Is this how people buy things from blacksmiths?
A moment passed.
Then from the back room came a loud thud, followed by a clatter of metal like someone had kicked a bucket of tools.
A voice barked something rude in a language I didn't know—"Grahk dut—stenn it!"—then—
A person emerged.
At first, my brain didn't register what I was seeing because he was the same height as me.
Same height as a ten-year-old.
But he moved like an adult. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Chest like a barrel. Beard scruffy and dark. Hair pulled back messily like it had lost a fight against his pillow.
And his voice—when he spoke—was full-grown, rough, and unmistakably manly.
A dwarf.
He squinted at Bruen, then grinned in a way that didn't look friendly.
"Oy," he said. "If it ain't Oakling."
Bruen didn't react. "Argus."
Argus stepped closer, wiping his hands on a rag that looked like it had been used to wipe every messy thing in existence.
He eyed Bruen's backpack, then flicked his gaze to me.
His eyes traveled from my sling to my face to my feet.
"Who's this twig with the broken arm?" he asked bluntly.
My cheeks warmed.
Bruen jerked his chin toward me. "Friend."
Argus raised his brows, exaggerated. "Friend? You?" He snorted. "Rare thing. Rarer still you bring a broken twig into my hole."
I swallowed irritation, because arguing with a dwarf blacksmith in his own shop sounded like a good way to get thrown.
I straightened and bowed politely the way Nerissa liked.
"Good morning, sir," I said. "My name is Trey."
Argus blinked, then huffed like the politeness was a pebble in his shoe.
"Hmph. Polite twig." He waved a hand. "Fine. Mornin'."
Not warm, but not hostile either.
Bruen slid the backpack forward. "Need this fixed."
Argus's attention snapped to the tools like they were the only real thing in the room.
He unbuckled the pack, pulled items out one by one, and inspected them with fast, professional movements. A chipped blade. A bent metal edge. A dulled saw. A cracked handle bound in wire. His fingers ran along edges like he could read damage like text.
He clicked his tongue once, then finally looked up.
"Three silver," he said, "and forty-six copper."
The numbers hit me like a punch.
Three silver.
Forty-six copper.
My mind instantly tried to translate it into something I could understand.
Silver was… huge. I'd barely seen it used. A copper coin was already worth a hundred iron. And a silver—
One silver is a hundred copper.
That meant three silver was three hundred copper.
Three hundred copper was thirty thousand iron.
Plus forty-six copper… four thousand six hundred iron.
It was a mountain of money.
My chest tightened, and the words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.
"That's expensive."
Argus's head snapped toward me like a hammer turning.
His eyes narrowed, offended.
"You twig," he growled, "if you don't know what you're talkin' about, you'd better not talk."
Heat flooded my face.
"I'm sorry," I blurted immediately. "I didn't mean—"
Argus huffed. "You mean you're poor."
I froze.
Bruen didn't flinch. He just said, blunt, "Dad's paying."
Argus's gaze slid back to Bruen, and the tension eased as if the shop itself had decided it wasn't worth killing anyone today.
"Hmph," Argus said, already turning back to the tools. "Come back in three days, Oakling. I'll have it done."
Bruen nodded once. "Got it."
Argus shoved the tools deeper into the pack like he was swallowing them for later, then waved at us with the rag.
"Out," he said. "I got work."
Bruen turned without ceremony.
I bowed again—half apology, half habit.
"Thank you," I said.
Argus grunted. "Don't thank me, twig. Pay me."
And then we were out, the old wooden door creaking shut behind us.
The alley air felt fresher immediately.
I exhaled without realizing I'd been holding my breath.
We walked back along the narrow lane, footsteps echoing off stone.
After a few seconds, I spoke, because my stomach still churned with embarrassment.
"Sorry," I said to Bruen. "For… that."
Bruen shrugged. "He's like that."
"That's normal?" I asked.
Bruen glanced at me. "For Argus. Yes."
I nodded slowly.
We reached the end of the alley where the city noise returned in a muffled wave.
Bruen adjusted his shoulder strap.
"What now?" he asked.
My plan snapped back into focus like a drawn string.
"Guild," I said. "I was going to take errand quests."
Then I hesitated, then forced myself to say what mattered.
"…I also need someone to go outside the wall with me," I added quietly. "For gathering quests. I can't go alone."
Bruen looked at me for a long moment, expression unreadable.
Then he said, "I don't know anyone from the guild."
My heart dipped.
"But," he added, and the word made me straighten, "there's someone who might do it."
"Might?" I echoed.
Bruen shrugged again, the motion heavy. "He does outside-wall work for us sometimes. For a fee. He likes being outside more than being inside."
My pulse sped up.
"Where can I meet him?" I asked.
Bruen jerked his chin toward the outskirts. "Dad's workshop. He's usually there… when he's not out."
"Can I come with you?" I asked immediately.
Bruen didn't even pause this time. "Sure."
Relief hit me so hard it almost made me dizzy.
We turned away from the center streets and started walking.
Past the guild again—its doors visible in the distance, like it was watching me walk away from it twice in one day.
I kept going anyway.
Because if Bruen's workshop had a person who could take me outside the wall—
That mattered more than the quest board.