Part I : Applebottom's Curiosities & Necessities
The stale bread was gone, but the alley remained. The rain, his only companion, had finally relented, leaving the air thick with the smell of wet stone and refuse. For the first time, Arthur forced himself to truly look at Oakhaven. The city didn't just have a sound; it had a voice—a hoarse, polyglot roar that rose from a thousand throats and a hundred forges.
Unlike the curated, orderly grandeur of Magellan's capital, this was a chaotic, sprawling beast. A true border city, the crossroads of the Confederacy, it was a dizzying tapestry of all the sentient races. A stern Dwarven smith hammered at his forge, the ringing of his steel a constant rhythm in the city's heart. Groups of boisterous Halfling merchants laughed as they bartered, their voices sharp and clever. And humans, so many humans, a churning sea of faces—mercenaries with hard eyes, mages in colorful robes, and refugees with the hollowed-out look of despair he was beginning to recognize in his own reflection.
Then, he saw one. Moving through the crowd with an unconscious grace that parted the sea of bodies around him was an Elf. His face was a mask of serene disdain, his silver hair a stark contrast to the grime of the city. Though he'd had Dwarven and Halfling servants in the palace, this was the first time Arthur had ever laid eyes upon an Elf. The sheer, ancient elegance of the being was a thing of myth, a stark reminder of how large and strange the world was.
The overwhelming press of life terrified him. In the palace, he had been the center of a silent, orbiting world. Here, he was less than nothing. Every glance from a city guardsman sent a spike of ice through his gut. Every loud shout made him flinch, expecting the cry of "There he is! The prince!"
He retreated deeper into the shadows of his alley, his mind a whirlwind of fear and indecision. He felt the weight of the Crimson Compass on his wrist. He knew how it worked; Captain Valerius had explained it to him . He knew what the glow meant. The fainter the light, the greater the distance. The crimson pulse was barely there, a soft, sleepy ember rather than a guiding flame. It pointed vaguely east, but its weakness was a clear message: Lyra was not in Oakhaven. She was far, far away—perhaps days or even weeks of travel from here.
The flicker of hope that had sustained him died in his chest, replaced by the cold, heavy reality of his isolation. Chasing a ghost across a continent was a task for a well-supplied adventurer, not a starving boy with a handful of coins.
He looked from the faint, distant promise of the compass to the simple copper necklace in his other hand. The compass was a promise for a distant future. The Halfling's sigil... that was a key for tonight.
Survival had to come before sentiment
Arthur knew what he had to do.
He had a quest. A simple, terrifying quest: find a shop called "Applebottom's Curiosities & Necessities" in the Tinker's Nook.
He learned quickly that a prince does not know how to ask for directions. His first attempt, a politely phrased, "Pardon me, good sir…" to a passing merchant earned him a shove and a curse, the man looking down his nose as if Arthur were something unpleasant he'd stepped in. He learned that standing still for too long attracted the attention of both guards and the nimble-fingered youths who eyed his worn pouch.
So he became a ghost. He learned to listen, not to speak. He lurked near taverns and market stalls, a shadow flitting between conversations, gleaning the shape of the city from scattered words. The "Stonemason's Quarter," the "River-Way," and finally, the name he was listening for: the "Tinker's Nook."
The Tinker's Nook was a stark contrast to the rest of Oakhaven. It was a warren of narrow, winding streets, but it was clean, the air filled with the pleasant smells of sawdust, polishing wax, and baking pies. And there it was. A small, hanging placard carved with a stonehenge, above a shop with a round, green door.
Taking a breath that did little to calm the frantic beating of his heart, he pushed the door open. A small bell chimed.
The inside was a chaotic yet orderly treasure trove. A Halfling with a slim build and a riot of ginger hair looked up from a complex clockwork device he was meticulously cleaning. His face was a contradiction: youthful freckles dusted a nose that was sharp with calculation, and his eyes, magnified by work spectacles, held the ancient, weary watchfulness of his people.
"Lost, lad, or looking?" the Halfling asked, his voice surprisingly deep. "Or are you here to buy? If it's the latter, show me your coin. If it's the former, the street's still where you left it."
Arthur's throat was dry. He fumbled with the necklace, pulling it out from his chest. "I… I was told to find you," he stammered. "A man named Barnaby sent me. He said… he said you would help."
The Halfling's easygoing demeanor vanished. He set his tools down with a soft, deliberate click. His eyes narrowed, fixing on the stonehenge insignia. He slowly walked around the counter, his gaze sweeping over Arthur, noting the mud, the fear, and something else—the boy's posture, the cadence of his speech, which were all wrong for a street urchin.
"Barnaby, you say?" Pip Applebottom's voice, once brisk, dropped to a low, cautious murmur. "Haven't heard that name in a dog's age. A very dear name to me. So tell me, what kind of trouble is my old uncle getting his friends into these days, sending a half-starved human boy to my door with our family's sigil?"
Arthur didn't know what to say. He could only stand there, exposed and terrified.
Pip sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to come from his very soul. He rubbed his temples. "Never mind. Don't answer. Trouble that finds its way here from Magellan… I can guess the shape of it."
He gestured to a stool in the corner. "Sit. You look like you're about to fall over."
He disappeared into a back room, returning a moment later with a hunk of cheese, an apple, and a mug of steaming cider. He placed them on the counter in front of Arthur.
"Eat," he commanded gently. "The whole city's buzzing. Mages from every corner of the Confederacy are pouring in for the annual Solstice Tournament. Big prizes, bigger sponsors. Brings all sorts out of the woodwork. Refugees, too. Lots of your countrymen, lad, running from this new 'Lord Commander' of yours it seems. A sad, bloody business."
Arthur stared at the food, his eyes burning with unshed tears. It was the first act of unconditional kindness he had received since his world had ended. He picked up the apple, his hand shaking, and took a bite. It was crisp, sweet, and for a fleeting moment, it was enough to hold the darkness at bay. He was safe, for now. But the Halfling's words were a chilling reminder: the world was moving on, and his problems were just beginning.
Part II : The Tinker's Sanctuary
The warmth of the apartment above the shop was a shock to Arthur's system. After days of chilling rain and the cold dread of the run, the simple comfort of an enclosed, heated space felt like a forgotten magic. Pip, with a pragmatism that seemed to be his defining feature, had pointed him towards a small but clean bathing area.
With a flick of his wrist and a muttered word, a small blue flame, a simple Fire Cantrip, bloomed beneath a copper tub, and the water began to steam.
"Get the road off you," the Halfling had said. "There are clothes on the chest. They should fit. We'll talk when you're done."
The bath felt less like a cleansing and more like an exorcism. Arthur watched as days of grime, mud, and the metaphorical stain of his flight clouded the water. He scrubbed until his skin was raw, as if he could wash away the memory of his uncle's last stand or the terror of the woods. When he finally stepped out and dressed in the clean, simple linen shirt and sturdy trousers Pip had left, he felt lighter. He was still a fugitive, still an orphan, but for the first time in days, he felt like a person again.
When he descended the narrow wooden stairs, Pip was leaning over his counter, engaged in a lively negotiation with a burly, red-bearded adventurer.
"Twenty copper shillings for five Cinder Claw talons? Pip, are you mad! A week ago these were fetching eighty, and you know it!" the adventurer boomed.
Pip, polishing a lens with a small cloth, didn't even look up. His voice was playful, but his words were sharp as sheared tin. "A week ago, the city wasn't overflowing with every hedge-mage and glory-hound from here to the Western Empire. They're all taking Guild missions for a bit of practice before the tournament. Good old supply and demand, my friend. It's a cruel mistress."
The adventurer leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Come now, Pip. I'm in your shop every other week. Show a bit of mercy for an old friend."
Pip finally looked up, a glint in his eye. "Because you're an old friend, I'll give you thirty. Not a penny more. And if you tell anyone I was so generous, I'll tell everyone you haggled like a goblin."
The man's face split into a grin. "I knew you loved me, you old rascal!"
He snatched the coins.
"Ah, get lost before you sweet-talk me into giving you the whole shop," Pip replied dismissively, a genuine warmth undercutting his gruff tone. The adventurer gave a hearty laugh and exited, the bell chiming his departure. He didn't give Arthur a second glance.
"Take a seat," Pip commanded with a twitch of his eyebrows, pointing to a pair of chairs and a small table by the large glass window that looked out onto the bustling street. He retrieved two mugs of steaming, dark liquid from a pot on a small stove. "Coffee. It'll put the wits back in your head."
He joined Arthur at the table, the rich, bitter aroma filling the air. He took a sip, his sharp eyes studying Arthur over the rim of his mug.
"Alright, lad. Let's have it," Pip said, his voice now serious. "That sigil belongs to my uncle, Barnaby, a man who wouldn't send a stray dog into trouble without a very good reason. So, what's the story? And don't spare the details."
Arthur began to speak. He started with the whispers under the door, his voice barely a murmur. As he spoke, the dam of his composure, held together by fear and adrenaline for days, finally began to crack. He told Pip of the Commander's betrayal, of his father's death, of his uncle's impossible choice.
"The Commander…" Pip interjected softly, "You mean General Vorlag.The Wolf of the North."
Arthur nodded, surprised the Halfling knew the name. Pip just gave a grim smile. "News travels fast on merchant roads, lad. Especially bad news."
Arthur continued, his voice thick with emotion as he recounted the escape, the ambushes, and the last, desperate fight in the Weeping Woods. He described his uncle's final command, the feel of the horse collapsing beneath him, the aimless, terrifying wandering.
When he finished, a heavy silence filled the shop, broken only by the distant ringing of the Dwarven smith's hammer. Pip stared out the window for a long moment, his fingers drumming a soft, slow rhythm on his mug.
"So, they took him alive," he finally said, his voice low. "That's a cold comfort. A man like Tybalt doesn't bend, and Vorlag isn't known for his patience. He bought your freedom with his own. Your uncle is a good man, Arthur. One of the few."
Arthur then explained the two lifelines he'd been given. He showed Pip the necklace, then the Crimson Compass. "My sister, Lyra. Her party is the Dawnbreakers. Uncle Tybalt said she was here, in Oakhaven."
Pip's eyebrows shot up. "The Dawnbreakers! Now there's a name that carries weight in this city. Your sister is a legend in the Guild Halls. Half the young adventurers who come through that door want to be her." He leaned back, a look of sudden, comical frustration on his face. He snapped his fingers. "Ah, bollocks! The lad that just left, Thorgar. He's a new recruit for the Dawnbreakers! I could've just asked him!"
He shook his head, a wry smile touching his lips. "No matter. One problem at a time. Your compass makes it simple enough." He leaned forward again, his tone shifting back to business. "Right. Here's the plan. First, and this is non-negotiable, you are going upstairs to my guest bed, and you are going to sleep. I don't imagine you've had a moment's proper rest since this whole mess began."
Arthur started to protest, the urgency to find Lyra a fire in his veins.
Pip held up a hand. "Ah, ah. No arguments. You're no good to your sister dead on your feet. You'll rest until the evening bells. The crowds are thicker then, and people are too busy with their own business to notice a boy looking for his sister. We'll search for her under the cover of the city's own chaos."
The mention of sleep made Arthur realize how profoundly exhausted he was. The adrenaline from his story had faded, leaving behind an ache that was bone-deep. The offer of a real bed, of a safe place to close his eyes without fear, was an almost overwhelming relief.
He nodded, too weary to speak.
"Good lad," Pip said, his expression softening. "Go on, up you go. The world will still be broken when you wake up, but at least you'll face it with a clear head."