It was upon entering the Crafter’s Market that Mira felt the back of her neck crawl. She first looked up at the bruised, orange sky, thinking that it was about to pour it down; for the air was filled with the scent of rain. She glanced behind her, and, seeing nothing but the mountain range, mechanically scanned the entire crowd with the scrutiny of a well-trained thief. Although the market was illuminated by lanterns, there were still patches of darkness which even the weakest of thieves could lurk. She glanced quickly at the Hammer, which was partially hidden by his oversized toga, and held her breath.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Larkin, noticing that Mira’s feet were slowing down.

  The young thief didn’t reply, instead she raised her head and studied the throngs of colourful fabrics flittering about them, exchanging words, coins and goods as though there were no tomorrow; the haggling, the hawking and the bartering made it so that one could hardly think of something that wasn’t about produce or crafted goods. Her nose, too, could only perceive the intense aromas of eastern spice, which was strongest among the stalls of the yellow-tunicked traders to her left.

  “You didn’t have to come,” remarked Larkin with a frown, “I am capable of looking after myself.”

  “Are you?” muttered Mira, raising her brow. She felt the back of her neck prickle with goosebumps, and she touched it lightly.

  “There’s someone following us,” Mira replied.

  “No there isn’t,” Larkin said dismissively, “because Lucia, for all her faults, is no liar. She won’t tell anyone about last night.” Then he grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward into the dearth of wooden stalls, which surrounded them on all sides, and continued, “Besides, did you see her face? She didn’t believe that it was me! Well, she and everyone else in Backwater is in for a nasty surprise because I, Larkin Forgeheart, will be the best blacksmith in the Realm.”

  Although Mira was in deep thought, she listened to Larkin attentively.

  “Why do I have to wear this again?” Larkin asked, pointing to his dress.

  “You need to hide your Hammer,” Mira whispered. “As soon as people know that you have it your life will be in danger.”

  “But a toga? Really? I don’t think I can commit to the philosophy life,” groaned Larkin.

  Mira blushed at the sight of his smile and, for a moment, was preoccupied with it until she heard a shriek. She clutched the Soulrend at her belt instantly and turned to the source of the noise.

  From a short distance away, the black eyes of a woman of fifty peered up at her, a cruel, pathetic smile hanging on her wrinkly, sun-kissed face. She sat cross-legged, her scarfed head resting against the pedestal of a statue, with her blistered palms splayed.

  “Stupid beggar,” said Larkin with a scowl. His heartbeat increased rapidly at the sight, which to him was a disgrace. It was his favourite statue, for it was of a man blacksmithing; in his right hand was a hammer and in his left was a sword. He then looked at the face of the man towering over her, and he marvelled at how even an inanimate object could elicit such overwhelming feeling of inadequacy in his chest. Never has his face been contorted to that degree of concentration while smithing. Every time he came to the market, he was sure to spend time praying to the statue.

  “You don’t know what’s going on in her life,” said Mira, knitting her brow. She glanced once again at the poor woman and felt a sort of kinship with her that she couldn’t explain. As she sheathed her Soulrend, her hand hesitated over the hilt.

  “Ildran wouldn’t just give up like that. He’d work for his food.”

  “Not everyone can be a blacksmith, Larkin,” Mira snapped. Suddenly, she felt angry, as though she was the one being slighted.

  “Let’s go find these materials,” the boy replied, perceiving that his friend was getting heated. “I need to find Starsteel. Damn, I should have listened to Haldar and levelled my ‘Material Awareness’ skill when I had the chance. Instead, I just jumped straight into forging.”

  “Sounds like you,” Mira commented.

  “Yeah,” he replied, “I power-levelled my ‘Forging Basics’, and gained the ‘Basic Metalworking’ and ‘Basic Blacksmithing Techniques’ skills but getting the old man to do all the shopping hurt me in the long run.”

  “How so?” Mira asked.

  “Because I can’t become a journey man without unlocking all the skills associated with the apprentice blacksmith stage. Since Starsteel is a rare metal, finding it should net me enough experience points to get the skill.”

  Mira sighed, and she reluctantly followed Larkin further down the crowded square; but she glanced back over her shoulder at the old woman, and saw that the blacksmith’s sword, whose point was beside her head, for the sword was angled down from the anvil, shimmered green. As soon as Mira blinked, however, the limestone returned to its original beige. She shook her head and turned back to Larkin.

  “There’s something off about tonight. Feels...wrong,” she said.

  “You’re imagining things,” grunted Larkin, his eyes jerking from one stall to the next in rapid succession.

  “Am I? Then why is Haldar here?” said Mira, her voice lowered to almost a whisper.

  “What?” asked Larkin in surprise, and he followed her gaze.

  The old man was leaning against a post at the edge of the market square, his attention fixed elsewhere. As Larkin and Mira approached, they saw that he was gazing at a small stall nearby, which was draped in black cloth and ran by an equally mysterious figure whose face was as obscure as the sky. Mira felt her skin crawl again.

  The master blacksmith’s eyes were immediately upon him as soon as he neared.

  “Forget it, Larkin,” Haldar said.

  “No can do, master,” replied Larkin.

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  “How so?... Wait,” said Larkin, narrowing his eyes in suspicion, “How do you know what I’m up to...”

  “I can see it written on your face, that’s why,” answered Haldar; “It won’t work.”

  “You don’t know that!” Larkin said irritably, raising his Hammer in protest. His sleeve slipped, revealing the head.

  Mira shrieked and pushed his arm down. “Careful!” she hissed, and she jerked her eyes to the crowd behind Larkin.

  “You might have cheated your way through your fundamentals of metallurgy, but don’t think you can gain the material awareness skill without putting in the work. I know it’s boring but-”

  “Boring isn’t the half of it,” sneered the apprentice, his nose upturned in an ugly fashion. “Worry about yourself old man. Have I needed you or anybody else’s help yet?” Larkin said, laughing derisively.

  “That Hammer has made you cocky,” retorted Haldar, studying the amber in the boy’s gaze. “You are on the wrong track, my boy. Stop trying to skip ahead. Know your place.”

  Larkin raised his crimson and deviant face and made no reply. He then headed directly for the stall.

  “Wait,” said Mira, and she grabbed him by the shoulder. “Where are you going?”

  “Where do you think?” scowled Larkin, shrugging her off, “I’m achieving my destiny.”

  “By running into trouble?” asked Mira with surprise. “You desire to be loved is going to kill you one day.”

  “It hasn’t yet,” he replied dryly; “You saw the statue of Ildran the Maker, right? That man died defying the Iron Guild and following his dreams of crafting the perfect weapon.” His smile grew insolent and defiant as he continued, “I will become a legendary blacksmith, Mira. You can count on it.”

  Mira’s grip weakened, and his shoulder slipped from her small fingers as she struggled to reply. “What’s the matter with me?” she muttered.

  Larkin looked at her strangely, and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “It’s hard to make fun of you now,” she said with a shudder. The expression on her face was almost of disgust.

  The boy let out an uneasy chuckle and shook his head. “You’re weird,” he said.

  When they had approached the trader, Larkin noticed a small, dark obsidian ore sitting on the counter. If it were not for the lantern, he would not have been able to tell it apart from the surrounding darkness. He leaned closer and inspected it cautiously.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Duskglass,” answered the dark voice.

  Larkin did not even raise his eyes, so enamoured was he by the ore’s seamless surface that for a moment he felt lost in its orbit, as though he was being sucked quietly into a bottomless chasm. A faint mist curled around it, giving it an almost planetary appearance. After a few moments, he finally raised his head, meeting the oily black eyes of the trader. Larkin felt an ominous presence coming from his side of the stall as he gazed at the face tucked away under the hood. Thanks to the glow of the lantern, he could see that it was grey and awfully veiny.

  He reached into his satchel, and said:

  "Two Commons-"

  As he spoke, the sound of heavy boots waxed next to him. The figure was slightly taller than Larkin and had an air about them that gave the impression of authority. But because it was so dark, save the small glow of the lantern on the counter, which revealed but little about the newcomer, Larkin could not instantly recognise the woman. Even so, the eerie aura of the apparent stranger made his throat tight.

  “Interesting find. But it’s not yours, Larkin,” said the woman.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Lucia Ironstrike,” gulped Larkin, furrowing his brows.

  Suddenly, the woman was flanked by two more guild enforcers, each with their hands resting on their hilts. Larkin suppressed the urge to step back, his thoughts racing. His eyes darted from Lucia to the crowd behind them. But at the sight of the statue, he paused and returned to Ironstrike’s steely challenge. Despite being surrounded by three armoured guards, he felt a presence unaccounted for in the party; the back of his neck tingled, and there was a feeling in his gut that was strange to him. He glanced at the crowd, and he glimpsed a small face peering at him. It vanished and he shuddered.

  A couple of minutes elapsed before Larkin managed to get the words out:

  “Do you not have anything better to do than to stalk me?”

  The enforcers started to unsheathe their swords, but with a flick of the hand Lucia signalled them to stop.

  “The Guild holds dominion over the Duskglass,” Lucia replied calmly, before turning to the trader. “I’ll give you three Rare’s for it.”

  Larkin was quick to notice that the corners of the woman’s lips were slightly upturned, and he felt affronted. He could not restrain himself, and he stepped forward, his hand tightening around the Hammer as though he was choking a snake. The spectral chain around his wrist began to glow underneath the toga.

  Instantly, the enforcers moved to intercept. But again, Lucia put her hand up, standing her ground. The boy nearly stood on her toes.

  “Listen, Lucia, I need that ore,” said Larkin angrily.

  “Duskglass is a highly valuable commodity,” replied Ironstrike with the shake of her head, “I’m afraid that you’re just going to have to craft with iron or steel.”

  Larkin turned up his nose, crossed his arms, and said, “You know that I can’t advance beyond my apprenticeship without rare materials. Is this just one of your schemes to curb your competition?”

  “Competition?” snorted the enforcer, “as much as I would like you to hang up the hammer and chisel, it’s the Guild’s decision to acquire all the Duskglass in Backwater, not mine.” She sighed, and, with a shrug, she added, “It’s an ore that amplifies enchantments, after all. Something like that is a genuine threat in the wrong hands.”

  Larkin scowled as the trader and the woman completed the exchange. His glare was palpable, and the enforcers’ hands tightened on their hilts as they shifted nervously in their hulking armour. With a frustrated sigh, he stepped away from the stall, shivering with anger. The spectral glow remained.

  “Not today...” he muttered.

  “You wear your emotions on your sleeve,” Lucia said gleefully; “it makes you too easy to manipulate.”

  Although he sweated profusely, his skin grew colder. His chest tightened the further he walked. Tears swelled in his eyes, and his cheeks burned like embers. As soon as he felt the first teardrop touch his flesh, he changed course and headed for the crowd of merchants and villagers instead of his companions. His pride wouldn’t let him come face to face with them, and he stormed into the centre of the square with a mournful expression, which, gratefully, was smothered by the darkness.

  He walked towards the spot where he had seen the mysterious figure earlier, but on the way, he felt the tingling sensation again. Touching the back of his neck, he quickly looked over his shoulder. At no point was the ground visible, for there were many people pacing back and forth on the square. Even so, the market grew quieter, almost eerily so. The sinking in his gut intensified. Not waiting another second, he advanced nervously, the feeling that he was being watched hanging over him like a thick storm cloud. He covered the pulsating glow of the spectral chain with his other hand. But soon the feeling became too intolerable; Larkin glanced over his shoulder once again and saw something.

  It was faint, and it was brief, but it was something that unnerved him greatly. By chance, his eyes had caught a flicker of movement in an illuminated spot – the tail-end of a cloak retreating into the shadows. Larkin quickened his pace, his hands flailing at his side with frantic anticipation as he searched for Mira over the thickening crowd. Only in Backwater was the market at its most bustling during the night.

  A minute later, when the spectral chain had become as bright as one of the lanterns on the countertops, he felt a hand grab it.

  “Come on!” Mira cried, pulling him deeper into the thicket of people. “I found something.”

  Larkin allowed himself to be pulled along, too tired and frightened to resist. A moment later, as they weaved through the crowds towards the furthest end of the marketplace, they passed a series of lanterns which cast huge dancing shadows across the cobblestone path. Soon, Larkin regained his resolve and picked up his pace. As he walked side by side with the thief, he furrowed his brow.

  “I need answers,” he said, furrowing his brow.

  “You’ll see what I mean when we get there,” Mira replied.

  “No, I mean, I need answers about why the Iron Guild is trying to prevent me from advancing, and why I’m being followed.”

  Mira looked at him and frowned. “Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for if you just be patient for once in your life.”

  The two orphans passed by several stalls filled with maps, potions, weapons and blueprints. As they reached the end of the marketplace, the intense, lingering heat of fireswirl pepper captured the boy’s attention. Larkin dragged his feet a little, stretching his neck to glimpse at the bright red ingredient. For a second, he thought about his mother – a mirage of memory of a woman who had given him up to Backwater.

  Suddenly, his chest tightened, and the smoky aroma of the pepper made his features tense. With slowing, faltering steps, with a tightening grip, Larkin struggled to follow Mira. He was succumbing to the thoughts of his past; he heard the strange, musical accents of the eastern travellers, with their words rising and falling like beautiful waves, and thought once more of his mother’s cooking. He grimaced.

  “Where are we going?” asked Larkin as they turned down a side street.

  “This place must be like a labyrinth for a forge dweller,” Mira said with smirk.

  As they reached the end of the street, Mira saw the bemused expression on Larkin’s face, and she pointed over his shoulder. He turned and spotted a wooden stall, whose presence flickered in and out of existence thanks to the cursed lantern sitting on its countertop. Every ten seconds or so, the stall would seemingly vanish. It would then reappear as soon as he blinked.

  “That’s creepy...” whispered Larkin.

  “Not so tough now that you’re not all warm and cozy in your forge, are you?” teased Mira.

  Larkin made no movement. He shifted slightly, glancing at Mira and then the booth repeatedly with a look of expectation on his face. But Mira remained still as well, an expression of smugness in her eyes which made Larkin feel small.

  “Well? What are you waiting for?” said a tinny voice.

  Although the light illuminated the stall, the vendor stood back far enough for his face to be still hidden in the darkness. Larkin’s eyes fell upon the countertop, and he was surprised to see that it contained only one item: it was a black ingot. Larkin frowned in confusion.

  "It’s not glowing, pulsating, or...” he stepped forward cautiously, cupping his ear, “or humming... the three fundamentals of every craftable metal. You’re selling a dud.”

  “A dud?”

  “A metal that’s been sucked dry of its mana-capability,” explained Larkin irritably. His expression quickly turned sour, and he became heated. “This man’s trying to rob us.”

  The trader cackled, his voice whiny and childish. The slow claps of his hands sent chills down the boy’s spine. But Larkin stepped forward.

  “Who are you?” the blacksmith demanded.

  Without revealing himself fully, the trader’s grin became visible in the light. The bottom half of his face was small and pointed like a shaved pencil tip; and the corners of his chapped lips were curved to a spear’s point, revealing the full extent of the creature’s splintery teeth. This was no ordinary human. Larkin could feel it in his bones.

  “You’ve got the look of someone who’s been burned by the guilds,” said the trader in an insidious, high-pitched voice; “I’ve got a way around that.”

  Larkin looked at the mysterious ingot.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Something the guilds like to pretend doesn’t exist. Stormshale. Ever heard of it?”

  Larkin cast a questionable look on Mira, who, in turn, stepped forward.

  “I thought that it was just a myth. They say no forge can handle it,” she said, looking at the ingot sceptically. “Isn’t that right, Larkin?”

  The boy stroked his chin in thought and glanced up at the trader scrutinisingly.

  “The name’s Rhett,” the vendor chuckled darkly, walking forward into the flickering light.

  The sight of the elf startled the blacksmith. Although the trader was much shorter than he, Larkin struggled to stand his ground, for he had heard rumours concerning the pointed-eared race. An expression of surprise escaped Larkin.

  As if the elf could read Larkin’s thoughts, he raised his hand as though warding off any objections to his presence here in Backwater. “Now, now,” he began, “I know what you low-borns think of us-”

  “Low borns?” repeated Larkin angrily; “You’re like rats. One of you is enough to sink an entire ship.”

  “The Eternal Forge chose a funny one this time!” sneered Rhett; then his cat-like eyes darted to the olive-skinned girl as he continued, “while no ordinary forge can handle Stormshale, the Eternal Forge is a different story altogether.”

  Larkin’s heart throbbed at the sudden utterance of the legendary forge. He felt naked. His face paled.

  “Forget it, Larkin; let’s go. We’re never safe around pointed ears,” Mira said, turning to leave.

  “How do you know about the Eternal Forge?” he gasped.

  The short creature shrugged, folded his arms, and leaned against a post. “You think the Iron Guild is the only one watching? There are other eyes out there, Larkin Forgeheart... much, much older eyes. Eyes that don’t take kind to monopolies. Eyes that don’t want things to remain as they are forever.”

  Rod’s knees buckled slightly, and he felt a chill pass through him.

  Rhett’s eyes narrowed as he tapped the ingot lightly. For a moment, the air around it rippled. “You want to reach journeyman, right?”

  “How do you know that?” asked Larkin, blinking rapidly.

  “Doesn’t take a Veilstone Mirror to read your thoughts,” said Rhett as he glanced at his fingernails nonchalantly. “You want a rare material the guild can’t track? This is it. But there’s a price.”

  Larkin gazed at the ingot with fascination, but a feeling in his gut held him back. Mira saw this.

  “I know that you want something powerful to grow stronger, Larkin,” Mira said, “but we – I mean – you still don’t know what you’ll have to pay for it.” She glared at the elf, and added, “It’s never a simple transaction with these lot. The Thief Guild refuses to train them for a reason.”

  “I know quite a number of my brothers in your guild, as a matter of fact,” Rhett said sharply.

  “They’re not wanted there,” Mira replied, turning up her nose.

  Rhett dropped his grin, and said, with a serious tone, “We’re just like you – we all want to survive and thrive in the realm, where every day is a struggle.”

  “You’re nothing like me!” snapped the girl, seizing the dagger at her waist. She stormed up to the stall, her piercing green eyes heavy with rage. With one swift movement, she leapt onto the counter and grabbed the elf by the collar. The thief pulled his oval face close to hers, and spat, “When will you...animals ever get it through your thick skulls that no one has ever trusted you, no one thinks you’re enough, and that no one will ever want you to succeed.”

  “Calm down,” ordered Larkin, his voice trembling. Sweat trickled down his forehead.

  Rhett kept his composure and looked the girl in the eye. He cleared his throat, and addressed Larkin, “When the time comes, I’ll need something forged. No questions. No hesitation. Capiche?”

  Larkin gulped. But Mira’s expression tightened. She looked at him and saw that he was considering the rodent’s offer, and said:

  “You can’t trust him.”

  “I see no other option, Mira,” Larkin replied, “The Iron guild’s already moving against me. If I don’t start crafting soon, I risk losing what I already have.”

  “There’s more where that came from,” Rhett added.

  “Let him go,” said Larkin.

  “You’re putting us in danger,” said Mira, releasing her grip on Rhett’s tunic. In a single flicker of the lantern, she backflipped off the counter and onto the cobblestone.

  The sudden movement caught Larkin by surprise, and he staggered slightly at the sight of her next to him. He turned back to Rhett, and he became even more confused. The elf’s face was distorted in the lantern light. Larkin stared at him in wonder and doubt, and he felt an uneasiness in his stomach. But the boy shook his head, desperate for the ingot that would increase his level.

  “We don’t have another option,” Larkin said, his voice resolute.

  “Fine,” Mira said, “but if the rodent betrays us, I’m not letting you forge his blade.”

  Mira’s frown deepened, but she remained by his side. Larkin reached for the ingot, the amber in his eyes intensifying. Rhett’s grin, on the other hand, returned, albeit in its distorted shape, spreading upon his slender face like wildfire. The girl saw this and turned away, unable to bear the sight of the rotten creature.

  Larkin placed the ingot into his pack and turned away, a nauseous feeling in his stomach. Rhett, skulking back into the shadow of his stall, watched as they departed down the street. His eyes narrowed, and he tapped the back of his hand rhythmically with his spidery finger, as though he was communicating a sort of telepathic code. Larkin’s neck tingled.

  Mira had to lead Larkin back to the marketplace, for the boy was never good at directions. Once there, the sight of the bustling crowd eased some of the nerves Larkin had been feeling ever since he had struck the deal. As soon as they entered through the same corner they had earlier, the silver lining of a cloak flickered in Larkin’s peripheral vision, and he stopped instantly. Larkin’s eyes jerked to the figure. Next to the mysterious man was Lucia Ironstrike. Even in the great multitude, Larkin easily recognised the braided auburn hair of the senior blacksmith. In an instant, they were gone.

  When they had exited the market, Larkin’s shoulder began to ache under the strain of carrying the metal. He placed his hand on the outside of the satchel and felt that it was cold. The uneasiness in the pit of his stomach returned.