The air shimmered, a ripple of magic folding space like a crumpled page. One moment, the massive, sentient grimoire was nestled in Noah Vines’ pack, grumbling about his latest death-by-exploding-rune. The next, it found itself plopped onto a worn wooden table in a dimly lit tavern that smelled of charred oak and spiced tea. Across from it, a hulking forge—the Infernal Armory—loomed, its brick-and-metal form compacted into a roughly humanoid shape, glowing faintly with red-black embers. A tray of steaming teacups sat between them, and a dartboard hung on the far wall, inexplicably pristine.

  The grimoire’s pages fluttered, its voice echoing in the air—sharp, snarky, with a hint of surprise. “Well, bugger me with a quill, where’d *this* come from? One second I’m dodging Noah’s latest idiocy, and now I’m—what, having tea with a bloody oven?”

  The Infernal Armory rumbled, a deep clang like metal striking anvil, its tone gruff but warm. “Hmph. Was just about to get a taste the of flesh of some fool raiding Arwin’s shop. Then—here. You’re the book, eh? I've heard of ye. Rune-eater.”

  The grimoire’s pages flipped to a crude sketch of a forge with googly eyes, chuckling. “And you’re the smithy with a temper. The Infernal Armory. Saw your glow from a mile off. What’s the deal—some cosmic tea party for us misfit artifacts?”

  The forge shifted, a tendril of metal snaking out to grab a teacup. It sniffed—well, vented steam—at it, then took a cautious sip, the liquid hissing faintly against its heat. “Dunno. Somwthing about this feels right, though. You and me, we’re the same. Stuck with madmen who’d change the world—or break it.”

  “Ha!” The grimoire flapped open, conjuring a dart from thin air with a flicker of runes. It hurled it at the board—bullseye, naturally—and smirked. “Too bloody true. Noah’s a walking disaster—dies more than a cat with nine lives, stumbles into power like a drunk into a pub. I’m just along for the ride, eating runes and the occassional assassination.”

  The Armory grabbed a dart, its aim clumsy but forceful—cracking the board’s edge. It growled, then laughed, a low rumble. “Arwin’s no better. Eats swords to live, hammers magic into steel like it’s nothing. Dragged me to a dwarf’s lair once—lava everywhere. But he’s *mine*, and I’d spike a guild to keep him forging.”

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  The grimoire’s pages rustled approvingly. “That’s right! Noah’s mine too—idiot or not. Had to go demonic once, rode a cat out of the Damned Plains to save his brats. Cost me a bit of dignity, but damn if it wasn’t a rush.” It sipped its tea, somehow, the liquid vanishing into its spine. “You ever go feral like that? Ever get rid of a thorn in...was it Arwin's side?”

  “Oh, aye.” The Armory’s embers flared, pride in its tone. “Siege on the street—threw slag, spiked walls, smashed a fool through the floor. Felt the old dwarf blood in my heart then—primal, fierce. Arwin’s flame and Lillia’s shadow, they wake me up proper. You should see what they get to in the dark.” It tossed another dart, splitting the first one. “You know how it is.”

  The grimoire cackled, flipping to a sketch of Noah tripping over a monkey, and an inappropriate sketch of Evergreen in a maid outfit. “Sure do! I like to keep ‘em humble. One time, I drew a portrait of the two in action—Moxie threatened to burn me. Humans are so amusing.”

  “Made a wee Arwin statue once. I used his best metals. Got him quite riled up—Lillia laughed.” The Armory’s vents hissed amusement. “Might try a slag doodle next time he’s thick-headed. I'm sure he'd appreciate it.”

  “I'm starting to like you more and more!” The grimoire floated over, nudging the forge like a buddy. “Powerful, stuck with lunatics, nudging ‘em to greatness. Ever think they’d be lost without us?”

  The Armory nodded, its glow softening. “Every damn day. Arwin’d be dead—starved or skewered—without my heat. Lillia too, soft as she hides it.”

  “Yeah, Noah’d be a smear on Arbitage’s floor—every other day.” The grimoire’s tone dipped, almost fond. “His kids—Isabel, Todd—they’d be gone too, if I hadn’t gone demon. We’re the glue, you and me.”

  “Aye, the fire and the ink.” The Armory raised its teacup, clinking it against the grimoire’s hovering one. “To kin—us odd ones holding the worlds together.”

  “To kin!” The grimoire echoed, then lobbed a dart, sketching a rune midair to curve it into a perfect triple-twenty. “Bet I can out-throw you, brick-brain.”

  The Armory snorted, flames licking higher. “Bet I melt your pages first, scribble-freak.” It hurled a dart—board splintered, wall smoked. They laughed, tea steaming, darts flying, two ancient souls reveling in their shared chaos.