Chapter 2

  “Even obsession has limits,” Elias muttered to himself as he stepped beneath the shade of a low stone outcropping.

  The wind had shifted—colder now, sharper, and the shadows had stretched longer than they should’ve. Even with two suns, time moved forward. Or maybe sideways. He wasn’t sure how to tell anymore. But if the dimmer sun was edging toward the horizon, it had to be late afternoon. Probably.

  Hard to say on a planet that wasn’t Earth.

  Still, human instincts hadn’t abandoned him. As much as he wanted to march straight into the mountain and start digging for ore like a feral mole with a forge, his body had needs—shelter, warmth, a place to think without watching the sky for predators or exposure.

  Even he wasn’t so far gone as to forget that.

  So he’d wandered.

  Down the plain, around the curve of a rocky ridge, past a few streams that shimmered strangely beneath the sun’s overlapping glare. The terrain was alien, but not hostile. No monsters jumped out of the grass. No strange beasts circled overhead. Just endless wind and rock and the low buzz of unfamiliar insects in the brush.

  And then, just past a rise in the terrain, he saw it.

  A town.

  Small, nestled in the bend of the valley like someone had scooped a chunk of civilization out of a fantasy painting and dropped it into place. Rough stone walls bordered the perimeter, no more than ten feet tall. Modest wooden buildings huddled inside, their roofs sharply sloped and tiled in what looked like black slate or dark clay.

  Smoke rose from chimneys. Lanterns glowed faintly along the gate.

  Elias stared at it from a distance, arms crossed, weight shifting forward with relief and weariness.

  People meant tools. Tools meant work. Work meant metal.

  And maybe, just maybe, it meant not freezing to death his first night.

  He adjusted the little bag full of coffee cans, snacks tools and emergency mini-forge(yes he had a mini forge with him at all times don’t ask) somehow with him after being transported here, thank god- and started down the hill, toward the town that would become the first forge of his new life.

  _________

  The road into town wasn’t more than packed earth and crushed stone, but it was worn with use—clear evidence of foot traffic,mounted animals and maybe some kind of carts.

  “Elias,” he said, smoothly. “Elias Varnen. Traveling metalsmith. Got separated from a caravan up north. Bandits or wolves, maybe both—I didn’t stick around to ask.”

  The cudgel-guard frowned. “You don’t look like you’ve been running.”

  “I don’t run,” Elias said plainly. “I walk. If you run with a pack of metal tools, you lose half of it.”

  A pause. The guards exchanged a look. The one with the cudgel shrugged.

  “Crafter?”

  “Blacksmith,” Elias corrected. “Or will be. Once I find a forge.”

  That seemed to do it.

  The gate creaked open on old hinges, revealing a short street of packed dirt and wooden buildings lined up like teeth. A few townsfolk moved about—simple clothes, cautious eyes.

  The spear-guard nodded him through. “No trouble, smith. Just report to the Hall tomorrow. If you’re working, they’ll want it on record.”

  Elias gave a nod back and stepped inside.

  No one stopped him. No alerts sounded. The system didn’t scold him for lying.

  But as he walked deeper into the town, he still felt it—that instinct curling in the back of his mind.

  Wrong instincts, always. But maybe this time… maybe they were catching up to the world he now lived in.

  The town was small, but not primitive.

  As Elias moved through its narrow streets, he noted the signs of function over form—structures built for use, not show. Homes made of stacked stone with timber frames. Roofs layered in dark clay tiles. Windows shuttered tight against the cold. Everything looked lived-in, maintained, but not overbuilt.

  Like a place that endured, not thrived.

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  Children darted between buildings. An older woman swept the stoop of a small bakery, the scent of some kind of grainy bread drifting into the air. A few men loaded crates onto a thick-wheeled cart pulled by a broad creature—four-legged, furred, with stubby horns and a sleepy disposition.

  No one paid him much attention beyond the usual glance. No one asked questions.

  He passed what looked like a smithy—stone base, wide chimney, anvil out front. Cold and unlit for now. Noted it. Marked it. But didn’t stop.

  Not yet.

  He needed context first. Coordinates. Structure. Rules.

  So he turned down a wider street and aimed for the largest building in sight—a two-story structure with a slate roof and a carved wooden emblem above the door: a scale balanced over a crossed quill and sword.

  The Hall, most likely.

  Administrative hub. Or government building.

  Warmth met him first—real warmth, not just residual heat, but the steady comfort of a large stone hearth blazing off to one side. The scent of parchment, wax, and wood polish hung in the air. Desks lined the walls, manned by scribes or clerks, all dressed in simple blue-gray tabards. A larger desk sat centered against the far wall, where a thick-shouldered man with streaked grey hair glanced up from a ledger.

  Elias approached with measured steps, posture relaxed, expression neutral.

  “Afternoon,” the man said, voice rough but not unfriendly. “Crafter?” He asked noting his broad shouldered muscular build.

  “Blacksmith,” Elias replied. “Just arrived. Got separated from a caravan up north.”

  The clerk grunted, not questioning it. “Lucky you made it here.”

  “I was hoping to register for work. Or at least get my name in the books,” Elias said, then added casually, “Been walking a while. Ended up a little… off course. Could use some direction on what’s around this area. Just so I don’t get turned around again.”

  The man raised an eyebrow, but didn’t seem suspicious.

  “Name?”

  “Elias Varnen.”

  He wrote it down in a ledger with practiced ease, then reached under the desk and pulled out a thin wooden plaque etched with a simple sigil.

  “Guild-neutral work pass. If you pick up any contracts or jobs, bring this in with the seal of whoever gave it to you. Pays a copper to register each time, but keeps things clean.”

  Elias accepted the token and slid it into his coat. “Appreciate it.”

  “As for direction,” the man continued, gesturing to a large map pinned on the wall behind him, “you’re in Marrow’s Edge. Northern rim of the Sable Crescent. Closest major trade route is two days south by cart, unless you head east through the range, but that’s mountainfolk territory—less stable. You came in from the plains, yeah?”

  Elias nodded.

  The clerk grunted again. “Well, you didn’t come from the east, that’s for sure. The Spine doesn’t let people wander through.”

  Noted. That was useful.

  He pretended to squint at the map, playing the tired traveler.

  “…Sable Crescent, huh?” Elias muttered, buying time. “Didn’t realize I’d come that far south. Name sounded familiar, though.”

  The clerk gave a short grunt, turning to replace the ledger. Elias took that moment to ask the one thing that had tripped him.

  “This pass—‘guild-neutral’ you said. That mean there are other kinds? Guild ones?”

  The clerk gave him a glance—half-appraising, half-surprised.

  “You really were out in the sticks.”

  Elias gave a small shrug. “Caravan took most of the work. I just did repair and metal bits when needed. Didn’t have to deal with contracts or the local stuff. I know how to swing a hammer, not read fine print.”

  That seemed to satisfy the man.

  “Yeah, there’s guilds. Blacksmiths’, Traders’, Hunters’, Healers’—you name it. They handle job boards, official contracts, regulate who gets paid for what. Some towns care more than others. Here in Marrow’s Edge, we’ve only got minor branches. No Hallheads, just local clerks.”

  Elias filed it away. So this place wasn’t backwater, exactly—but not major either. Good. Less scrutiny.

  “What’s the difference between neutral and… affiliated?” he asked.

  “Neutral means you’re free. Take any job, from anyone, no oath or dues. But you won’t get guild protection, better rates, or access to closed contracts. Most folks go neutral until they prove themselves or find a guild that fits. Especially crafters.”

  Elias nodded like it all made sense. “Got it.”

  The clerk gestured toward the map again, tracing a rough circle.

  “You’ll find general contracts posted at the public boards—one outside the smithy, one near the market. Local jobs, small pay, but they stack. If you’re serious about work, though, talk to the smith or the foreman at the quarry two miles east. They always need metalhands.”

  “Appreciate the help,” Elias said, tapping the edge of the wooden token against his fingers. “Anything else I should know?”

  The man grunted. “Yeah. Don’t piss off the innkeeper. And if you see a green sky at night, stay inside. Stormglass season’s late, but it’s coming.”

  Elias filed that under deal with later and gave a polite nod.

  Then he turned and stepped out into the street again, his thoughts already shifting.

  Guilds. Contracts. Stormglass skies.

  This world was structured. That was good. Order meant predictability. Predictability meant leverage.

  And right now, he had knowledge. Skills. Tools.

  But no base.

  Not yet, but soon.

  ________

  The door to the hall creaked shut behind him, muffling the idle sounds within. Outside, the town of Marrow’s Edge was starting to settle into its evening rhythm. Smoke curled from chimneys. Merchants shouted their last calls in the market square. A few children darted through the alleys, chasing each other with wooden sticks.

  Elias paused just outside the steps, eyes tracking the golden rays of the sinking twin suns. One low, one still high. That made it late afternoon. Maybe. Hard to tell with two of them in the sky.

  He leaned against a worn wooden post, flipping the work token between his fingers.

  So. What now?

  He needed shelter. He needed tools. He needed ore.

  But most of all, he needed a place to work.

  Without a forge, he was just a man with knowledge and no means to apply it. No metal. No bellows. No crucibles. The perks the system had granted him—powerful, yes—but they weren’t spells he could wave in the air. They were meant to be used. Applied. Tempered through labor.

  He considered the inn. It would give him a roof, maybe a few rumors but he had no money.

  Then there was the smithy. The clerk said they always needed metalhands. And if nothing else, it would give him a look at local forging methods… and maybe, if he played it right, access to their setup.

  His fingers tightened around the token.

  He hadn’t been around people much—not in a long time. He didn’t trust easily. But he didn’t need to trust them. Just use the situation.

  And if they had even a halfway decent anvil and furnace, he could get started.

  Decision made, Elias stepped down from the hall and turned toward the west road, following the subtle tang of smoke and scorched coal that clung to the air.

  Toward the forge.