Borag traced his fingers along the books as he moseyed by the wall, muttering to himself.

  "Ah," he said, and pulled a tome off the shelf. His breath scattered dust from its cover, and the purple stone stamped into it. Unlike Thrung's magical tome it gave off no glow or hum. "This is the one."

  Stump craned to read the spine. "Lumenur… Basik Koncepts of Lumenurgy…"

  "A Lowe Level Gide For Kleriks of Lumensa And Those Who Folow Them," said Borag, translating the raised words from the tips of his fingers. He pressed the book against Stump's chest. "Although it is a skillbook, the magic of its pages has long since diminished, so it will not confer any levels of its own."

  Stump looked down at the thing in his hands and admired the slanted flair of its title, and the old, frayed binding of its pages. "Is that what you are? A Cleric?" he asked.

  Borag had already returned to his chair with a tired sigh. "There are no more Clerics, and no more Paladins. They're old terms from before Jaessun the Godslayer. That book was written over ninety years ago, shortly after his arrival, hence the poor Ingilish," he said.

  Godslayer? Reema mentioned something about that, too. Stump was about to inquire further when he cracked the cover and breathed the must of pages that hadn't been parted since before he was born. He skimmed through and found the words made even less sense than the papers he'd taken from Thrung.

  "Nor can you receive a level from myself, as I am not of a high enough tier and have not been given the authority to do so by the Amber Bastion," the old orc continued.

  The perk of Stump's ears swivelled his head. "The Amber Bastion?" he said, remembering the magic school Jin had mentioned on their walk to Penny Square. "Tiers? I didn't know I could level up from other Lumenurgists."

  "Would you two please keep it down?" Boragu groaned over the top of her novel. The tiny lumen had returned to its jar and flared its reddish glow over the title—Kiss of the Vampire.

  Stump joined Borag at the table, pushing aside his own mug (barely touched) and Morg's (empty), and placed the tome between them. The dwarf, who was the only one among them who had met Daggan and wasn't a greenskin, had disappeared some time ago for the tank and had yet to return.

  "I still don't know how all of this works," admitted Stump. "Focus points and tiers and… I'm bleeding light…"

  Borag's smile was of a man reminiscing of his own youthful bewilderment. "We as a people have had to piece it together ourselves over the years. Once a Cleric would commune with the gods directly, but as that is no longer possible, we must all learn from one another."

  A strange calm descended over Stump that he couldn't quite place. Maybe it was the tranquil hum of Borag's words, or the storyteller's voice in which he delivered them, or maybe it was the subtle magic that wreathed his being and hung in the rafters and leaked out of the crumbling frame of the inn. Whatever its source, the oppressive weight of all Stump didn't know, couldn't understand, and had yet to learn, fell away, carried on a summer wind swell.

  "So…" Stump began, leaning close. "Focus points?"

  Borag placed his hands over the handle of his cane, and cleared his throat.

  And two dwarven voices rolled down the alley.

  All three of them turned at the sound.

  "They're here," Stump said through a dry throat.

  The old orc struggled to rise and dismissed his lumen. "Bright Queen shine on you," he said to Stump, before ambling back through the curtain.

  Boragu snapped her novel closed, shoved it under the bar, and made a quick tour of the interior, lighting candles. "You ready?" she said.

  Stump shuffled to a corner table in a nervous daze. "Yes," was all he could muster without vomiting. He found a seat in the dark, pinned Germott's badge to his tunic, and rapped his fingers on the table to distract himself. Just like a knight, just like a knight. But the anxiety tightened the closer the voices got, and when the door moved, Stump thought he might strangle himself with fear.

  Daggan stepped in first. He strode forward confidently, thumbs jammed into his belt, and made a greedy appraisal of the place. He didn't notice the goblin in the shadowy corner.

  "Gonna take a bucket o' glimmer to fix her up," he mused.

  Morg waddled in behind him. "Cheap enough to buy, though. That right, girl?"

  Boragu scowled from behind the counter. "We're not for sale," she said flatly.

  Daggan chuckled and sauntered to the bar. "Oh yer for sale, for the right price. Why don't ye get yer father out here so we can be done with it. The sooner yer kind's out o' these parts the sooner good people will come by with pocket's o' coin."

  She paused cleaning the bar top and displayed her tusks with her snarl. "We'd be caught dead before selling to you."

  Red warmed Daggan's cheeks. He turned back to Morg. "Y'said they'd be negotiatin'."

  Morg, who had taken off his mask, shrugged. He nodded to Stump's corner of the inn. "S'ppose I should've specified who."

  Daggan had to lean forward and squint to spy the goblin. "Who the…? Yer that gobby," he said. "What in Lumensa's shadowy ass were ye thinkin' Morg? Bringin' me here?"

  He huffed and swaggered to the door, but Morg blocked the way.

  "Yer goin' to want to sit for this one, Dagg," he warned.

  Something in his tone made the other dwarf look again, and this time he saw the badge. Stump readjusted it just enough to catch the dim light of nearby candles.

  Daggan's eyes widened with panic. "Yer a…? Yer with…" He sputtered incoherence, then swallowed hard. "Ye didn't say nothin' to me at the tank. When I… when ye spoke to me, I mean. I wasn't…"

  Stump held up a shaky hand for silence, then gestured to a nearby chair. The bloodlust was hammering behind his eyes, pumping heat into his cheeks and sweat down his brow. He was thankful to be obscured by darkness.

  "I didn't know o' yer 'filliation with the Ocelots, what I mean to say," Dagg said nervously, after he sat. "I didn't mean nothin' by it the other night when I…"

  "We're not here to discuss that," said Stump. He tried to match his cool tone to that of his recollection of the lady at the tank, but found it to be much less intimidating without the chorus of whispers.

  Dagg nodded obediently. " 'Course. What do ye need from me?"

  He tensed at the sound of Morg, who slowly dragged a chair over, exaggerating the groan of wood on wood, and sank into it behind him.

  "Two casks of Jailburn Ale," said Stump. "To be delivered here."

  The dwarf's brow pinched with uncertainty. "From… the tank?"

  "Of course from the tank. Where else?" Stump raised his voice, but it came out somewhat nasally. The corners of his eyes darkened with each thump of his chest. Don't vomit. Knights don't throw up.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "I… there're only five casks left 'til next shipment, 'n with… I mean… 'course I'll agree, but why not get 'em straight from the brewery?"

  "Wasptongue's operation may be delayed, but ours is not."

  "Can I… inquire as to… why?"

  Morg's chair whined as he leaned close enough to breathe down Daggan's back. "Yer not in the business of askin' why,” he said.

  "And you won't bother her with your questions, will you?" Stump added.

  The colour left Daggan's face. "Never," he said, almost as a whisper.

  "Or Sylas and Germott?"

  He briefly looked confused, but shook his head. "I'll not question yer company. Y'ave me word."

  Morg moved even closer. "And if we lose yer word, we'll be takin' yer life."

  Daggan tensed so hard the chair squeaked. "I'll uh… get 'em casks for ye right now. No delay. No need to worry about me. Dagg's a dwarf ye can count on," he said, and tried to stand, but was shoved back down without resistance by Morg.

  Stump watched from the corner, half covered in shadow, eyes cold and unblinking. At least, that's how he hoped it looked. Internally his skull was on fire, his heart was a goblin war drum, and his skin was intent on wringing him of every drop of sweat. He remained silent, partly to let Daggan stir up his own fear, but mostly because he wasn't entirely sure what he should say next.

  "I can be back in an hour," the dwarf went on. "Two barrels. No problem. No argument from me. I'll grab one o' me own to help carry 'em over."

  "I'll be goin' with ye," Morg whispered at his back. "Don't want nothin' to go wrong now, do we?"

  Daggan stammered agreement.

  "You may go," said Stump, with a wave of the hand. Both dwarves stood and headed for the door, but before they could leave, he added, "Oh, and that sign outside your inn?"

  Daggan looked back, his eyes faraway. It took him a moment to register the question. "Sign? Uh… yeh?"

  "Take it down."

  "Right. I'll remove it meself, soon as we get back. I'll let 'em know o' the change o’ policy. Never liked that sign, anyway…" his voice trailed off as Morg led him out the door and down the street.

  When Stump could no longer hear them, he expelled a pained breath.

  Boragu was giggling behind the bar. She leaned over the counter, her elbows on the hardwood. "I didn't think that would work," she said. "What did you say your name was?"

  "Stump," he wheezed, then slid off the chair and made for the door, his head spinning. "If you don't mind, I have to throw up."

  With the lust splattered and glowing on the street and the dwarves gone, Stump returned to his table to find Borag already seated there, with a pleasant, story-time smile lifting his cheeks.

  Stump drifted into the Words From the Sky as the old orc spoke of skills and focus points. One point would be delivered every class tier, Borag explained—every four character levels—and your character level was the combined total of all skills in which you had focus points, which for Stump was only Lumenurgy. Any skill could be levelled through regular practice or through their usage in accordance with their god's nature, but their magical trees of abilities would not be available without spending a point to activate them.

  There was a dizzying number of skills to learn. Stump navigated the interweaving talents within and through the domains of Magic, Martial, and Trade. The layers only deepened when exploring the many focus trees within each skill, any one of which could be pursued for a lifetime without a person ever leaving the narrow confines of their craft.

  Eventually Borag's voice fell away and Stump returned his attention to the inn. He felt as though he'd descended from another plane.

  The orc's brow lowered, and his lips curled into a frown. "You mentioned bleeding light," he said.

  As Stump recounted his experience leaving the tank and noticing the strange effect when he neared the Knight Inn, Borag's troubled features deepened.

  "You must be careful," he said in the cryptic way the matrons might warn a goblin child before delving into a fable meant to frighten.

  "Is it dangerous? I went over my virtue limit, but… other than the blood, I didn't feel any different," said Stump.

  "We are not meant to exceed the limits allotted by the gods. Before, long before, they and their Clerics would ensure the laws were respected. There was balance. Order. Now there is none to stop you from pursuing godhood, but the effort will kill you before you reach ascension."

  After the shattering of what Stump thought he knew of the world from the vantage of his cave, he was wary of tales of the divine, but there was a melancholic depth to Borag's warning that hadn't been there before.

  "Ascension? Does that mean… becoming a god?" Stump pressed.

  The old orc's face was searching. "Bleeding light was the first thing I noticed, as well," he began. "It started only a point or two above my maximum. A glow behind the eyes was next, when I'd pushed further. Light coming from my throat. Headaches. Painful, wracking affairs in the night. Soon I myself shimmered with the power of Lumensa, my green skin flecked gold. Eventually the light became so powerful that I could hardly see. I did not know that I would never see again."

  Borag gestured to his eyes.

  His daughter had lowered her book and watched them both from the bar with a pitying frown.

  "You wanted to become a god? Why?" asked Stump. It was an odd ambition. Goblins, who so often strove for the heights of glory, would never dream to reach for the throne of Grumul, or even of the matrons.

  "I was young, and the only orc of the Rimewood with the light of Lumensa. I wanted power, enough to be respected, and then enough to overthrow our chief. And I did. But I was angry. I wasn't levelling, you see. You must use your magic in accordance with the tenets of your god to gain enough experience to reach the higher levels. I used Lumenurgy to aid my killing with Bonesapper, to blind and hinder. Never to help those to see. So I decided if I was to follow the laws of my powers, that I would become the lawmaker."

  Borag allowed a rueful edge to close his tale. He slumped his shoulders and took a deep breath. "Now my powers have waned, and the dim light you see is the brightest I can summon. It is fitting, I suppose. I'm a blind old man with a sword that won't rid its scabbard, and an inn I fear will not outlast me. But I have a beautiful daughter, and her legacy alone will allow me to die happy."

  Boragu groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Paaaaa," she whined.

  The old man stirred. "Oh, I forgot you were there."

  "No you didn't." She picked up her book and hid her reddening face.

  He chuckled mischievously, and then searched the table for Stump's hand. When he found it, he gave it a gentle squeeze. "If you have more than you're allowed for your level, I suggest you release some of it."

  Stump summoned a lumen in the air, and then another through Duplicate. Two points were lost on Obey, and he commanded the lights to orbit each other. Finally he shaded one of them the colour of a bright morning sky, something the Downs never had the pleasure of seeing.

  Boragu's book landed with a thump. Her jaw was open, her eyes following the dance of the lights above her. Shadows shifted and circled the inn as though days and weeks cycled by in seconds.

  Skill Level Increased: Lumenurgy (Level 2)

  Character Level Increased: Level 2 - Maximum Virtue +1 (6/6)

  A level up! I'm level two!

  "Tell me what you see, Boragu," said her father.

  "I… I see lights. White and blue. They're so bright I can see our books. I can read their names from here. The shadows are all moving. It's… pretty. It's colourful. I can see our inn. I can see all of it," she said.

  Borag hummed happily at her words. "Ah. I remember blue."

  The casks landed with a thud.

  "Here y'are," Daggan rasped, straining for air. "Two kegs o' the burn, like y'asked."

  Stump was back in his corner, hugged by shadows. It felt safe there, and it looked ominous from a distance, he hoped. He nodded sagely. "Good."

  Daggan slouched. "There uh… anythin' else ye need from me? If not, yer people know where to—"

  "No. You can go."

  Relief flashed across his face. "Right. Thank ye." He bowed awkwardly several times as he shuffled for the door.

  "Oh, and you'll not touch this place," Stump added with a wave of the hand. "It's not for sale. It belongs to our people now."

  Boragu put on a good show of looking sullen, but Stump knew her lowered eyes were actually reading ‘Kiss of the Vampire’ beneath the bar.

  "I… I understand," said Daggan, moving sideways. "I'll not come lookin'. Plenty other shops 'round Grimsgate—"

  He bumped into Morg's belly, who gripped his collar, gently at first.

  "And ye don't go whisperin' about our operations to anyone now, do ye?" said Morg, a rogue beard hair away from Daggan's face. His grip tightened.

  The other dwarf shook his head. "I'll be silent as the grave."

  "Aye. Or you'll be in one."

  Morg spun and shoved him out the door.

  Daggan hoisted himself up from the puddle he'd landed in and gave one last fearful look to Dusty Taps before stumbling down the alley and out of sight.

  Stump wiped his sweaty forehead. "You were very frightening," he observed. "I feel a little sorry for him."

  Morg shrugged. "Dagg's an arse. Got to have some fun with it." He tapped his boot affectionately against the nearest cask and looked to Boragu. "Need help settin' it behind the bar?"

  Amidst grunts and accusations of poor coordination between dwarf and orc, Borag returned from his backroom hideaway and found a seat next to Stump. He sat for a while in contented silence, listening to his daughter attempt to wedge the monstrous Jailburn keg next to their smaller offerings.

  "You were very brave," he said absentmindedly.

  Stump, who was still shaking, tilted his head. "Me?"

  "You. I listened, and heard your courage."

  Stump had been called all manner of things, but brave was never one of them. He was short, he was weak, he was a coward. His tribe had told him so many times that it must have been true. Maybe Borag was only being kind.

  "Morg had courage," said Stump. "He was brave, but I wasn't. I was scared the whole time."

  "And yet you did it anyway. What would you call that if not bravery?"

  Before Stump could rally a reply, Morg waddled over, having fit the keg in place. They left soon after, their own cask hauled over Morg's shoulder like it weighed nothing more than a sack of grain.

  "Must say the first part o' yer plan worked better'n I thought it would," said Morg, once they merged back onto Crooked Cranny.

  "It did," Stump agreed, watching curiously the mighty shadow spearing out of his feet, with the words of Borag ringing in his mind.

  But now for the second part.