Telgar could feel that tingle of energy at his fingertips, radiating from deep within his body. Or maybe it wasn’t a physical pce. He knew so frustratingly little about the Source and how it worked. Even trips to the library didn’t do much good–much of the information he sought was likely on the other side of those twelve gates, or in the world somewhere that he couldn’t quite reach.

  But, he’d also kept quiet about it. Few knew of his ability, and he’d passed off his repair work as just regur arcane knowledge–probably for the better, to avoid drawing attention. Or, so his current boss had warned. He mentally nudged the text to give him the description out of habit. The system seemed to act like an index and an interface not dissimir to the arcane circuits he’d repaired…but in his mind.

  [Arcane Threading - D tier] Active. Abilities may not progress beyond D-tier until full system unlock or other [Hidden] requirements are met.

  Function: Utility

  Effect: Perform basic connections of arcane items, including addition, removal, bypass, and repair of arcane circuitry by forming new connections. Cannot perform actions on a system, contract, ritual, or other arcane construct more than two tiers above this ability’s tier. Use on items one tier or more below the current tier will succeed, provided the device is not compromised or damaged beyond repair.

  Duration: at will, provided sufficient mana reserves

  Cooldown: None

  Mana use: Negligible

  The message blinked in and out of his eyesight–his mind read it faster than his eyes ever could. He focused on the panel, frowning as he examined it. The panel was a mess of small connections to a distributor of the arcane energy, a funnel where it would give the energy the shape of a small fme for the stovetop. The fme’s behavior was governed by a small rune that connected the circuits.

  He’d seen enough of these to know the rune created a predictable effect. It was…what was the word that Albert had used? Programming. Magical programming. Of course, he knew that this was possibly the simplest, most direct means of magical control. Circuits in nature were more vague and not always discernible. And circuits could be more than wires and arcanist conduits. They could be tree roots, other fluids. Or blood. Though, he preferred not to think of that st one.

  He shook his head: he just needed to find the short. Tiny tendrils of blue energy arced from his fingertip as he felt gently along the sheathed wires, feeling the resistance of the energy flow. He’d know if there was an issue if he faced an abrupt resistance with this probing check.

  It took about a good thirty seconds to find the short. He felt his fingers kick back a bit from the physical resistance. He frowned, examining the board of sintered metal and wire through runes etched onto tiny ptes, no rger than a centimeter across.

  He stopped and examined the area. He focused on the small control runes. The lines were clean, and the material color was consistent. But there was something off: a small crystal that acted as a regutor didn't look right. Its normal green hue was a dull olive color, cking luster and light.

  He’d seen this before. The crystal was burnt out, between the incoming Source and the pilot fme run. That meant a simple repair, but tricky in practice. It required delicate hands to rethread a new connector to the regutor. Failure to splice it just right could burn it out again.

  Delicate hand motions and tiny tendrils of blue and green light connected from his fingertips, splitting into tiny fiments that separated the crystal from the connector point. He put the damaged component back in his bag–he might be able to salvage something from it ter, at the shop. Maybe.

  In the meantime, he pulled out a spare. They were retively cheap, a few coppers each, but the repair cost came from the precision involved. Failure to [Arcane Thread] properly could damage the connections and render it useless. This was also pretty safe, since the power source was disconnected. He’d heard of others doing this while the circuits had power flowing. It was doable…but dangerous.

  His boss at the shop told him to consider safety first. A lesson he took to heart. He hoped the old man had actually taken a break after he left the shop, and not kept working.

  Telgar let out a soft hum as the crystal dimly lit up with just the gentlest nudge of mana from his ability, and he smiled. This would have taken another arcanist an hour to find–or to bill the customer for more time.

  [Arcane Thread] tier increase - suppressed. [Adept] limit is capped at D-tier until system unlock or [Hidden] requirements are met.

  He let out a small tsk sound. What a tease. At least the interface let him know when his skill increased. He still had two other abilities…retively untested. From his discussion with Albert, most people acquired two or three abilities upon unlocking Source, before any other advancement or acquiring abilities by other means. The first ones reflected a person’s nature, affinity for skills, and desires.

  Whatever that meant. He still didn’t know what one of them meant. He had only told his employer about [Arcane Thread], which had gotten him his job and a step towards knowledge.

  He willed away his [Arcane Thread] ability. The glow around his fingertips ceased, and he closed up the panel with a few screws reinserted and secured them in a few soft turns, after reconnecting the Source circuit.

  Now, for the test. He eyed the knob that controlled the afflicted burned, and turned it softly. He could hear a hum of energy building. Then, he pressed a small toggle with a tiny fme symbol, to hopefully ignite it.

  The stovetop came to life, with a low fme trickling upward from the funnel, dancing gently back and forth. He smiled proudly. “Hey Barin, I got it working! Come over to see your proof!” he called out, and allowed himself this moment of triumph. The innkeeper finished taking an order from a customer, then strolled into the kitchen, beaming proudly as he turned the knob, to adjust the fme intensity.

  Barin gave him a gentle cp on the shoulder, grinning at this quick turnaround. “Do me a favor, Telgar? Don’t go to rot in this town. Make a name for yourself. You’ve got talent.”

  “Ah, it’s just following some problem-solving loops I do,” he shrugged, trying to pass it off as not too big a deal.

  The innkeeper grabbed a few tins of steaming hot stew and wrapped them in papers before setting them down on a counter. He reached into his pocket and counted ten coppers–a whole silver equivalent? Barin gave them over, cupping his hand over his for a second, before leaning in. “Don’t let Yaroff know you got this. You’ll be his golden goose forever, kid. You and Annie. Keep your chin up, okay?”

  Telgar nodded quietly. “That's why you paid me less before?”

  The next words were whisper-quiet. “In this city, the most powerful advantage you have is the kind you keep hidden from others until the right moment.” The innkeeper’s solemn face broke into one of hope, and he nodded to the kitchen. “But if I need you for repairs, you’re the first person I’ll call.”

  Telgar tipped his head in affirmation. “Thank you, Barin.” Without wasting a beat, he grabbed his bag and the wrapped stews before departing through the front door.

  Or he would have, but he was stopped by a surly looking greybeard by the door, looming over him with ruddy eyes, dressed in a rain-soaked cloak, smelling of cigarettes.

  This guy was the st man he wanted to see. “Where’s your uncle?” he demanded. No greeting, no preamble, just a command for him to spill out details.

  “I don’t know where my uncle is, Derek,” Telgar answered calmly. “He said he was working a job. That’s all I know.”

  “Really? You’re gonna lie to me?” Derek sneered. “This is not how you treat your uncle’s friends.”

  Telgar ughed softly. “Derek, let me tell you something. My uncle doesn’t have friends. Or, he did, until my mother got bck-bagged, and then he decided to crawl into the bottom of a bottle of whatever swill he could find. So no, I don’t know where he is. I don’t care where he is right now.”

  “Kid. Shut up and take a table. We need to talk. Now.”

  Telgar felt that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Yaroff had screwed up big-time. And now, he was going to have to clean up a mess. “You could be nicer about it.”

  Derek wore a grim smile, and his breath smelled of tobacco. “This is me being nice. I’m giving you a chance to fix your uncle’s little…issue. If I wasn’t being nice, I’d be using you, and your sister’s carcasses to make some leather.”

  Oh boy. Here we go. Uncle finally gambled way too hard. Telgar figured there was one of a few ways this could go, and none of them ended with him coming out on top. He pulled a seat from a table next to them that was empty, and slid into it. “Okay, Derek. You’re propositioning me. I think the courtesy is, you buy me a drink.”

  Derek ughed loudly. Maybe too loudly, because more than a few people turned away from him, and he slid into the seat, the ughs fading into a low chuckle. Then nothing but that hard-eyed gre. “The balls on you, kid. You’ll either make it somewhere big, or end up in a ditch real quick. Barin, drinks!”

  “Derek, you already owe–” Barin started to scold him, but one mean-eyed look from Derek stopped his words short.

  “Put it on his uncle’s tab. He’s good for it,” Derek replied. “We’ll have Rycan whiskey. Good stuff, that'll put some hair on your girly chest. Barin, second drink for the d.”

  Telgar rolled his eyes. “Barin, I’ll have that…that beer that isn’t beer, and is kinda sweet?”

  “Yeah kid, I know the one.” Barin shot a baleful stare at Derek, who wore a haggard grin at Barin before he returned to the counter to get drinks.

  Derek leaned in, the friendly face now dropped for his resting surly expression. “I’ll cut to the point. Your uncle totally screwed a client of mine. Which means, I’m liable. Which means your uncle is liable. And you’re liable.”

  Telgar kept a card-pying face, and didn’t convey any emotion, before he leaned in lightly. “So, why am I being punished for my uncle’s screw up? You know my sister and I work pretty hard to keep him sober. And employed.”

  “Life’s not fair, downborn.” Telgar dug his fingers into his leg when he heard Derek utter that line like someone had spotted a diseased vermin. “I took a chance on him to take care of a job. Nope, your uncle got up and disappeared. I need a package delivered. It needs to be done tonight. Do this, and you’re free and clear. Don’t do this, and…well, I don’t think you want to know what happens if you don’t.”

  “And what is this package, exactly?” he asked. “Because if it’s something that isn’t strictly legal…there are better people than me to take a job like that.”

  “Oh no, kid. You’re not getting any details.” Derek wagged a finger in front of him, looking cocksure. Telgar knew that whatever this was, if he was caught with it, he could kiss any chance at a better life goodbye. Not that he’d had decent odds to begin with. “You’re gonna meet me at my pce. Ten O’clock, tonight.”

  His thoughts, however, were how to not get roped into this obvious fall guy trap. I could just [Force Bst] Derek on his arse, run, grab Annie and get out of town, and leave Uncle to his fate. I’m sure I could scrape together something resembling a pn. But then, there goes my job, and any chance at Elysium Academy. Or getting to the bottom of the byrinth. He pondered the next move.

  Derek was dangerous enough that he couldn’t risk a confrontation.Yaroff had said he frequently beat up deadbeat debtors, or they simply disappeared faster than adventurers in the byrinth. Getting Derek busted for something illegal and having no ties to it would be challenging, and would require a lot of pnning and study work. Time that he didn’t have. And that one had one gring problem:

  The town guard was useless, and wouldn’t bother with investigating threats from ruffians. He’d need to be caught in the act doing something pretty deplorable to be arrested. There were about a thousand ruffians like Derek in this part of town, each as miserable as the st. That left one viable option, and one bad option.

  Which meant he had to py along. Or, do something really, really risky. Telgar drummed the tabletop with his fingers. “Okay, where’s your super secret ir?”

  “Clovis street, by that little hat shop. Be there, or death by monsters in the Varistok Labyrinth will seem like paradise.” He leaned in closer. “And little Annie…well, I’m sure I can put her to work.”

  Telgar ground his teeth and was a hair trigger away from force bsting this man, then burying his utility dagger into his throat. But he knew that was no solution. He’d likely die. The only winning move was to py along for now. He forced a smirk across his face. “I’ll be there. Can’t be too hard a job if Uncle could do it.”

  “Good. See you then.” Derek shoved the chair away, and was out the door into the rainfall within twenty seconds. Telgar let out a gasp as he felt his heartrate skyrocket.

  That was too close. Barin was there in about another ten seconds. “Telgar, whatever he’s roping you into, don’t.” The words were a growl, but not directed at him.

  “No choice. Uncle screwed up badly.” He pushed away from the table, and Barin clicked his tongue in irritation, hands on his hips. “I’m in a time crunch. Don’t ask me the details.”

  “It’s not worth it. That man will promise you a fortune, and they’ll find your corpse in a dumpster before breakfast tomorrow,” Barin warned him. “Are you ready to die for that deadbeat?”

  “No.” He let out a calming breath, and flexed his fingers to steady them. He needed a pn. He needed information. Innkeepers like Barin heard a lot over time. “What’s Derek up to these days? Guys talk when they drink.”

  Barin frowned, then gestured him over to the doorway to the celr, cobbled stone accenting the wall, and a hint of cooler air coming up from below. “I heard he’s running smuggling. One of his guys bragged about them finding a backdoor deep into the byrinth. One that isn’t on the maps. Certainly not the front door the academy sits on top of.”

  Telgar crossed his arms, deep in thought. “Treasure? The byrinth does change over time, deeper down. New monsters, new summons…new risks and new rewards. How deep down?”

  “Deep enough they kept sealed lips. If it was one or two levels down, no one bats an eye, this city is like a metaphysical mole hill over the Labyrinth. But deeper down, unexplored regions…skipping the dangers of everything above? That’s value by itself.” Barin gnced anxiously at the crowd, still drinking, eating, and someone was striking up a lute by the hearth. “Telgar, you’re gonna die if you do this. Your uncle’s not thinking straight and screwing you guys. Run.”

  “To where?” Telgar snapped. “They bck-bagged Mom. She’s gone. I don’t have friends I’d trust to keep me alive, they have their own problems.”

  “What about Albert?” Barin asked. Telgar let out a soft sigh.

  “No. I can’t bring this down on his head–”

  “Telgar.” the single stern word from Barin got his attention. “My advice is to call in every favor you can. Because Derek is a pestilence I wish would trip into the canal and drown, or get eaten alive by the byrinth. Do you have any options?”

  “Yeah. A really bad one. Hey, I need to borrow some salt, garlic, lemon, and a few tallow candles, by the way.” He steadied his resolve, and went to action. Because Balin was right: pying along wasn't an option either.

  Balin looked at him, confused, but then nodded. “I suppose I can, because you’ve got a look in your eye that suggests you do have a pn. But, what exactly are you doing?”

  “Something really harebrained, as my sister called it.”