"Stool. Sit. Now," Marnie commanded, pointing a grease-stained finger at a heavy wooden seat bolted to the floor.

  Aiven obeyed, his knees feeling like they were made of jelly. He looked at the Armvil Mark 3 resting on the pedestal. Up close, the needle-like sensors at the base of the socket looked less like "technology" and more like the teeth of a very hungry metallic predator.

  "Master, please!" Virelle wailed, her floating form circling him so fast she was beginning to resemble a lavender-colored blur. "Look at those...pronged monstrosities! You sure you want to let this soot-stained gremlin perform acupuncture with industrial waste?!"

  "Virelle, for the love of everything, keep your voice down," Aiven groaned, burying his face in his hand. "The whole district can hear you. It’s a prosthetic, not a ritual sacrifice."

  "It is a sacrifice!" Virelle countered, stopping mid-air to strike a dramatic pose, her hand pressed to her forehead. "A sacrifice of my peace of mind! If one of those needles is even slightly blunt, I shall rain down meteors until this workshop is a memory!"

  "If you rain down meteors, I won't have an arm to attach," Aiven pointed out flatly.

  "Aiven, take off the shirt. I need clear access to the shoulder,” Marnie said as she brought Armvil Mark 3 down from the pedestal.

  Aiven fumbled with his buttons, his face reaching a shade of red. Being half-naked in a damp workshop while an arrogant archmage treated his torso like a sacred relic and a dwarf looked at him like a piece of unfinished plumbing was exactly the kind of attention he hated most.

  As soon as his shirt was off, Virelle’s theatricality shifted into something colder and more focused. She drifted in close, her eyes scanning the jagged scar tissue of his shoulder with a sharp, clinical intensity.

  "Master," she whispered, her voice low and dangerously steady. "At the first sign of agony—the smallest flinch—I am going to blast this dwarf through the back wall. I have the spell ready."

  "Virelle, don't threaten the person who is currently holding my nervous system in her hands," Aiven muttered, though he could feel the cold hum of her gathered mana nearby.

  Marnie hoisted the Armvil Mark 3, her thick muscles bulging. "Alright, kid. This is the sync. The needles find your nerves, and the mana stone finds the mana source. On three. One... two—"

  She slammed the socket home on 'two.'

  Aiven didn't just scream; he made a sound that shouldn't have come from a human throat—a high-pitched, strangled yelp that ended in a gasp. It felt like a bolt of lightning had been driven into his spine and then decided to throw a party in his nervous system.

  "MASTER!"

  The workshop nearly exploded. Virelle didn't just get angry; she went into a full-blown "Goddess of Retribution" mode. A massive, swirling vortex of purple energy erupted from her, spinning so fast it started sucking blueprints and light tools into the air.

  "YOU CRUEL, STUBBY HAG!" Virelle shrieked, her hair flying wildly as violet sparks danced across her skin. She raised her hands, a sphere of pure, crackling destruction forming between them. "I SHALL TEAR THE MOLECULES FROM YOUR BONES AND REASSEMBLE THEM INTO A WASTE-BIN!"

  "VIRELLE! STOP IT!" Aiven roared through the white-hot pain. He lunged sideways, his right hand grabbing a handful of her translucent sleeves to pull her down, while his new left brass arm involuntarily slammed into the wooden stool to steady him.

  The impact didn't just break the wood; it pulverized it into toothpicks.

  The violet hurricane died instantly. Virelle froze, her destructive sphere flickering out like a spent lightbulb. She blinked, looking down at Aiven, who was still clutching her sleeve like a lifeline.

  He was panting, sweat pouring down his face, clutching his shoulder. But his left side... his left side was glowing.

  The Armvil Mark 3 wasn't just brass anymore. The teardrop mana stone at its center had turned a brilliant, blinding white. The white light bled through the silver-etched crystal pathways, making the prosthetic look like it was forged from solid starlight.

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

  "Oh... my... ancestors," Marnie whispered, peering out from behind a heavy anvil she had used as a shield. She looked at her ruined workshop, then at the arm. "The data... it didn't explode. It’s actually... it’s purring."

  Aiven stared at the brass fingers. He willed them to move.

  Whir-click.

  The fingers curled into a fist with a precision that was terrifying. He could feel the cold metal as if it were his own flesh, but with a strange, humming weight behind it.

  "M-Master?" Virelle whispered, her theatrical rage replaced by wide-eyed, childlike wonder. She floated down, touching the glowing white brass with the tip of her finger. "Does it... does it feel like a barnacle?"

  "I don’t actually know what a barnacle feels like," Aiven panted, his voice returning to its usual anxious tone. "Virelle, you nearly leveled the building. Again."

  "I was merely expressing my disapproval of your discomfort!" she said, recovering her smugness instantly as she adjusted her skirts. She tapped the glowing arm. "Though I suppose the glow matches my aesthetic. It is acceptable. Barely."

  "Acceptable?" Marnie yelled, scrambling toward Aiven with a notebook. "Kid, you just channeled enough mana to power my masterpiece without the gears melting! Tell me everything! Did it itch? Did it buzz? Did you feel the urge to punch a hole through the moon?"

  Aiven looked at the ceiling and sighed. Between the mad scientist and the theatrical nuke, his life as a quiet clerk felt like a distant, peaceful dream.

  "I just want to put my shirt on," Aiven muttered, reaching for his discarded tunic.

  Whir-Crunch.

  The mechanical fingers twitched with a mind of their own, closing with the force of a hydraulic press and instantly shredding the linen sleeve into a handful of white confetti. Aiven stared at the remains of his favorite shirt, then at the brass hand that was now pulsing with a seemingly satisfied, rhythmic glow.

  "Fascinating!" Marnie cheered, scribbling furiously. "Grip strength: Sufficient to rend fabric. Note: Advise client to avoid touching delicate objects. Or people he likes. Or himself."

  Virelle clapped her hands together, her eyes sparkling with sudden, terrifying inspiration. "Do not fret, Master! Since your peasant rags have failed you, I shall conjure you a garment of pure, shimmering starlight. It will be backless, of course, to give your new limb 'room to breathe'—and to give the commoners something worth looking at."

  "Please," Aiven whispered, closing his eyes as the white light of his arm hummed cheerfully. "I just... I just want a normal shirt.”

  "Oh, stop moping, kid," Marnie grunted, rummaging through a heavy iron-bound trunk in the corner. "I’ve had plenty of human test subjects come through here looking for quick cash in exchange for a few 'minor' industrial accidents.

  She tossed a bundle of fabric at Aiven’s chest. He caught it with his right hand, making sure to keep his glowing brass fingers far away from the material. It was a simple, sturdy cotton shirt—grey, slightly oversized, and smelling faintly of sawdust.

  Marnie, meanwhile, had hopped onto a footstool to reach the arm. "Hold still, lad. The sensitivity on the haptic feedback was set to 'Titan' levels. I just need to tighten the tension on the mana-dampeners."

  She pulled a tiny, clockwork screwdriver from her belt and poked at a hidden port near the brass wrist. There was a faint click, and the aggressive white glow of the arm dimmed into a soft, steady pulse.

  "There. You should be able to touch a loaf of bread now without turning it into crumbs," Marnie said, hopping down. "Try it. Pat the elf on the shoulder or something."

  Aiven knew better than to test this out on Virelle.

  He cautiously reached out his left hand. The movement felt incredibly fluid—almost too fast. He gingerly touched the surface of Marnie’s workbench. No crunching wood. No pulverized stone. Just the cold sensation of the table transmitted through the sensors.

  "It works," Aiven breathed, a small smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. "I can... I can actually feel the texture of the wood."

  "Of course it works! It’s an Anvilrun!" Marnie barked, though she looked secretly pleased. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked toward the heavy iron door. "But a workshop isn't a battlefield. If you're game, there's a cleared-out field just outside the district. Quiet, empty, and perfect for seeing if you can actually hit a target without blowing your own feet off."

  Aiven nodded eagerly. The thought of testing the grappling hook and the mana bolts was the first thing that had truly excited him since the disaster in the thickets. "I’d like that. I need to know what I’m working with before we take another quest."

  Virelle, however, let out a groan that was so dramatic it seemed to echo off the brass pipes. She drifted toward the ceiling, her arms crossed over her chest.

  "Again? We must endure the company of this soot-dwelling pun-merchant for another hour?" Virelle looked at Aiven with a pleading pout. "Master, surely we could test your new barnacle in a more... dignified location? Perhaps a mountaintop? Or a pocket dimension I can conjure?"

  "The field is closer, Virelle," Aiven said firmly, pulling the grey shirt over his head. "And Marnie knows how to fix it if it breaks."

  "If it breaks, I'll fix it. If he blows up, I'll take notes," Marnie added with a wink.

  Virelle’s magenta eyes flared. "If he blows up, there will be no one left to take notes, Dwarf."

  "Right, right. Temper, Sparky," Marnie chuckled, grabbing a heavy crate of practice targets and heading for the door. "Come on, kid. Let’s see if you can actually aim."

  Aiven followed, his new arm swinging naturally at his side. He was still terrified of the power humming in his shoulder, but now, he felt like he wasn't just waiting for the next disaster.

  He was preparing for it.