THWACK. TWHACK! TWHACK–TWHACK!!

  “—the fuck?!” Hope jerked upright as a bone-beaked hellbird shot out of the little hatch above his bunk, clack-clack-clacking like a kettle dying. Gears screamed behind its eyes. Springs wailed. Every hit punched his skull.

  “Shut up, you wooden bastard!” He flailed at empty air. The thing hammered a final twhack and snapped back into its hole.

  Silence. Blessed, aching silence.

  He slumped back, glaring up at the hatch. “What kind of sick alarm is that?” A beat… then his hand slid over the mattress and he couldn’t help it—he grinned. Soft. Real. Warm. A bed. Not a crate, not a gutter, not a patch of cold rock. His bed… in his own room!

  The place was a cupboard with ambition: narrow bunk, one hook with his coat, a crate for a table. Map pinned under a pebble. Coat on the peg. Two battered books and a dented cup. The ship’s hum lived in the boards—a slow, steady heartbeat. Tar, lamp oil, and old rope lingered on the air.

  He fished the pocket watch from under his pillow. Chain cold against his fingers. 02:59. He snorted. “Of course.”

  Tok-tok… TOK. Two short, one long—knock on the door.

  “Up, lad!” Gob’s voice came through, rough and awake. “New day starts now. Boots on. D6 in three.”

  Hope blew out a breath. “Yeah, yeah… Understood, Senior,” he rasped, then muttered, “bloody murder-bird…”

  Feet to cold planks. Shirt, coat, boots—fast. Spear strap tight. Map in the inner pocket. Watch tucked. He splashed his face in the basin, cursed at the chill, blinked the grit out.

  He palmed the latch. The corridor waited—dim lanterns, ribs curving overhead, the ship breathing around him.

  He flipped the map open, found D1, traced the red arrows to Storage D6, and set off. Corners came fast—left past the mask wall, down a short stair, squeeze by a stack of netted barrels. He cut the bends close, letting the ship’s pull nudge his steps—no fancy warps, just riding the tilt. In a few breaths he was there.

  The door to D6 stood open. Gob leaned on the jamb with a little carved stick clenched in his teeth—a wooden stem with a tiny cup at the end, ember winking—breathing out bitter-sweet smoke that bit Hope’s nose.

  “Alright, lad,” Gob said around the thing, “you know the drill. We won’t be seein’ each other much—got stuff to do—but I brought a little somethin’ to make life easier. Spoilin’ our new Magus and all.” He flicked his fingers; a neat stack thumped onto a crate.

  “It’s a shame you don’t have an Inventory yet, so park your current kit in your room. Use this lot every day—though you may have to wait a bit for it to fit—but I’m sure it’ll be sooner rather than later, kiddo. It’ll save your skull.” He tipped the smoke in a half-salute. “Anyway—c’ya.”

  A curl of smoke rolled… and the goblin was gone, the air still tasting of resin and spice.

  Hope blinked. “Show-off,” he muttered, stepping to the pile.

  Spacechanter’s Staff / Effect: +80 Magia, +1 Enchanting, +1 Spacetime Handling

  Runecrafter Cloak (3-set) / Effect: +200 Magia, +3 Enchanting, +3 Magika Sensing

  Alchemist Pants / Effect: +50 Magia, + 2 Alchemy

  Brewer’s Boots / Effect: +50 Magia, + 2 Alchemy

  The set looked slick. The cloak was heavier than it seemed—puffed at the shoulders, storm-grey with a faint grid stitched into the lining for anchoring tools. But the staff… that stole his eye.

  It was a dark, tight-grained shaft, light in the hand, veined with pale threads that caught and slid like frost under glass. The head was a narrow ring of star-iron with a suspended core—a smooth stone that didn’t quite touch anything, hanging inside a tiny cage on gimbals. When he tilted it, the core lagged by a hair, like it was listening to some other gravity. Etched along the grip ran clean, shallow grooves—guide lines for threadwork—and a single notch sat exactly where his thumb wanted to rest.

  Shame he couldn’t use any of it yet. Grade C meant a hard gate: Alchemy 6 or Enchanting 6 to equip. Not there yet.

  Still—hell of a gesture. Felt tailor-made, Gob’s hand all over it.

  Warmth rolled through his chest. After all the crap he’d crawled through, having people line up gear for him? Besides ol’ Mano and Eve… first time anyone had actually gone out of their way for him.

  He left the kit neatly stacked and turned to the practice crate—plenty of junk begging for enchantments. As he did, he spotted three squat bottles tucked beside the stabilisers, each full of cyan liquid that threw a soft glow against the wood.

  Starwake Tonic

  Rank 1 Consumable (Grade: C)

  Effect: Boosts mental strain recovery by 80% for 4 hours

  Hope huffed a laugh. “You sly bastard,” he said under his breath. He palmed one bottle, feeling the glass cool and solid. Not for now—save it for when the lines started chewing on his skull. He set two aside, slipped one into the cloak’s breast pocket to wait for its moment, and let the grin linger a moment longer before rolling up his sleeves.

  “Alright,” he told the room. “Let’s make some scrap sing.”

  He’d thought it through. Sure, trying new enchants might tick boxes in other Magika types and maybe nudge Magika Sensing up that last point for a fat Magia bump—but first things first: push Enchanting higher. Play to strengths too.

  He snorted. “Hell with it—Spacetime everything.”

  Weapons were fussy anyway. Spears, daggers—needed at least a point in their own handling before you layered anything else. No tossing +1 Spacetime Handling on an F-grade knife just because it looked pretty.

  Armor, though—leather and cloth in particular—took Spacetime nicely. Plenty of those in the crate. Couple staffs, too.

  He glanced at the thick tome—Enchanting for Idiots—then at the neat spread of tools. “Nah.” Same as yesterday: bare hands, steady breath. Not in the mood to learn every fancy clamp and lens. Selera’s lessons packed his head enough already.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  He drew a slow breath, set the pointy hat in his lap, and sat cross-legged on the floor. Lines clear in his head, pulse even; he reached and began—primer mist, crown ring, ribs to brim—seat it on the hum, gentle. Slowly, step by step—careful, patient—until—

  Click.

  The pattern caught and held. A clean, taut note shivered through the leather. He grinned as a prompt flickered above the hat.

  Mage’s Hat

  Rank 1 Gear (Grade: F, Type: Head)

  Requirements: Spacetime Handling (Level 3), Magia 120

  Effect: +10 Magia, +1 Spacetime Handling

  Hope let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and laughed.

  Good. Next.

  Minutes blurred. Hat, hood, bracers. Breath, draw, set. A wobble here, a collapse there—reset, again. Successes started stacking; failures lost their teeth.

  ??Enchanting (Level 4?5 + 1)

  He snorted. “Alright. Let’s climb.”

  He hauled out a long coat (3-piece set), stiff leather meant to move as one. The diagram for +3 Spacetime Handling looked like a madman’s lace—triple rings, braided ribs, phased seams. Harder than the +1 by miles.

  He uncorked a Starwake Tonic and took a long pull—glass clink, cyan glow. It hit like cold river and mint-metal, a clean snap of ozone on his tongue. The sand behind his eyes washed out; thoughts clicked sharp.

  “Wow, that hits nice,” he breathed. “Round one.”

  Primer mist—thinner. Inner ring along the collar seam, outer along the hem, third ring skirting the lining straps. Twin ribs, nested with a hair of air between. Seat on the hum—

  The hem wrinkled. The collar tugged. The lattice peeled like bad wax.

  “Fuck.”

  Again.

  He widened the radii, seeded small rings on the strap stitches, tried seating straps first. The field skated sideways like the coat had somewhere better to be.

  Again.

  He reversed the phase—inner, outer, straps. Counted the beat: four in, two hold, six out. The hum wobbled; the cage blew with a papery whuff that stung his fingertips.

  Again.

  Ten fails. Twenty. Fifty.

  He stopped muscling it and observed calmly instead. The coat wanted to bend certain ways—collar pulling forward, hem needing slack, straps craving a deeper bite. He mapped the give with thumb and eye, then rebuilt the pattern to fit those wants.

  Fail. Fail. Fail.

  He sat back a couple of minutes to breathe, letting the tonic do its work, eyes closed, pulse steady.

  He exhaled sharp. “Keep going.”

  Seventy. Eighty. Ninety.

  He braided finer, split each rib into triplets for the collar, staggered seating by a heartbeat and a half. Gave the soft patch by the left seam a kiss more slack. Let the outer ring “float” a hair before sinking.

  Lower. Lower…

  The lattice kissed leather. No wrinkle. No skid. The hum rose a half-note—threatened to pitch—he breathed it level.

  “Hold,” he whispered.

  One last triplet met the seam—the same bastard that had buckled him all morning. He eased the pressure, let it find its seat.

  The pattern settled—not a snap, not a crash—just a clean, quiet lock.

  Mage’s Cloak

  Rank 1 Gear (Grade: F, Type: 3-piece set – Chest + Arms + Head)

  Requirements: Spacetime Handling (Level 3), Magia 100

  Effect: +40 Magia, +3 Spacetime Handling

  ??Enchanting (Level 5?6 + 1)

  “Fucking yes!” Hope barked a laugh—raw, happy.

  He gave the coat one more look. “Might keep it as a souvenir, eh.”

  Pocket watch: ‘08:50’. Nearly meal time. Good timing—and better, Level 6! Time to try the new fit.

  He crossed to Gob’s pile, shrugged into the storm-grey cloak from the set, and felt the lift at once—Magia rising like clean air in his lungs, the room’s lines brightening a shade. He palmed the Spacechanter’s Staff; the suspended core lagged a hair, listening to some other gravity, and another little swell of Magia rolled through him. He also felt the give in his arms—the dip in Physis without the Spear Handling bonus.

  “Not fighting in here anyway,” he muttered. “Can always swap back.”

  He set his spear within reach, rolled his shoulders under the cloak, and let the staff find its balance in his grip. The ship’s thrum came a shade clearer; the deck’s tilt spoke in a cleaner tongue.

  Also—yeah—the Magia boost from Enchanting was no joke.

  ??Enchanting (Level 6 + 5)

  Threads draw true, patterns accrue; the weave hums in time with you.

  ? 55% reduction in mental strain when Enchanting.

  ? +230 Magia permanently.

  Magia: 1590 (+439)[+405]

  Heck, he should’ve done this earlier. Clarity from raw Magia was king—good for Enchanting, Alchemy, and most of all for playing with Spacetime.

  He thanked Gob in his head, catching the lesson tucked inside the gift.

  Then he checked the map, pocketed the watch, and headed for the galley.

  Rask clocked him the moment he stepped in.

  “No staffs near my pots,” the Gilleos growled, flicking his fins. “Put it there. Sit. Eat. Don’t talk.”

  Hope parked the staff by the door, bowed a touch, and took the bowl Rask slammed down—thick stew, pepper and bone-broth heat, something like sea-garlic riding the top. Bread hit the board a heartbeat later. He tore in, grateful as hell.

  “Good,” he muttered between mouthfuls.

  “Course it’s good,” Rask snapped, chopping through a heap of root with a cleaver. “If it weren’t, you’d be dead and I’d be annoyed.”

  Hope scraped the bowl clean, sopped the last gloss with bread, and set everything neat. He stood, bowed again—honest, low.

  “Thanks, Senior. Want a hand? I can scrub or—”

  “Don’t want hands,” Rask barked, fins flaring. “Don’t want feet. Don’t want you near my knives. Out. You move my ladles, I salt your ears.”

  Hope’s grin tugged up despite the bite. “Understood.”

  “Door,” Rask said, already back to his pots. “Close it soft.”

  Hope slipped out, eased the latch, and checked his schedule. Free time, huh.

  He drifted toward the storage, turning it over. He could grind Spacetime tricks or chase one more level in Spear Handling—but that fresh slab of Magia had him rethinking. Stack the base stat now, and the Spacetime work later will come easier—maybe even shake a new skill loose.

  Two roads, then: push Enchanting, or chase Magika Sensing. The latter from 9 to 10 would take days. Enchanting? He might squeeze one more point before Veleth’s feed. And truth be told, those diagrams were teaching him Spacetime—new ways to tune it, new angles to try. Inspiration counted.

  “Alright,” he said as D6’s door came up. “Free time turns into one more Enchanting session.”

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