Ethan turned and led the Pack through the familiar, wider sewer channels, past the spot where they’d fought the slime and back to the side tunnel that led to the docks. When daylight finally spilled into the passage and they stepped out into the bustle of the city, they all felt a little lighter—and a little less alone.

  They emerged from the same side tunnel near the docks where they’d first entered, the stone arch streaked with damp and city grime. Faint daylight slanted in from above, and the noise of the harbor drifted in from outside.

  Gwenna went up first, checking the street outside. After a quick scan, she waved the all-clear, and one by one the Pack stepped out into the cool open air, blinking at the brightness and bustle of the dockside.

  Gwenna looked at Ethan, her voice lower and more thoughtful than before. “You did well down there. That wasn’t easy—not for any of us. We’ve earned a few quiet days, if we’re lucky. Just remember, the city’s changing. Whatever’s happening below, it’s not over yet.” She paused, then turned brisk again. “First thing tomorrow at the Guild. Credentials, Academy pass, all of it. We’re not done.”

  Ethan nodded, worn but relieved. “I’ll be there. And I’ll meet you back at the inn for dinner?”

  A tired but genuine smile flickered across Gwenna’s face. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  With a final nod, Gwenna melted into the city crowds, cloak pulled tight. The Pack watched her go, then stretched in the sunlight, letting the noise and salt air of the docks wash over them.

  Ethan flexed his sore hand and glanced down at the short sword at his hip—the last of his backups. It didn’t feel right in his grip, and he kept thinking about the one he’d left behind, pitted and corroded to uselessness by slime acid.

  “I’m going to stop by Durgan’s place,” he told the Pack. “Need something sturdier before we end up back in trouble.”

  Moose’s ears perked. “He’ll be glad for the business.”

  Buster stretched, glancing at the sun above. “Can we go with you?”

  “Of course,” Ethan said, and with the Pack in tow, he wound his way through the winding market lanes toward the crafting district, following the steady clang of hammers and the warm glow from open forges.

  Durgan’s workshop was easy to find—its big double doors propped open, letting out a constant mix of warehouse clamor and city street bustle. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of oil and spice, the underlying tang of steel edged with parchment dust and wood shavings. It wasn’t just a forge; it was the main artery of Durgan’s business: crates stacked to the beams, racks of weapons gleaming under lamplight, runners darting between piles of merchant goods and hurrying apprentices.

  The big dwarf looked up as Ethan entered, one hand still gripping a ledger, his face breaking into a grin broad enough to show every crinkle in his beard.

  “By me beard, if it ain’t the wolf tamer himself!” Durgan called, dropping the ledger on a battered desk. “Come in, lad. What brings you through my door today? Looking for better steel, or did you wear out another blade already?”

  Ethan managed a tired grin and flexed his sore hand, glancing down at the short sword at his hip. “Sewer slime ate through my blade. This is my last backup, and it’s never felt right. I need something real—solid steel, and good for enchanting. I’d rather start clean and do the work myself.”

  Durgan’s eyebrows went up at that last part, interest sharpening in his eyes. “A blade built for enchanting, is it? You’ve picked up some new tricks since last we talked.” He nodded toward the back racks, motioning for Ethan to follow. “You’re in luck. Just got a shipment in—swords with clean lines, wide hilts, three open mana stone slots, all brass-lined. Solid steel, no showy nonsense. Built to last, and built for magic work. You can fit mana stones, runes, whatever twist you want to put on it. Some folks call ‘em gem slots, but any proper mage knows what they’re for.”

  Ethan hefted one, testing the balance, the weight familiar and strange at once. The open sockets caught the forge light, glinting with promise. “This is perfect. I’ll need the tools for setting stones and carving runes, too.”

  Durgan grunted, pleased, and rummaged under the counter. “Never trust an apprentice with the best gear. Got clamps, mana wrenches, a case of styluses—best I can do without charging you by the fingerprint. Here.” He set the tools out in a neat line.

  Ethan picked up a stylus, running his thumb along the ridged grip. Not as fine as Ed’s, but sturdy, sharp, built for work.

  Lyra moved along the counter, eyes catching on a display of throwing knives. She picked one up, feeling the weight and testing the balance, then glanced over at Durgan.

  “These are good steel. Stone Row make?”

  Durgan grinned, clearly pleased by her attention. “That’s Thory’s work. Best blades you’ll find in Celdoras. She’s half magiatech these days, but she still knows how to set an edge. If you ever want something special, just say the word. That is, if she’s in town—I heard she might have gone back to the Dwarven mountain stronghold.”

  Lyra nodded, choosing four. “I’ll take these. They’re better than anything I’ve found in the market.”

  Durgan wrapped the knives in a neat roll of oiled leather. “You know quality when you see it. I’ll keep more aside, if you want another set later.”

  While they finished their exchange, Moose wandered over to a battered tower shield propped against a crate. He nosed it upright, studied its curve, and set a big paw against the rim.

  “Pity these don’t come with straps for paws,” he said, voice low and steady. “Wouldn’t mind the extra cover now and then.”

  Buster sniffed at a row of helmets, gave one an experimental shove with his nose, then snorted and looked back at the group. “They never make this stuff for us. Figures.”

  For a moment the shop went silent. Durgan’s hands froze mid-motion, staring at the Pack with wide eyes.

  “They talk?” he managed, half laughing, half stunned. “Well, I’ll be—magic or not, I’ve never seen that before.”

  Moose gave a polite wag of his tail. “We talk to those we trust.”

  Buster grinned, tongue lolling. “Usually just to make fun of Ethan.”

  Durgan shook his head, still grinning. “You travel with a stranger crew than most, lad. Makes life more interesting.”

  Just then, the shop’s side door banged open and a sandy-haired boy—maybe fourteen—hurried in with a battered messenger’s satchel. He almost tripped as he entered, then stopped short at the sight of Ethan and Lyra at the counter. Recognition and excitement broke across his face.

  He beamed. “It’s you! You’re the ones who helped me and my sister after the slaver camp—when I couldn’t even stand up. You walked us the rest of the way to Mr. Durgan’s caravan.” He glanced at Lyra, remembering. “My sister still talks about it. She’s up front now, working records for Mr. Durgan. I’m his runner. We’re both safe, so… thank you.”

  Ethan nodded, a rare softness in his voice. “You did all the hard work. We just made sure you made it.”

  Lyra offered a quiet, approving nod. “You didn’t let your sister fall behind. That mattered.”

  The boy ducked his head, his grin even wider. Then Moose, tail flicking, spoke in his calm, warm voice.

  “We’re glad you landed on your feet.”

  The boy’s eyes went huge as he looked from Moose to Buster and Pixie, the reality of it settling in for the first time.

  “You… you can talk? That’s amazing!”

  His laughter bubbled up, bright and real. “Best job I could have hoped for.”

  Pixie wagged her tail, happy to be noticed. “If you ever need help, just ask.”

  The boy nodded, beaming as he hurried off to finish his errand—one last look over his shoulder at the Pack.

  Durgan watched him go, then turned to Ethan, his voice dropping to something almost private. “He’s not the only one doing better, you know. Some of those folk you helped out of that camp found places here in Celdoras. There’s a girl—good at baking and looking for work still, but folk say she’s got the best hand for bread in Lantern Row. One of the older boys is apprenticed up in Stone Row, learning the stonecutters’ trade. A couple have taken to caravan work—headed out with me next run, this time because they want to see the world, not because someone forced them.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  He nodded once, serious. “You did right by them. If anyone here gives them trouble, they’ll answer to me.”

  Ethan nodded. “If the girl that bakes is still looking for work, send her to the Silver Thorn Inn. I can talk to Mara and Jorrin—they’re always busy, and extra help in the kitchen would do them good. What’s her name? I’ll make sure they look out for her.”

  Durgan rubbed at his beard, thoughtful. “Her name’s Tamri. She’s shy, but she’s got a steady hand and doesn’t complain about early hours. I’ll let her know to look for you at the Silver Thorn—might be the best luck she’s had since coming here.”

  Ethan gave a short nod. “I’ll talk to Mara and Jorrin tonight. If she shows up, they’ll know she’s with us.”

  Durgan’s expression eased—a mixture of satisfaction and relief. “You lot might not have planned on it, but you’re making Celdoras better, bit by bit. Just watch your backs—good deeds don’t always go unpunished in a city like this.”

  Ethan offered a brief, real smile. “I know.”

  As their business wrapped up, the Pack each found their own small distraction in the clutter of the shop. Moose, lingering by a battered tower shield leaning against a crate, nosed it upright one last time, then gave Durgan a rueful glance.

  Durgan just chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t even know how we’d strap that to you, laddy. You’d look like some kind of turtle, stomping around the city or—where were you just fighting? Aye, that’s right. The sewers.”

  Ethan stifled a giggle. “Yeah, giant sewer turtles.”

  Then, trying to keep a straight face, he nodded sagely, all seriousness. “Only if he ever learns ninja moves from a giant rat.” He stroked an imaginary goatee, doing his best sensei impression.

  Pixie looked at Ethan, head tilted in confusion. “We killed a lot of rats today in the sewers—none of them knew ninja moves.”

  That did it—Ethan lost it, laughter spilling out. Lyra rolled her eyes, feeling the pulse of amusement in the bond but clearly not following his meaning.

  Pixie, quickly losing interest as Ethan started talking about shredding something in April's Oh Nails—she wasn’t sure what, and it sounded confusing anyway—darted over to the battered lost-and-found bin beside the counter. She snuffled until she unearthed a faded red ribbon. She already had one tied neatly at her neck, but she picked this new one up in her teeth and trotted over to Lyra, tail wagging hard.

  Lyra crouched and tied the new ribbon—Pixie’s second—beside the first, careful not to tangle them or disrupt the little cloak-hood draped over Pixie’s shoulders. Pixie spun in a slow, proud circle, now sporting both ribbons and her cloak, her tail held high.

  Buster padded up to the counter, nose twitching toward a string of dried sausages hanging above. He sat back, fixing Ethan with his most pitiful, hopeful expression.

  Ethan just shook his head, reached for a Bit, and handed it to one of Durgan’s apprentices. The apprentice grinned and handed over a sausage, which Buster accepted with a satisfied huff and nudged Ethan. Ethan tucked it into the little “Snackmergency” bag on Buster’s collar, just like always.

  Amelia, watching from by the door, cocked her head and said quietly, “Why does Buster always want sausage? Does it help him feel safe?”

  Pixie trotted over, ribbons and cloak fluttering. “Come on, Amelia! Don’t lag behind—we have to look impressive together!” Pixie nudged Amelia’s shoulder, urging her forward.

  Amelia blinked, then glanced down at her own scarf, the soft blue fabric a little askew around her neck. “But I have this pretty blue scarf,” she said quietly, as if defending herself. “Alpha says it brings out the color in my eyes.”

  Pixie gave an approving wiggle. “It does! We’ll be the fanciest dogs on the street.”

  Amelia’s tail gave a tentative wag as she fell in beside Pixie, a shy little smile on her muzzle.

  Ethan and Lyra packed their new gear and tools into their respective bags of holding, each making sure everything was properly stowed for the walk back. Pixie bounced impatiently near the door, clearly eager to show off her new outfit to the city.

  Durgan handed over the last of their purchases and gave Ethan a firm handshake.

  “If trouble finds yah, or ye need anything else, you know where to find me.”

  Ethan returned the grip. “Likewise. If you ever need me, just send the runner to the Silver Thorn Inn. Or better yet, come have dinner with us there one evening. It’s a great inn.”

  Durgan’s grin widened. “I’ll take you up on that, lad. Been too long since I ate somewhere with a friendly crowd.”

  Moose dipped his head politely. Buster thumped his tail once, Pixie pranced forward with Amelia at her side, and Lyra’s gaze swept the street beyond as the Pack headed out together.

  They slipped into the city’s evening crowds, Pixie’s ribbons bright, Buster daydreaming about snacks, and Ethan just happy to be home with his crew.

  Mara bustled out from the kitchen, apron streaked with flour, balancing a tray piled high with honey cakes. She set it down in front of Ethan, cheeks a little pink from the heat, and gave a tired but proud smile. “Tonight’s batch for your storage. And Pixie, don’t think I didn’t see you eyeing these—Ethan, you’ll have to keep her from stealing an extra.”

  Before Ethan could answer, two of Jorrin and Mara’s youngest ran up from the common room, excitement in their voices.

  “You’re back! We didn’t see the Pack all day,” one complained, reaching up to scratch Pixie’s head and then hugging Buster around the neck.

  “We missed you!” the other pouted, giving Moose and Amelia a gentle pat. “It’s not the same without dogs underfoot.”

  Pixie gave the girl a gentle wag and licked her cheek. “We missed you too! But Ethan said we had to run all his errands today or he’d get lost again.”

  Ethan grinned and picked up one of the cakes. “Can’t argue with that. I’ll try to keep Pixie away from the tray, but no promises with this crew.” He broke off a piece for Pixie, who snatched it up and wiggled in delight, licking stray crumbs off the floor.

  Jorrin passed behind them, clapping Ethan on the shoulder. “If Pixie gets to those cakes first, I’m betting on her over you, lad.”

  Buster sniffed the air and wagged his tail, while Moose found a spot near the hearth to stretch out, content for the first time all day.

  Amelia drifted close and, after a moment, gently nudged one of the honey cakes toward herself, glancing at Ethan for permission. When he nodded, she took it with shy, precise bites, her blue scarf askew but clean.

  Ethan tucked the rest of the tray safely into his dimensional storage, making sure none were left behind for Pixie to sneak later.

  He looked up at Mara. “You might have some help soon. There’s a merchant in town—Durgan Ironheel. He told me about a girl named Tamri, best baker in Lantern Row. I told him to send her here if she wants to work.”

  Mara’s eyes went wide, her smile brightening with relief. “If she can handle an oven, she’s hired. I’ve baked more cakes this week than I did in the last two years. And if she’s half as good as you say, maybe I can finally stop worrying about running out of honey every week.”

  Jorrin, overhearing, grinned. “You mean you’ll finally have time to sit and eat with the rest of us?”

  Mara shot him a look. “Only if Ethan lets me out of my cake debt.”

  Ethan raised his hands, laughing. “Hey, I’m not the one eating them all!”

  Pixie, mouth still full, mumbled, “Not for lack of trying.”

  Everyone at the table burst out laughing.

  Dinner was loud and lively. Mara and Jorrin carried in steaming bowls of stew and baskets of thick bread. Gwenna arrived just as they were sitting down, waving away Jorrin’s offer of ale with a tired but genuine smile. The kids—sticky-fingered from honey cake “quality control”—chased Pixie and Buster under the tables until Jorrin threatened to set Moose on “guard duty” by the kitchen door. Lyra ate quietly but seemed more relaxed than usual. Amelia curled up next to Ethan’s chair, her tail thumping whenever anyone handed her a scrap of bread.

  As the meal wound down, Ethan watched a group of regulars in the corner playing a noisy game with thick wooden tiles—something like dominos, but not quite. The laughter, the clatter, and the easy bustle of voices made the inn feel alive in a way he hadn’t realized he’d missed.

  On impulse, Ethan leaned over to Mara. “Do you have any thick paper? The heavier the better.”

  Mara looked puzzled, but Jorrin, already curious, started digging through the pantry and the old storage bins. “I’ve got some scraps—odds and ends from old menus and order sheets. Not fancy, but it holds up.”

  Ethan took what he could get: a fistful of mismatched paper, a bit of charcoal, and a paring knife to trim the edges. He found a corner table, and with Pixie “helping” by stacking and unstacking blank cards (for about two minutes before getting distracted by a group of kids spinning a top), began to sketch out suits and numbers.

  After about half an hour, he had a rough but workable deck. Ethan glanced around the room and waved Lyra over. “Come try this—trust me, it’s more fun than it looks.” He nodded at Jorrin behind the bar, who came to join with a grin. Gwenna pulled up a chair, her curiosity obvious. “You said new rules, not more ways for Pixie to cheat,” she teased.

  A couple of regulars who’d been playing tiles perked up and drifted over, eager for something new.

  Ethan quickly explained the basics—Texas Hold ’Em. At first, the rules got tangled, but after a few hands (and a few confused arguments about which “river” meant what), the table was hooked. Bits and Pieces clinked as the pot grew. Pixie, unable to sit still, kept running back and forth from the kids to the table, offering running commentary (“I like the shiny ones best!”) before darting away again.

  Lyra won the first hand. Then the second. Then the third—by her tenth straight win, she sat behind a ridiculous mound of Bits and paper markers, her face perfectly blank.

  Ethan gave her a flat look. “Okay, that’s it. You’re cut off. I don’t know what god you’ve been praying to, but the rest of us want a chance.”

  Jorrin laughed, shuffling the deck for the next round. Gwenna grinned. “Remind me never to bet against you if it’s something serious.”

  Buster, meanwhile, eyed the cards with a glint of deep concentration from under the table. He sent a nudge through the bond: You should have folded on the flop. But if you get a seven on the river, you’ll win—but there’s only a 3% chance. Either bluff, or fold.

  Ethan tried not to laugh, glancing down at Buster’s earnest face. Are you counting cards already? he sent back.

  Buster’s mental reply came with a smug flick of his tail: Somebody has to keep things interesting.

  Mara brought more bread, Jorrin swapped out drinks, and the laughter carried well into the night. Every time Ethan tried to stand, Gwenna (with a sly grin) would deal the next hand herself. Even she, usually guarded, was relaxed—her smile easy and unhurried.

  By the time he finally packed up his deck, the fire was dying low, and the Pack—full, warm, and a little sleepy—felt like they’d found the heart of the city.