Week 7

  The notification hovered at eye-level, uncaring and insistent:

  [-500 XP: Withholding Critical Information.]

  Calanthe glared at it, daring it to go away. It didn’t. She slumped onto the wooden counter, propped her chin in her hands, and stared at the small statue of Belus that Theron had bought for her on her first “date.”

  “This world sucks,” she told it flatly.

  She knew that the Boss always heard her complaints even though he always pretended not to, so it was not only permissible but compulsory to protest frequently and loudly. A bit like that time just before she left when she refused to leave his office until he gave her the manual for the world she was being dropped into.

  “You know exactly what I want,” she remembered telling him. She had given him the evil side eye for good measure.

  It had turned into a bit of a staring match but in the end she had been persuaded that it would be “unfair” and “unethical” for her to possess a world manual, and that she would be given “considerations” in return for her understanding. She stared angrily at the statue of Belus on her table, making sure he knew every measure of the irritation in her heart. For a moment, it almost seemed like it was winking at her.

  Ember lay curled in front of the hearth, his ribcage rising and falling with the slow, even breath of a creature at rest but never truly asleep. He watched her, one eye flickering red in the firelight, then whimpered.

  A soft thump sounded at the back door. Callie straightened, wiping the grimace from her face, and composed herself. Briar entered, arms loaded with fresh-cut herbs, boots still muddy from the lakeshore. Her nose crinkled at the lingering smell of hot vinegar, which Callie had been reducing for an experiment with cough syrup.

  “You’re home early,” Briar said, then noticed Callie’s posture. She set down the nettles and cocked her head. “What’s wrong?”

  Callie hesitated, but the otherwise invisible notification was still there, blinking like a wounded firefly. She pointed to it. “The system fined me half a thousand XP for not tattling on the orcs.”

  Briar frowned. “Tattling?”

  “The Hall wanted a full report. They knew about Ashrend’s people; knew they were making the pilgrimage to the Archive. Asked if I saw any evidence of ‘dangerous ritual activity.’” Callie rolled her eyes. “I said no. Apparently, they didn’t buy it.”

  “Why is that a crime?” Briar squinted, grabbing a cloth to wipe her hands. “Which reminds me, I need more information on the whole XP thing as well.”

  Callie sighed. “The Engine doesn’t like loose ends. If it suspects you’re hiding part of the story, it will punish you. Sometimes it’s a warning, sometimes…” she tapped the notification, “...it’s an experience point deduction.”

  Briar sidled up to the counter, closer than usual. “Is that… bad? You still have a lot, right?”

  “It’s not the number,” said Callie, “it’s what it means. Every time I resist the plot, the system ramps up the pressure.” She reached under the counter and retrieved the Healing Guild’s “welcome” scroll—the one with all know Healing levels and skills, printed in a brisk, utilitarian script. She unrolled it and tapped the parchment. “See this? Level 25. Almost all because I healed Ember.”

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  Briar peered at the scroll. “Twenty-five sounds impressive to me.”

  “It’s barely adequate,” said Callie. “And certainly not in a world where the average monster starts at level ten, and the first major dungeon expects a party with at least one Level 25 healer.” She jabbed a finger at the skill list: “Bone Setting. Field Suturing, Purify Water. Vitality Sense. All useful for patching up paper cuts, not much else. Ok, the bone setting is kind of nice.” Her mouth twisted. “If I had to heal an actual hero, I’d just get us both killed.”

  Briar brushed hair from her eyes, looking at Callie with something between admiration and confusion. “I never knew there were levels for… people like us.”

  “Everyone’s got them,” Callie said. “It’s just that most folks never see the ladder. Bakers and gatherers like you might hit ten, maybe fifteen in an entire lifetime. Crafters sometimes more, if they apprentice young. But the big jumps are for the chosen ones—the heroes, mages, warlords.”

  Briar laughed. “I don’t know if I’d want to be a hero.”

  “Exactly! At last, someone with common sense!” Callie said, staring at the statue of Belus again. “But the system wants what it wants.”

  ***

  There was a long silence. The fire spat, Ember shifted his weight, and the two women stood in the dappled lamplight, both unwilling to admit how small and unarmored the conversation made them feel.

  Briar broke first. She set her hand on Callie’s arm, just above the wrist. “Maybe we don’t need their approval. You’re the best healer I’ve met—and I grew up with an entire family of hypochondriacs.”

  Callie sighed deeply, the bitterness draining a little. “If I had a copper for every time someone said that in my old life, I’d have retired already.”

  “I’m serious,” Briar said, voice firmer now. “You fixed Ember when no one else would touch him. You saved half the orc camp, and you didn’t even ask for anything. If the system can’t see that, maybe the system’s broken.”

  Callie felt the words land. Not as a revelation, but as a quiet comfort. A truth, even if only local to this small, lamp-lit shop.

  She covered Briar’s hand with her own. “Thanks,” she said.

  ***

  They worked side by side until late evening, sorting the day’s deliveries and prepping tinctures for tomorrow’s trade.

  Briar tied the bundles of nettle with twine, while Callie calibrated the scales. They kept the door open to let in the last of the lake breeze, and for a time, the world narrowed to nothing but work and the soft buzz of conversation.

  When the lamps burned low and the windows fogged over, Briar stretched her arms overhead. “I should go,” she said, but made no move to leave.

  Callie gestured to the back room. “You’re welcome to stay. I have spare blankets.”

  Briar grinned. “You sure? Last time I stayed, you snored.”

  “No… I did not,” Callie protested, but Briar just laughed.

  They tidied the main room together, doused the lamps, and retreated to the narrow bedroom above the shop. Ember usually slept by the stove, but tonight he padded in after them, snout lowered, tail wagging tentatively.

  Callie peeled off her jacket and sat on the bed’s edge, careful not to disturb the blankets. The old bed came with the shop and was big enough for two, so Briar planted herself beside Callie.

  Ember circled the foot of the bed, restless, then did something new. He put his massive front paws on the mattress and heaved his shoulders up, planting half his body atop the covers. The bed creaked in protest.

  “Ember, what... ” Callie started, but the warg ignored her, crawling forward until his head rested at her hip. His long tail curled around Briar’s outstretched legs.

  Briar looked up, eyes wide. “He’s… never done that before.”

  Callie reached out, hesitantly, and scratched behind his ear. Ember rumbled, pleased, then tucked his chin down and went perfectly still. It took her a moment to understand: he was guarding them. Not the shop, not the territory. Them.

  She looked at Briar, who was watching the scene with a kind of awe.

  “Guess we’re a pack now,” Briar whispered, pulling her blanket close.

  Callie curled onto her side, hand still tangled in Ember’s fur.

  Let the world do its worst, she thought.

  And the world decided to take Callie at her word.