I am Ren Drakemore, age 9, second prince of the Kingdom of Arcadia—and I am currently on a quest to gain power and influence in the Kingdom of Hyperion.

"Gawh!" Maribel growls, crossing her arms in frustration as she flops back onto the wooden stool. "Why is this so hard?"

"I don't know…" I groan, rubbing my temple. The two of us are seated in one of the manor's rooms, now furnished as a treatment room. Our first patient—a thin, dark-skinned woman who had been suffering from the withering—now leaves in good health thanks to my magic.

"Thank you again!" she calls as she exits the room. For the brief moment the door is open, the soft rumble of conversation from the front of the store reaches my ears with greater clarity.

"It's either one silver for the potion or one vial of blood for healing," I hear Willow explaining to a customer at the service counter. As someone very familiar with the mask she wears, I recognize the tone in her voice—this might be the first time she's sounded genuinely excited.

It's our third day living in the apothecary. On the first day, we were visited by a handful of nobles and their retainers who had early knowledge of our new shop. Yesterday brought a broader mix of people as word began to spread. Willow volunteered to manage the service counter—partly because it gave her the perfect excuse to indulge herself.

Many of the commoners who've come through the doors haven't had even a single silver coin to their name. Willow's ingenious solution was to pose as a practitioner of blood magic and allow them to pay with blood instead.

So those without coin are either treated by her at the counter or sent to one of the treatment rooms—where Maribel and I handle the cases. Well… where I treat the patients, while Envy and I attempt to teach Maribel.

"It's not fair…" Maribel grumbles. "You make it look so easy."

I turn back to her with a sigh. "You need to relax. Only when your mind is still can your senses sharpen." I repeat Lady Muara's instructions—the same ones that helped me a year ago.

"You keep saying that," Maribel mutters, rolling her eyes.

"That's what my teacher said," I shrug. "It worked for me."

"Yeah, well, I'm not you," she snaps. "Envy can cast the diagnostic spell for me—that's not the problem. I just have no idea what I'm even looking at!"

"Like, what even is a mitochondria?" she adds, exasperated.

"It's the powerhouse of the cell."

"What does that even mean? Just because you tell me what things are called doesn't mean I understand what they do, or how to fix them."

"You need to be patient. No one learns healing magic in a day."

I suddenly gain a deeper respect for Lady Muara. Teaching is hard—somehow even more exhausting than healing people all day.

"No one is forcing you to do this, you know," I say, groaning in frustration.

"I'm doing this for me," Maribel snaps back. "I don't want to be dependent on anyone else for healing ever again."

You don't know how much she's been through—how much she's suffered—because healing was out of her reach. It's—

The door opens, interrupting Envy and flooding the room with the bustle of the shop. Our eyes are drawn to an elderly man in commoner's clothes—but I hardly register his features. My attention is immediately consumed by the shiny thing attached to his right leg, metallic from the knee down.

"Oh, I got this one," Maribel says confidently, as the door swings shut behind him. "He's lost a leg."

"Don't be ridiculous," says the man attached to the strange appendage, sidling over to the medical bed. "I lost this leg to Nullrot during the war. There's no healing a limb taken by that curse."

"He has a fever."

"Sir, could you please take a seat and put your leg up here?" I ask, patting the bed.

"Uh... okay, but why?" he replies, sounding confused.

I lean in close to examine the prosthetic. I've read about devices like this, but I've never seen one in person. My finger traces along the smooth metal surface, up to a baffling array of overlapping discs and interlocking notches at the joint—an ingenious piece of craftsmanship.

I want it.

"You want his leg?" Envy responds, far too judgmentally inside my head for someone who should understand how intriguing this mechanical device is.

I need to study it!

Maribel, at my side, leans in to mimic my posture, her eyes darting between me and the metal leg. "What are we looking at?" she asks, a bit confused.

"I think I've got the withering. Fever, body aches, sore throat…" the elderly man begins listing his symptoms.

"I'd have to open him up to be sure…" I mutter to myself, tapping the large spring built into the ankle joint.

"You'd have to do what?" the man exclaims, recoiling and slipping off the treatment bed. My eyes follow his prosthetic leg as it hits the floor. I smile, watching how the spring allows the foot to flex naturally at the joint.

"Focus, Ren. He's here for healing."

"This has nothing to do with my damn leg," the man snaps, his voice growing more aggravated.

I sigh, finally looking up for the first time at the aged, gray-bearded face of the man. I activate my finely-tuned diagnostic spell for a moment before responding in a bored tone, "You don't have the withering. You've got a common cold."

"Oh… well, are you going to heal me?" he asks, his tone shifting from angry to confused.

I'm not sure what his expression is—my attention has already drifted back to the intriguing construction of his prosthetic.

I wonder if I could pry the top plates off, or if they require a specialized tool.

"No. It'll get better on its own in a few days," I reply flatly. "It's better to save my mana for people who are literally dying."

"So I waited in that line for nothing?" he grumbles, annoyance creeping into his voice.

"At least now you know you're not dying," Maribel offers encouragingly. "That's something, right?"

"Well… what if I could do something about your leg?" I ask, a smile playing across my face as a wonderful idea sparks in my mind. I'm well aware that the Nullrot curse prevents regrowing what's been lost—but there just might be another way.

"It can't be done," the man says with a resigned sigh.

Sure… but every major advancement was once thought impossible.

"But if it could," I press, undeterred by his pessimism, "if I were able to replace your leg, could I have your metal one?"

"I guess so, if you could do that," he replies, sounding skeptical. "But I don't know why you'd want it. It was made by an artificer specifically for me. It probably won't fit anyone else."

I'd love to meet one of these artificers I keep hearing about.

"Not a problem," I say, jumping to my feet. I cross the room excitedly and pull open the door. "Come with me."

I hurry down the hall and turn right into the brightly lit shop, the old man and Maribel in tow. Customers wander among the shelves, browsing the various potions, while a few stand in line at the service counter across from Willow.

"That'll be one silver coin for the potion," Willow says casually, pointing to the bottle of green liquid sitting on the counter. "And ten more silver for the potions you're hiding in your pockets," she adds with a sly smile, gesturing toward the young beastkin in front of her—a girl with a messy tangle of auburn fur, ringed eyes, twitching ears, and an oversized coat.

The would-be thief freezes, her fluffy striped tail puffing up slightly. She glances over her shoulder at Shadow, who's blocking the doorway with his hulking frame, then back at Willow with a defeated expression.

With a reluctant sigh and disappointed eyes, she produces ten more potions from inside her coat and places them on the counter—claws clicking faintly against the glass.

"I'll just take one," she mutters, slamming down ten dirty copper coins. She snatches up a single potion and stomps off in a huff, her tail flicking irritably behind her with every step. Willow waves mockingly at her back.

Leaning on the counter, chin in hand and clearly enjoying herself, Willow turns to greet me with a smile.

"Need my assistance, young master?" she asks in a casual, sing-song tone.

"Yes. Would you be able to replace this man's leg—one that was lost to Nullrot?" I ask, ushering the old man forward to stand before my mentor.

One of her brows arches slightly as she glances down at the leg. Then, with a knowing look, her eyes flick back up to me. Her piercing blue gaze has an uncanny quality—like she already knows exactly what you want.

Which she probably does.

"My child wants a new toy so badly that he asks me for nothing less than the impossible?" she laughs to herself.

"I told you, boy, it can't be done," the man says, gesturing toward Willow as if presenting damning evidence to a court.

"Hold on, I feel a but coming," I say, eyeing Willow's sly smile.

"However…" Willow purrs, grinning from ear to ear.

She did that on purpose…

"I could replace your leg if you agree to pay me a cup of blood," Willow offers confidently.

"How?" the old man demands. "That's beyond even blood magic."

"She has a habit of solving problems in ways you wouldn't expect," I say reassuringly. To my side, Maribel shoots me a worried look. "But if she says she can do something, you should believe her."

"Do we have a deal?" Willow presses.

"I don't really like that ruddy blood magic stuff," the man says uneasily. "But if it brings my leg back, I'd accept that."

"Perfect!" Willow says brightly, snapping her fingers.

The snap, however, is drowned out by the much louder bang of the man's metal leg rocketing downward—slamming into the floor with a heavy clang—followed by the man being launched several feet into the air and flung back into the wall behind him as a new leg erupts from his knee, violently ejecting the prosthesis with explosive force.

He slumps to the ground, eyes wide and pupils pinprick-tight, frozen in shock. The room goes silent. All eyes turn toward the source of the noise, just in time to witness the discarded metal leg skittering across the floor and slamming into the opposite wall hard enough to shatter into a scatter of components.

"Damn it…" I mutter, ducking just as a rather heavy spring whistles past my head.

"My leg! It's back!" the man exclaims joyfully, poking and prodding at the newly restored limb. And while it seems Willow's magic worked, something definitely looks off about the new leg—something Envy picks up on too.

"Why is the skin on the new leg so much darker?"

Not sure. But knowing Willow… it's probably not something good. Like—it's someone else's leg.

"Or it's a temporary leg that's going to disappear in a few days."

Maybe. But the worst part? The metal leg is completely destroyed. I sigh internally, glancing around at the scattered remnants of what was once a work of art, now strewn across the floor.

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I begin collecting the shattered pieces of my would-be prize while Willow takes her payment. The old man shrieks like a stuck pig when she draws it from him, and Maribel joins me in deliberately looking anywhere but at her while she does it.

Still, despite the ordeal, he exits the shop a happy customer—far too elated to be walking on two feet again to care. And it really was two bare feet, as he'd only entered the shop with a single tattered boot.

No sooner had he stepped out the door—whistling a tune and singing our praises—than Shadow alerted me telepathically: a carriage with an armed escort was approaching the manor. It bore the Hyperion king's banner, and the four guards flanking it on horseback were unmistakably Hyperion soldiers.

I'd been expecting this visit, though it came sooner than anticipated. As the carriage draws closer, I signal to Maribel and Willow, and together we usher the remaining customers out of the shop with their purchases.

"What about us?"

"You've barely been open an hour! How are you already closing?"

"We traveled so far, and now you're turning us away?"

I'm met with these complaints—and many more like them—from the crowd as we step outside and Shadow locks the door behind us. The once mostly orderly line of desperate people quickly devolves into a sea of angry faces.

"Willow?" I call out over the growing tumult, hoping for a solution.

"There are a lot of them…" Willow replies, weariness creeping into her voice. Her smile falters—just for a moment—before snapping back into place. Then, in a voice sickeningly sweet and louder than necessary, she speaks over the chaos.

"Go home in peace."

No sooner are the words spoken than the crowd goes eerily silent. All at once, their eyes glaze over, their postures soften. For a moment, they just stand there, staring at nothing. Then, as one, they turn and begin walking off in various directions—some up the road, others meandering toward the farm fields.

"That cost all the life force I collected yesterday," Willow mutters, a twitch in her eye as she watches the crowd disperse.

"And that metal leg is destroyed," I commiserate, just as the royal carriage pulls up and stops directly in front of me.

"Perhaps you should locate one of those Hyperion artificers," Maribel suggests. "You'd probably learn more from one of them than from that silly old leg."

I shoot her a look that clearly communicates my disagreement with her slander of that fascinating mechanical marvel. But setting her straight will have to wait—I have more pressing matters to address. Namely, the surly-looking Hyperion guard now looming over me from atop a black-and-white spotted warhorse.

"Captain Daniels?" I ask, shielding my eyes from the morning sun with one hand as I recognize the familiar face backlit by the golden light.

"It's Lieutenant Daniels now…" he replies icily, his face humorless.

A pang of guilt tugs at me as I realize his fall from grace is, more or less, my fault.

Then again, he's the one who didn't ask for proof of my identity. And technically, it was my actions that persuaded the king to spare his life. So really, from a certain perspective, I saved him.

A perspective that, based on the angry looks from Daniels, Thalen, Kane, and Shiro, none of them seems to share.

Why those four were assigned to escort me to the capital, I don't know—but it feels like a sick joke worthy of the fae.

But that's precisely why they've come. They confirm as much in the few terse words exchanged during the short ride back to the royal castle. Apparently, in the two days since our last visit, the king has acted quickly to uphold our agreement. He's summoned an emergency meeting of all the nobles who oversee farmland. That meeting is today—and now it's time for me to face it.

Maribel and Shadow stay behind to watch the manor while Willow joins me for the trip to the capital.

Even though I knew this day was coming—it was my idea, after all—that doesn't stop my heart from racing or my thoughts from spiraling during the ride.

"You're going to do fine, young master," Willow reassured me.

"Any chance you could just wave your hand and convince them I'm brilliant?" I ask with a nervous laugh.

"None at all. You'll have to do that on your own," she replies, gently patting my head where it rests in her lap. "Now, if they get violent... I'll throw them out a window for you," she adds, teasing.

I think.

The sun has crept a bit higher, and the spring day has warmed by the time we reach the castle gates. I sit up straighter, flattening my doublet in an attempt to appear more dignified to the sentries as we pass. I attempt—and fail—to bat away Willow's saliva-slicked thumb as she rubs a smudge of dirt from my cheek.

When the carriage comes to a halt inside the inner courtyard, we step out to find an honor guard of ten men in pristine armor flanking our path into the castle. Daniels and his men dismount as well, handing off their horses before leading us up to the heavy double doors of the main entrance.

I can't be certain, but there's an awkward tension in the air as Daniels guides us through the hallways and up stairwells in silence. For someone so used to being alone, you'd think I'd be comfortable with a little quiet.

But when that silence is born from unspoken words—and when it speaks volumes on its own—it becomes something else entirely. The pressure builds like water behind a dam until I finally crack.

I clear my throat. "Daniels?"

"Yes?" he replies curtly.

"I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused you." The words are genuine. I don't intend to make enemies needlessly.

"It's fine," he responds—in the most not fine tone imaginable. "Our punishment is to be your personal escort during your stay here."

Well. I'm definitely sure about the tension now.

The awkward quiet returns as Willow and I follow behind Daniels, with the other three guards trailing close behind us. Clearly, an apology isn't going to cut it. Shouldn't they cut me a little slack for rescuing their kingdom from the clutches of plague and famine? Surely, a little thing like personal disgrace and a loss of status is trivial in comparison… right?

While I silently reflect on Daniels' selfish shortsightedness—and glare at his back—something catches my eye. The lamplight glints off a metal wand strapped to his hip. A weapon just like it nearly ended me, if not for a stroke of luck only a few days ago. The memory sends a chill down my spine, and I become painfully aware that three more of those weapons are behind me, held by men who aren't exactly fond of me.

Without a word, I quietly raise a thin, flexible barrier tight to my skin and reinforce my body with Iron Hide. I must remember: I am in a foreign land, surrounded by people and politics I don't yet understand, in a kingdom full of unknown threats that could be waiting around every corner. I must not let my guard down.

Yet even as that chilling reminder settles into my bones, the weapon at Daniels' hip sparks something deeper—my insatiable curiosity. More integral to me than even my name. I may have been raised in near solitude, but I was never truly alone. My books were my friends, my creations my family, and learning… my only real joy.

That artificer-forged weapon may pose a danger to me—but it also represents an irresistible mystery waiting to be solved. And I can't look away.

"Hey, Daniels," I break the silence again as we reach the top of the stairwell on the third floor. "May I take a look at your firearm?"

Daniels turns his head to shoot me a furious glare before wordlessly continuing down the stone hallway.

"Perhaps later then…" I mutter.

Not much farther down the hall, I see a door left slightly ajar, additional light pouring into the corridor. As we draw closer, my ears pick up the sound of many murmuring voices, carrying on in various overlapping conversations.

Daniels throws the door open, and the room falls into silence as he steps back, gesturing for me to enter.

"The audience you demanded awaits you, prince. Hope it's worth all the trouble…"

I take a deep breath. My heart is racing, sweat beads on my brow, and for a moment, turning tail and running feels like a very enticing option. But with a calm hand on my shoulder and a smile from Willow, I get the push I need to face the greatest fear ever to torment mankind:

Public speaking.

I know for a fact I'm not alone in preferring to face a Mithril Fur Bear over speaking in front of a crowd. And considering I've actually fought one before, I'd say that means a lot more than it does for most.

I stride into the room, shoulders back and head high, determined to convince these people that I can help them. That there's a better way to manage their lands—one that will feed their people and save their kingdom. I have to project confidence and earn their trust, because if I pull this off, they'll be indebted to me in a way that might be impossible to repay.

Reliable allies for life. Piece of cake.

"This must be a joke!"

The first thing I see is a tall, finely dressed man with a braided beard and a furious face, pointing squarely at me.

"Not only are we expected to be lectured on how to manage our lands by a ruddy Arcadian—but by a child?" He roars this to the group of twenty or so men and women arranged around a wide circle of tables in a large room, sunlight pouring through tall arched windows along the right wall.

They're mostly human—nobles and their retainers, judging by the attire. Among them, only a single female elf sits casually, watching me with quiet interest. Her calm expression is a sharp contrast to the rest, who are standing and staring at me with varying degrees of anger, confusion, and disbelief.

"I'm here to help—" I begin, trying not to sound as indignant as I feel, but the rising tumult swallows my voice.

"Arcadians don't help anyone!" shouts a squat, bald noble with arms like tree trunks crossed over his chest. "Your whole kingdom does nothing but take from us!"

"There are ways to improve your farms—"

"What would a pampered noble brat know about farming?" growls a shirtless wolfkin near the back, his gray fur bristling with disdain.

"I've studied—"

"If he were a mage, we could actually put him to work," suggests a young man.

"Be serious, Gregory," snaps the older noble beside him, gray-haired and scowling. "The kid looks seven. There's no way he's a mage."

"Just listen for a moment—"

"Have you even seen a plow, boy?" sneers a sharp-nosed woman in a deep green robe, arms folded, eyes narrow.

"It wouldn't hurt to hear him out," says the noble elf woman with an audible sigh. "We lose nothing if his advice turns out to be—"

"A complete waste of time!" interrupts one noble with the braided beard, his fury undimmed. "We do lose something, Lady Opal. We lose valuable time we could be spending managing our lands."

"Dax, it was the king who summoned us," Opal replies coolly, fixing Dax with a disdainful look. "It's your king you must heed, not the boy."

"I didn't ask your opinion, long-ears," Lord Dax snaps, venom in his voice. "I'll remind you—we didn't have food shortages before your kind settled here."

"Listen!" My frustration finally boils over. I shout loud enough to cut through the din, at least enough for Lord Dax and Lady Opal to hear me.

Dax turns on me instantly, eyes burning with outrage. "How dare you raise your voice at me, boy!" he snarls, closing the distance in three furious strides.

He rears back his hand to strike me, clearly intent on backhanding me into next week. I meet his fury with a steady gaze, not flinching. His hand will break itself on my barrier before it touches me.

Time slows. My mind braces. I watch the arc of his hand descend toward my face— And then, he vanishes.

Erased from existence.

One second he's there, hand mid-swing, the next—gone.

A sharp rush of air whips past me. I spin toward it, just in time to catch a glimpse of Lord Dax flailing helplessly, sailing out the arched window like a sack of potatoes fired from a catapult.

Willow had clearly made good on her promise—without even bothering to glance away from the birds outside the window. She simply exhales, as if thoroughly bored, like all of this is terribly beneath her.

I barely manage to catch him, wrapping a static barrier around him, halting his fall. I drag him back up—scraped, stunned, and gasping—then dump him unceremoniously onto the stone floor just inside the window.

Dax leaps to his feet, clutching his chest, breathing hard, eyes wide with shock. The rest of the room feels frozen in time—nobles and retainers alike caught mid-discussion, hands suspended in half-made gestures, mouths agape.

Except for Lady Opal, who lets out a single snort of amusement. Though clearly surprised, she seems to take a bit of pleasure in the growing wet mark spreading across the front of Dax's trousers.

For better or worse, that little flight seems to have captured the room's attention. From their perspective, it probably looked like I had just unleashed a powerful spell to make an example of their loudest voice. I wouldn't have chosen fear to earn their respect—but that's where I've landed.

So I won't waste the opportunity.

"Yes, I am young. And yes, you have every reason to distrust Arcadia," I begin, voice calm but firm. "But your people are starving. Your farms are failing. And while I cannot undo the damage my kingdom has caused, I can offer you a path forward."

I sweep my gaze across the silent room.

"I am well-versed in farming methods—non-magical ones—that can greatly improve your yields. I don't presume to know your lands better than you. I'm not here to lecture—I want to work with you to find real solutions. To help you feed your people."

I pause, then gesture to the door.

"But I'm not keeping you here. If your pride matters more to you than your citizens' lives, then leave. You are free to go."

Six of those in the room—including Lord Dax—stand and leave without a word. The door shuts behind them with a heavy thud. I don't watch them go.

With the room quieter and only the more open-minded nobles remaining, I continue. I explain what I've seen during my travels through Hyperion: fields with uneven hydration, some oversaturated, others cracked and dry. Fertilization just as inconsistent. Signs of land being overworked without recovery.

Then I pause. "That's what I've observed," I say. "But I want to hear from you. You know these lands better than I do. What have you been dealing with?"

There's a moment of hesitation. Then Lady Opal breaks the silence.

"The sparrows," she says plainly. "I warned the others not to cull them. They disrupted seeding, yes—but they also ate the insects. Now, without them, we're drowning in pests." She glances at the others. "But no one listened. Because the warning came from me."

There's a visible shift. Some of them shift uncomfortably in their seats.

Another noble speaks next. "I've seen patches of rot—perfect circles—right in the middle of otherwise healthy crops. Some blame demons. Others think it's spirits. All I know is we're losing yield."

There are murmurs of agreement, but no clear explanation. I nod. "Not every problem can be solved immediately, but some can."

I go on to explain. Aqueducts from local rivers would solve the hydration issue and allow for controlled irrigation. I explain that they shouldn't plant every acre, but instead let half the land go fallow each season. They balk at first—Lady Opal looks skeptical.

"You want us to grow less?" she asks.

"No," I reply. "I want you to grow smarter. Rested land yields more. And the cleared plant matter? Burn it into biochar. Use it as fertilizer. It's how you rebuild soil."

By the end of the discussion, they seem less hostile. Perhaps not fully convinced—but willing to try. I offer to spend half of each day visiting each of their lands in turn, using my magic to construct aqueducts and treat this season's crops. It won't solve everything, but it will give them a much-needed head start while the broader reforms take root.

They thank me—some sincerely, some with reserve—before I'm called away to meet with the king. Presumably to discuss the results of the council.

"Good evening, Your Majesty," I say, offering King Thaddeon a respectful bow.

Looking up, I catch his gaze shift from me to Willow, who hasn't bowed. Instead, she's casually inspecting the ornately decorated ceiling of the king's private chambers.

The mural above appears to depict a gruesome, dramatized version of the war between Celestia and the Dragon God.

"They never get it right," she mutters under her breath.

"Did you throw one of my nobles out a window?" Thaddeon asks flatly, choosing to ignore the fact that Willow's mind seems miles away as she continues staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Yes, but—" I begin, scrambling for the best way to excuse what must seem like wildly inappropriate behavior.

"He was about to strike you. A guest in my castle," Thaddeon says, arching a brow. "And you didn't actually let him fall."

"Right…" I reply, unsure where this is headed.

"I'm only sorry I didn't get to see the look on Dax's face," he says, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "He probably had it coming."

"Yeah… sorry about that?" I offer, voice tilting uncertainly. Still not sure whether I'm being scolded or congratulated.

"No need," the king shakes his head. "On the contrary, I should be the one apologizing for how my nobles treated you. Know this—those who chose to walk out will have their lands stripped and redistributed to those with the wisdom to stay."

"Oh…" I murmur, unsure how to respond to the fact that I've just inadvertently destroyed the livelihoods of six more Hyperions. That's six more people in this kingdom with reason to hold a grudge. I sincerely hope this doesn't come back to bite me.

"From the way they depict this, you'd think the humans actually fought in that war rather than died like rats," Willow mutters to herself, her eyes still fixed on the murals overhead.

"Well then, how did the rest of the council go?" the king asks, leaning in with genuine interest. "Were your suggestions well received?"

"I think we laid a good foundation for meaningful change," I reply, shooting Willow a sharp look that clearly says, Remember, you're supposed to be one of those silly humans right now. "And I wanted to thank you—for trusting me enough to call that meeting."

"It was the least I could do. And the meeting was for my kingdom's benefit," Thaddeon shrugs. "I'm surprised you didn't ask for something more in return."

"We greatly appreciate the land you provided for the apothecary," I say.

"Speaking of which, I apologize for the runaround Quin gave you," the king adds with a groan. "I had ordered that property set aside for you from the start—it was my family's private estate. Apparently, Quin thought it was wasted on you. You should know, he's no longer my retainer."

Great. That makes seven.

"There is one more thing I'd like to ask of you," I say, having decided long ago that this was a request worth making. And now is the perfect opportunity. "I've heard a great deal about your kingdom's artificers. As someone who loves to learn, the chance to study under one you trust would be priceless to me."

"With all you could ask for, this is what you desire?" Thaddeon chuckles. "Very well. I'd be happy to introduce you to my royal artificer, Mr. Ayla."

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