It was a dreary and rainy morning in Mulnirsheim.

The kind that made even the gargoyles on the rooftops look tired. Rain drummed against the cobblestones like a cheap percussion band, and the gutters were already overflowing with yesterday's sins.

Inside the Adventurers Guild, the air was thick with wet leather, spilled ale, and the sharp perfume of testosterone. The main hall was a jungle of noise and nerves. Clerks squawking over lost ledgers, adventurers smelling of wet leather, boards full of cheap paper with quests nobody really wanted. I fit right in.

I'd only made it halfway to the board when someone called my name.

"William!"

Trulda stood behind the guild desk, waving me over with a bright smile. To any stranger she looked like a girl of seventeen. Only those who knew her story remembered she was older than most of the guild clerks' grandmothers. A perm who would live out her life inside the VR. Barbarian by class, guardian angel by heart.

She leaned across the desk as he approached. "Just in time. There's a man here who needs help. Poor fellow's been sitting there half the morning, and none of the revenants will touch his request."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

Trulda tilted her head, her smile softening. "It isn't the usual kind of quest. No coin, no glory. An old hermit from some monastery northwest of here. Revenants broke in while he was away and stole some holy statues, he says. The others think it's a waste of time."

"Then why should I care?"

"Because you don't pick the shiny ones. You pick the ones that matter."

That's Trulda. Soft heart in a city of stones. "You're wasted behind this desk, Trulda. You should be running the guild."

She grinned, looking for all the world like a teenager caught in mischief. "Hush, or they'll start believing you. Now go on. Before the poor man loses the courage to ask again. He calls himself Harvald Custodis. Seems to be a monk or some kind of hermit, and he's clearly spooked by so many people."

He was sitting on the benches. Straight-backed but small in the bustle, clearly unused to such hubbub. His clothes were plain wool and patched linen, but spotless, as though he had scrubbed them that very morning before entering the city. The man's hands were lined with years, but steady. He looked entirely out of place among the clamor, yet his eyes held a quiet purpose.

A pilgrim maybe, or someone who still believed the gods took confessions from mortals. His eyes had the kind of grief you can't fake.

"You asked for detective work," I said simply.

Harvald looked up, relief softening his weathered face. "Yes. They told me you are one who… who solves things others ignore. I am Harvald Custodis. I tend the old monastery northwest of Mulnirsheim."

"The one two days' walk away?" I pointed it out on the big map of the area at the wall.

The old man nodded. "A forgotten place, but not abandoned by me. I keep the floors clean, mend the doors, polish the brass. I speak the gods' names so they are not entirely forgotten. It is not much, but it is my work."

"And what has been lost?"

Harvald sighed, seemingly embarrassed. "I left, only for a few hours, to gather some berries from the forest. They give a green pigment that holds better than any other, and I needed it to repaint the east door. When I returned, revenants had forced the entrance. At least I think it was revenants. No native would defile a monastery. No matter how old and forgotten. The door was broken, my meager belongings scattered. But what I grieve for are the three statuettes they took. Sacred pieces. Small, yet holy."

He unfolded a cloth parcel with care and laid out five coins on the table between them. Each was gold, but different: an Esselmark crown stamped with a wolf's head, a Verdant League solar with its wheat sigil, a Mulnirian imperial coin darkened with age, and two others I hadn't ever seen.

"It is not much, but they are yours if you recover them," Harvald said. "If you refuse, then at least I asked. If you succeed, and gold does not please you, I can offer some lesser relics from the monastery instead. I confess, I do not know their worth."

I leaned on the table, studying both coins and man. The coins would fetch far more than five gold in the right hands, but Harvald didn't seem to know or care. His grief was real. I straightened. "Keep them. If I bring your gods back, you can pay me one to cover my expenses. That will do."

Harvald's eyes widened, as if he hadn't expected such mercy. "Then… then I thank you. The statuettes are these: a brass figurine of an open chest, the symbol of Peituwin, god of trade. A small wire tree, twisted into roots and branches, sacred to Fliedabarr the keeper of the wild. And a tarnished copper bowl, shaped like an open mouth. I do not know to which god it belongs. It has always been there, and I have always cleaned it, even as it unsettled me. As though something breathes through it when I touch it."

I felt the kind of chill you can't blame on weather. Some relics aren't meant to be found, but I would wrestle them back into the light nonetheless. "Understood. I'll start in the markets. Statuettes are too heavy for revenants to carry long. They will have sold them quickly."

Harvald closed the cloth over the coins again and pressed his hands together. "If you find nothing, I will still thank you for trying."

I nodded, already turning toward the door.

* * *

If Mulnirsheim had a soul, the black markets were where it would go to pawn itself. Stalls of crooked timber leaned on one another like drunkards, canvas roofs sagged with rainwater, and the air stank of tallow and boiled spices. Here, everything could be bought. Stolen relics, counterfeit charms, or your own conscience, slightly used.

I started asking about a wire tree. Most fences laughed. One didn't. She drummed her fingers too fast on the counter. Guilt always has a rhythm.

"Ugly thing," she said. "Bent and worthless."

"Not worthless to the one who lost it," I replied. My tone was patient, but I let my gaze linger long enough for her to squirm. "Where?"

She gave up with a shrug. "Passed it to Sergo, an antique dealer in the lower market. He'll sell his mother's teeth if the price is right. You didn't hear it from me."

I dropped a silver coin on her counter. "I was never here."

Sergo's shop stank of mildew and despair. The shelves were cluttered with rusting swords, cracked hourglasses, and helmets that had never seen war. Behind them, half-hidden, sat the wire tree. Its coils were bent, but the reverent craftsmanship still shone.

"Price?" I asked, pointing.

Sergo opened his mouth, but I interrupted him by placing a silver coin on the counter. "That statue was stolen from a holy place," I said calmly. "Do you really want to anger the church it belongs to?"

He gulped, but didn't back down. "A tree made of wire? I don't know any church that would hold that holy."

I knew nothing of this god, apart from his title. I held his gaze nonetheless. "Fliedabarr, the guardian of the wild, keeper of the forests."

"Fliedabarr? That one's gone for good. Even I have heard that news. His last temple burned in the Border Forest."

"His temples may be gone, but in the hearts of his followers, he still lives on. I can fetch some elven refugees from the Borderforest Kingdom. They will be delighted to discuss their faith with you."

The dealer's smile collapsed. He fetched the statue quickly, muttering excuses. I didn't answer, only took the wire tree with a care that shamed the man. Outside, in the alley, I straightened the bent coils with a fingertip. The metal seemed to sigh in relief, as though Fliedabarr's patience had outlasted even careless hands.

* * *

The next one was harder to find. Following some rumors, I returned to the Guild. Their archives are quieter than a confession booth at midnight. Dust, ink, and bad memories. I combed through the revenant logs without success, until I asked around if anyone else had done the same. Indeed, one had. Sterin, a gambler with mouth too big for his purse. He'd asked if there was any quest mentioning a shiny chest statue.

I found him in the West Gate tavern, at a corner table with three other revenants, a stack of cards in his hand, and more confidence than good sense. His laugh cut through the haze like a cracked bottle.

I made my way through the tables. Nobody stopped me. Nobody ever does. I've got that look that says: Don't ask questions you don't want answered.

When I reached his table, I didn't ask permission. I just sat.

He looked up, half-smile already forming. "You don't look like you belong here."

"I belong wherever a trail leads," I said. "And it led to you."

His buddies chuckled. The kind of laughter that comes from men who think trouble's still funny.

"You've got something that doesn't belong to you," I said.

Stolen story; please report.

"Plenty of things don't belong to me," he said, shuffling his cards. "That's the problem in life, isn't it?"

"Let's start with a brass chest. Small, holy… and stolen from a monastery."

The table went quiet. The music didn't. The piano player was deaf to the shift in mood.

Sterin's smirk twitched. "You could just take it. Get the guard and make everyone's night awkward."

"I could," I said, lighting a cigarette. "But you look like the kind of man who thinks luck means something. So, I'm offering you a game."

He raised an eyebrow. "A game?"

"Cards. One hand. Your brass chest against something I can afford to lose."

His eyes narrowed, measuring me. The smoke between us curled like a question mark.

"And what's that?" he asked.

I pulled out a finger sized wand tipped with a clear blue stone. "An artefact I won from the last crook I played with. One of the spell-foci everyone his nephew is trying to get on an empty market. Worth ten gold coins. You win, it's yours. I win; you give back the chest."

The others at the table leaned in. Sterin licked his lips, greed glinting behind his grin. "Deal."

He shuffled like a man who trusted his own luck more than his hands. The cards slapped the wood one by one. Worn corners, faded suits, the ghosts of other bad nights.

We played Kings and Knaves, an old tavern game where half the rules are bluff and the other half are cheating.

He dealt us both five. I took mine slow. The first card stared back at me. A Queen of Daggers. The rest were junk. Not a winning hand. But sometimes the cards aren't the point. Sometimes the read is.

Sterin's fingers danced. He was one of those gamblers who performed for the room. Spinning his cards, tapping his coins, smiling too much.

"Bad weather for honest work," he said.

"Good weather for cleaning up other people's messes," I said, keeping my face still.

He threw a coin into the pot, eyes gleaming. I matched it.

Second draw. He took two, I took one. My heart didn't bother speeding up when I saw what I pulled. A King of Crowns. Still not enough.

He smirked. "You know, the chest's not worth much. Brass, not gold. Sentimental value maybe. Why bother?"

"Because an old man misses them," I said.

That made him laugh. Sharp, mean laughter that echoed off the bottles.

"Your turn," he said.

I leaned back, exhaling smoke through the side of my mouth. "Tell you what, Sterin. Let's make this cleaner. Double or nothing. You win, you keep the wand and the five gold coins that are supposed to pay my rent. I win, I take the chest and your story about where you found it."

He hesitated. That was all I needed to see. Hesitation's the tell of a man who knows the gods stopped listening.

"Deal," he said.

The last card came like a verdict. I drew the Knave of Chains, the kind of card that doesn't win by number but by nerve.

He spread his hand first.

Three Queens.

A strong hand.

I let the silence hang, long enough for him to think it was over. Then I spread mine: King, Queen, Knave. Three suits of the Guild's old crest. Not the best hand on the board, but the one that beats his if you know the tavern's house rules. "Kings outrank Queens if the Knave wears a crown." I intoned aloud.

His face froze. "That rule's not…"

"House rules apply, unless explicitly banned." I said, tapping the table. I had made the error of not knowing about house rules once, costing me a month's rent worth in gold. This time I had made enquiries beforehand.

The others laughed, nervous and grateful they weren't in his shoes.

Sterin's smile cracked down the middle. "Fine. Take it." He pulled out a slip of paper and scratched some names on it. "The names of the revenants that acquired it. Should be enough of a story."

He reached under the table and pulled out a small cloth bundle from his bag. The brass chest gleamed faintly through the fabric; its lid etched with the mark of Peituwin.

I took it and slipped a gold coin across the table anyway. "For the game," I said.

He blinked.

"Consider it payment for your silence. Next time, don't rob gods who keep score. The god of trade always keeps his ledgers."

Outside, the rain hadn't stopped. It feels like it never does in this city.

I lit another cigarette and watched the smoke drift into the alley fog. The brass chest felt warm through the cloth, like it remembered being worshipped once.

Maybe it did.

Maybe the gods do keep score.

But in Mulnirsheim, the only rules that matter are the ones you can make stick when the cards are down.

* * *

Three revenants had split the loot. The last one was more elusive. A sorceress of unknown specialty named Elifre. Unlike the others, she had not sold her find. Instead, she had gone silent, withdrawing from markets and guild postings. That silence was its own confession.

I tracked her to an alley behind a perfumer's shop. Her eyes were ringed with sleepless shadows, her hands trembling though she held them tight at her sides. She smiled faintly when she saw me.

"You seek the bowl," she said. "It isn't yours."

"It isn't yours either," William replied.

Her smile cracked. "It speaks to me. Not in words, not always. But in visions. Mouths, open mouths, waiting to be fed. I thought it was a quest item. Maybe the trigger to a mystery quest."

"And what did it give you?"

Her hands shook harder. "Dreams. Whispers. I don't know what the programmers thought, but that thing is weird. No one wanted to buy it. The NPCs seem to know a cursed item if they see one. Lucky bastards."

"It will tell you of nothing but hunger," William said. "Give it back, before it eats more than your sleep."

For a long moment, she wavered. Then, with a shudder, she pulled the bowl from her pack. Tarnished copper, shaped into a mouth frozen open. The air around it felt heavier, as if listening.

"Take it," she whispered. "I don't want it anymore."

I wrapped it in cloth, careful not to touch the metal, and left her staring after him with hollow eyes. Then she logged out and vanished in a cloud of sparks.

* * *

It had taken me two days to find all three statuettes. The old man had long since returned home to protect it from further desecration. I had been told to send a runner to fetch him, but I chose to visit in person instead. Grrg had wanted to accompany me, but I needed some time alone. Away from prying eyes and noisy chatter. Mulnirsheim, the city that never sleeps… More like the city that never shuts up.

The path faded almost entirely less than an hour's walk from the city. No signs or cairns showed the way, but since my quest was tied to the monastery, the guild had lent me a magical quest map. As long as I carried it, a faint glow traced the route within my vision.

The rain had stopped the morning I left, leaving behind the smell of damp earth and rotting vegetation. It was a miserable trek up the treacherous mountain slopes, but the last case I'd helped the city watch with had rewarded me with a pair of old, worn boots. Standard issue for the watch. I'd been skeptical at first, but under the grinning faces of the bearded watchmen, I accepted them with grace. A good decision, as I later found out when I put them on.

Boots of the City Watch These boots are enchanted for comfortable wear, slow but thorough self-cleaning, and absolute weatherproofing. Your feet will remain dry and at the perfect temperature, even under adverse conditions.

A small hut stood at the halfway point, probably built for pilgrims or hunters. It made for a relatively comfortable night. I almost started to enjoy the journey… until I realized I'd forgotten to bring coffee.

The monastery rose from the hills like a broken tooth, its stones worn smooth by centuries. Harvald was sweeping the steps when I arrived, and his face lit with fragile hope.

"You found them?"

I set the bundles inside the nave. One by one, Harvald unwrapped them, his hands trembling. The wire tree he held as though it were a child. The brass chest brought a quiet smile to his lips. But when he lifted the copper bowl, his eyes clouded.

"I do not know its name," he said softly. "It belongs here, yet I fear it. Both can be true."

"Then keep it safe," I said.

Harvald pressed five coins into my hand, but I chose only one. A provincial mint worn smooth by age. "Like I said before, one is enough. Thanks to my investigation of the black markets, I can safely say this one's old enough to fetch a good price from a historian. The rest belong with you."

Tears filled the old man's eyes. "Then may the gods bless you. All those remembered, and those fallen silent."

I inclined my head and turned to go. But at the doorway, I glanced back at the copper bowl. For an instant, I thought I heard a distant whisper…

Feed the Devourer…

I stepped into the sunlight without looking back. Some mysteries aren't solved in a single quest.

* * *

The old monk waited until William's footsteps had long faded beyond the monastery gates. Only then did he close the great wooden door, its hinges groaning in protest like an old memory.

He lingered there for a moment, his hand on the ancient wood, before turning back toward the chamber of statues.

He shook his head at his own foolishness. Leaving the monastery unguarded, if even for a short time. He raised a commanding hand. Air stirred. Dust lifted. Magic crawled like cold fire along the walls. The three statues rose from the ground in silence, gliding after him as he shuffled down the dim corridor.

Dust and dirt parted before him as if unwilling to touch his feet, then drifted back into place the instant he passed, leaving the corridor looking like it had been undisturbed for years.

At the corridor's end, he paused before a blank wall and traced a circle into the air. Stone shuddered and sank away, revealing a staircase spiraling into darkness. The monk began his descent, slow but unerring. The statues followed, obedient and weightless.

Step after step, he moved downward into the earth. One might have expected him to falter from the exertion, but he did not.

Magical torches flickered to life along the walls as he reached the bottom, spilling bright light across a vast domed cavern. Dozens of statues stood on pedestals, arranged in a concentric circle along the wall, leaving the middle empty. The air was heavy with enchantments.

The three floating statues drifted to their waiting pedestals and settled with quiet finality. Harvald Custodis watched them return to their rightful places, his face unreadable.

He sighed, long and low. "A foolish act," he whispered. "All for convenience and curiosity."

It had been stupid to take some of the statues outside. Peituwin's for easy access to what Harvald considered nothing more than a magical store, where he could get replacement parts easily. The two others to cast divinations about the current status of their respective gods. Because opposite to what the general public seemed to think, they were most assuredly not dead. Gods did not die.

He would know. He tried to kill one on more than one occasion.

He sank to the floor at the center of the room. Cross-legged, his robes settling around him like wilted wings. The silence of the hall pressed close.

His form wavered. The illusion of frailty dissolved, and what remained was vast and terrible in its majesty.

Where an old monk had sat now lay a dragon. His scales were dull silver streaked with the marks of a thousand battles. His wings hung like tattered curtains. Eyes once bright enough to rival the dawn, were dim embers now, lit only by memory.

The dragon coiled his immense body around the central dais. Surrounded by his hoard. Not of gold, but of memories. The memories of gods, some still worshipped, others almost forgotten.

He looked up at the nearest statue. A goddess of spring, her smile preserved in perfect serenity.

"I keep your statues clean. I remember your names when no one else would." His great head lowered, his breath stirring the dust at her feet. "But memory is not worship."

The dragon's claws tightened on the stone, carving deep furrows into the floor. The weight of his failure seemed to bow the very air around him.

The torches dimmed. The cavern's air grew still. Around him, the statues stood eternal and unfeeling.

Finally, the dragon exhaled. His massive body settled, his tail coiling protectively around the nearest pedestal.

"Rest now," he murmured. "All of you. I will keep the vigil."

The last of the light guttered out, leaving only the faintest glint. Two tired eyes, slowly closing.

Just as sleep began to claim him, a faint tinkling of metal on stone sounded through the hall. His eyes snapped open, bright with sudden alertness. Sight and magic flared together, sweeping across the cavern. No thieves. No dragon hunters. All the statues and shrines remained undisturbed.

A second, more careful search revealed the source of the sound. A tiny piece of silver metal. Rounded at one end, flat at the other, its surface bore the rugged texture of something natural, grown rather than forged. It lay on the floor beside Fliedabarr's tree statuette.

Harvald regarded the object for a long while, then nodded slowly. "So that's your game," he murmured. "Many small quests instead of one great one. Tasks simple enough for the weaklings inhabiting this age to manage. Now that the grand heroes are gone."

A flick of his claw summoned the fragment to his side, letting it settle on the stone before him. He rested one talon gently upon it.

"This one might prove harder to collect than you intended," he said softly.

The wire branches of Fliedabarr's statue vibrated faintly, producing a sound so soft it might have been imagined.

The dragon's massive head dipped. "As your followers still have faith in you, you have faith in them. I always liked that about you. I'm looking forward to seeing if they succeed, or if your faithful are claimed by death and time, as has happened to… others."

His gaze turned toward the copper bowl. Its god did not answer with words, only with a projection of feeling.

Hunger… and impatience.

And then, beneath the mountain, in a hall of forgotten gods, the dragon slept once more.

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