The artisan district sat between the Guild quarter and the upper-class residential areas—a place where craftspeople worked and lived, where you could watch blacksmiths and woodworkers and jewelers practicing their trades. It was less formal than the Guild district, less ostentatious than the upper class neighborhoods. Just honest work happening in public view.

Marron liked it here. There was something comforting about watching people make things.

She was walking past a blacksmith's shop—the forge glowing orange in the evening light, the sound of hammer on metal ringing out—when she saw it.

A knife. On the grinding wheel.

The blacksmith was sharpening it with careful attention, holding it at a precise angle, the wheel throwing sparks as it refined the edge. And the knife itself—

Marron stopped walking. Stared.

The blade was mythril. That distinctive silver-white color, the way it caught light and seemed to hold it, the perfect balance that only mythril achieved. But it wasn't just high-quality mythril. It was perfect mythril. Ancient mythril. The kind that didn't exist anymore, that had been forged before the cataclysm using techniques nobody remembered.

And the handle—wrapped in preserved leather, dark with age and oil, the kind of leather that stayed supple for centuries if cared for properly.

And along the blade, barely visible in the forge light, symbols. Shifting symbols. Like the ones on her Generous Ladle. Like the ones on her copper pot.

Like the marks of a Legendary Tool.

Marron's heart started pounding. She moved closer to the forge, trying to look casual, trying not to seem like she was staring at the knife like it was the most important object in the world.

The blacksmith—a dwarf woman with arms like tree trunks and soot on her face—noticed Marron watching. "Help you with something?"

"That knife," Marron said, trying to keep her voice level. "Where did you get it?"

"Customer dropped it off for sharpening." The blacksmith lifted it from the wheel, examining the edge with a critical eye. "Beautiful piece. Mythril, pre-cataclysm if I'm not mistaken. Hasn't been sharpened properly in years—the edge was dull as a butter knife. Crime, really, letting a blade this fine go neglected."

"Do you know where the customer got it?"

The blacksmith gave Marron a look that suggested this was crossing into nosy territory. "Why? You interested in buying mythril? I can point you toward some good dealers, though nothing this old will be on the market."

"I'm just curious," Marron said, which was the understatement of the year. "It's a remarkable blade. I've never seen mythril that color."

"That's because you've never seen proper mythril," the blacksmith said with pride. "This is old-world work. Before they lost the forging techniques. Before everything went to shit in the cataclysm." She ran her thumb carefully along the edge—now sharp enough to split a hair. "Whoever owned this originally knew what they were doing. This isn't just a knife. This is a tool. Made to work, made to last, made with understanding."

Made with understanding. That's what Keeper had said about Legendary Tools—they were made by craftspeople whose understanding transcended into functional magic.

"Is your customer coming back for it?" Marron asked.

"Tomorrow morning. First thing." The blacksmith set the knife down carefully on a leather mat. "Why? You want to make them an offer? I should warn you, they seemed pretty attached to it. Don't think they'd sell even for a good price."

"No, I just—" Marron hesitated. How did you explain I think that knife is a Legendary Tool and I need to know who has it and whether they understand what they're carrying? "I'm a chef. Guild certified. I work with high-quality tools. That knife... it's exceptional. I'd like to know more about it."

The blacksmith's expression softened slightly. "Guild chef, huh? You're that Louvel girl, aren't you? The one who fought the Merchant's Guild over the vendor decree."

"That's me," Marron admitted.

"Good work on that. My niece runs a food cart—you saved her business." The blacksmith leaned against her workbench. "Tell you what. Customer's named Petra. Runs a restaurant in the lower ring—The Silver Cleaver. She might talk to you if you mention you're interested in old knives. Can't promise anything, but it's worth a shot."

"The Silver Cleaver," Marron repeated, committing it to memory. "Thank you."

"No problem. And hey—" The blacksmith grinned. "If you ever need metalwork done, come see me. I do good rates for people who piss off the Merchant's Guild."

Marron smiled despite her racing thoughts. "I'll keep that in mind."

She left the forge, her mind spinning. A mythril knife. Pre-cataclysm. With shifting symbols. Being sharpened like it was ordinary equipment.

A fourth Legendary Tool. Right here in Lumeria.

And someone named Petra had it.

Marron walked home quickly, needing to think, needing to plan. Mokko took one look at her face when she entered the apartment and said, "What happened?"

"I found another one," Marron said. "A knife. Mythril, pre-cataclysm, with symbols like the ones on my tools. Being sharpened at a blacksmith's forge like it's ordinary equipment."

"You think it's Legendary?"

"I'm almost certain." Marron paced her small apartment. "The blacksmith said it hasn't been properly sharpened in years. That the customer seemed attached to it. That it's at a restaurant called The Silver Cleaver, owned by someone named Petra."

"What are you going to do?"

"I need to see it up close," Marron said. "Talk to this Petra. Find out if she knows what she has. And—" She paused, anxiety kicking in. "And figure out if the knife wants me to have it, or if it's already bonded with her."

"Tools choose their users," Mokko said slowly. "You've said that before. What if this one chose Petra?"

"Then I'll leave it with her," Marron said immediately. "I'm not going to take tools from people who deserve them. But Mokko—if she doesn't know what it is, if she's just using it because it's sharp, if it's not actually bonded with her—"

"Then it might choose you," Mokko finished.

"Or it might not," Marron said. "It might reject me entirely. Might not be compatible with the tools I already carry. Might have requirements I can't meet." She sat down on her bed, suddenly exhausted. "But I have to try. I have to at least look. Because if that knife is Legendary, if it's been sitting in someone's kitchen for years without being understood—"

"Then it deserves better," Mokko said gently. "The same way your other tools deserved better than being locked away or lost."

"Yeah."

Lucy burbled from her jar, forming determined shapes.

"Tomorrow morning," Marron said. "I'll go to The Silver Cleaver. Meet this Petra. See the knife up close. And then..." She trailed off. "Then I'll figure out what to do next."

"Do you want backup?"

"No. This feels like something I need to do alone." Marron lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. "Three tools taught me care, patience, and generosity. What do you think a knife teaches?"

"Precision," Mokko suggested. "The ability to cut away what's unnecessary. To separate, to divide, to shape by removal."

"That fits," Marron said quietly. "Keeper mentioned a blade that knows the perfect cut. For each ingredient, each purpose. Always exact, never wasteful."

"And you want to learn that lesson."

"I want to learn all the lessons," Marron admitted. "I want to understand what these tools are teaching. What the seven of them represent together. What I become by partnering with them." She touched her shorter hair—the cut she'd given herself this morning, learning to remove what wasn't needed anymore. "Maybe precision is exactly what I need to learn next."

Mokko didn't respond, just settled into his corner of the apartment with a book. Lucy formed a sleeping shape in her jar. And Marron lay in the growing darkness, thinking about knives and precision and the lesson she might learn tomorrow.

Well...if the knife chose her, anyway.

Or if Petra was okay with letting it go.

A fourth tool had shown itself, and with it came a lesson.

If this is another one, then I just have to...gather three more.

In Lumeria, an extra-special knife waited for her, ready to see if Marron Louvel understood what it meant to make the perfect cut.

+

Going to the Silver Cleaver

+

Marron arrived at The Silver Cleaver just after dawn, before the restaurant would be open for regular service. The lower ring was quiet at this hour—vendors setting up, shopkeepers sweeping storefronts, the city slowly waking to another day.

The restaurant itself was modest but well-maintained. A narrow building squeezed between a tailor's shop and a bakery, with a painted sign showing a cleaver crossed with a sprig of herbs. The windows were clean, the door freshly painted. Through the glass, Marron could see someone moving inside—early prep work, the kind every restaurant did before customers arrived.

She knocked. Waited. Knocked again.

The movement inside stopped. Footsteps approached. The door opened to reveal a woman in her forties, human, with strong hands and flour dusting her apron. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical bun, and she had the kind of tired eyes that came from years of restaurant work.

"We're not open yet," she said, not unkindly. "Come back at noon for lunch service."

"Are you Petra?" Marron asked.

The woman's expression shifted to wary curiosity. "Depends on who's asking."

"Marron Louvel. I'm a Guild chef. I—" How to explain this? "I saw your knife. Last night. At the blacksmith's forge. She was sharpening it."

Petra's entire demeanor changed—protective, almost defensive. Her hand moved unconsciously toward her apron pocket, as if checking for something that wasn't there. "What about my knife?"

"Can I come in? Just for a few minutes. I promise I'm not here to cause trouble or make offers. I just... I need to see it up close."

"Why?"

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