Aiven stared at the dwarf girl. She smelled of coal smoke, heavy oil, and the sharp tang of ionized air. Her brass-rimmed goggles caught the afternoon sun, reflecting Aiven's own startled expression.
He instinctively touched the empty, pinned-up fabric of his left sleeve. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice rasping slightly.
The dwarf snorted, a sound like a bellows being squeezed. She adjusted a heavy belt laden with chisels and vials. "I've got eyes, lad. You're a fledgling adventurer without an arm. You're looking for a way to stay in the game without being a liability." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward the industrial district. "But talk is cheap and the wind is high. It'd be faster to just show you. Follow me to my workshop."
Before Aiven could take a step, a cold, lavender-tinted pressure filled the air. Virelle drifted forward, her feet not touching the cobblestones. Her violet-magenta eyes narrowed, glowing with a dangerous intensity as she loomed over the smaller woman.
"Master, a moment," Virelle said, her voice like silk over a blade. "This creature appears out of the soot and claims to have the answer to your prayers? It's far too convenient. She could be another agent of that... blood-sucking vermin from the thickets. Or worse."
Virelle leaned in closer to Marnie, a predatory smirk playing on her lips. "Perhaps she simply saw your handsome face and decided she wanted to seduce my Master into some dark, dingy basement."
Aiven felt the heat climb up his neck. "Virelle, I really don't think she's trying to seduce me," he muttered, looking at Marnie's grease-stained leather workwear and soot-smudged face. "But... she has a point about the trap. We don't know you."
Marnie didn't flinch. She looked up at the floating mage with a look of pure, unadulterated boredom. "Seduction? Please. I've got a forge to tend and blueprints to finish. I don't have time for 'romance,' especially with a human who looks like he'd break if I sneezed too hard."
She spat on the ground and crossed her sturdy arms. "If you're so worried about a trap, put me on a leash. Bind my hands, put a hex on my heart, use whatever threats make you feel powerful. I don't care, as long as you get your feet moving toward my shop. I hate wasting daylight."
Virelle didn't wait for a second invitation. With a flick of her elegant wrist, she conjured a thick, shimmering rope of purple mana. The magical cord snaked through the air and looped firmly around Marnie's neck, the end of the spectral lead snapping into Virelle's hand.
"A generous offer," Virelle purred. "If you take a single wrong turn or even think of pulling a hidden lever, I will zap you until there is nothing left but a pile of very stubborn ash. Understood?"
"Clear as glass," Marnie grunted, seemingly unfazed by the threat of death around her throat. "Now, let's go."
Aiven opened his mouth to protest—to suggest something a bit more... dignified—but the words died in his throat. He looked at the Guildhouse, then back at Marnie. He was desperate. If there was even a one-percent chance this dwarf could help him, at least to function properly with one arm, he would take the risk.
The walk through the streets of Lowhaven was, to Aiven's horror, exactly what he feared. As a man who loathed attention, being followed by a floating, silver-haired elven mage who was literally "walking" a grumbling dwarf on a magical purple leash was a nightmare come true.
Passersby stopped and stared. A group of higher-rank adventurers burst into laughter as they passed. Aiven kept his head down, his face a permanent shade of crimson.
"Ignore the cattle, Master," Virelle said airily, holding the mana-leash with the grace of a noblewoman walking a prize hound.
"Hard to ignore when we're the circus act," Aiven hissed.
Marnie, meanwhile, was talking as if nothing was out of the ordinary. "The name's Marnie Anvilrun," she called out over her shoulder. "I run a specialty workshop. Most smiths in this city focus on steel and enchantments—old-fashioned stuff. I focus on mana-gears."
"Mana-gears?" Aiven asked, his curiosity finally outweighing his embarrassment.
"Right," Marnie said, her voice becoming animated. "The problem with magic is that you either have the gift or you don't. And if you do, you have to spend years chanting at books. My gear is different. I use stones imbued with mana powers—rechargeable cells. You slot 'em into the machinery, and the user's own mana acts as the fuel. It allows a combination of high-end magic and traditional weaponry without the user needing to know a single spell."
She looked back at Aiven, her sharp eyes scanning his stump again. "You've got mana coming out of your pores, lad. More than you know what to do with. You need an engineer."
Aiven looked at his missing arm, a flicker of something he hadn't felt in weeks—hope—beginning to stir in his chest.
"So," Aiven began, his voice barely audible over the clatter of a passing merchant wagon. "You're saying you actually have one? A... a mana-powered mechanical arm? For me?"
Marnie didn't look back, her short legs moving with surprising speed despite the magical leash around her neck. "I've got the prototype. Spent three years and half my life's savings on the internal clockwork and the mana-conduction pathways. It's the finest piece of smithing in Lowhaven, if not the entire Aerilis. Even if the Guild snobs won't admit it." She paused, her voice dropping an octave. "But don't get ahead of yourself. It's a masterpiece, and it comes with a price. A steep one."
The temperature around them plummeted instantly.
"A price?" Virelle's voice was a low, melodic threat. The shimmering purple leash in her hand pulsed with a rhythmic, violent light. "Listen closely, soot-stained creature. My Master has bled enough for this world. If you attempt to extort him, or if your 'price' involves anything more than a reasonable sum of coin, I will not just zap you. I will erase this entire district, starting with your precious workshop."
Marnie actually stumbled, her blunt confidence finally cracking. She looked at the glowing purple rope, then at the terrifying intensity in the elf's violet eyes. For a woman who valued her workshop more than her own pulse, the threat hit home.
"Easy! Easy with the sparks, Sparky!" Marnie yelped, holding up her grease-stained hands. "It's no scam, I swear on my ancestors' hammers! I'm not talking about gold—well, not just gold. It's about the integration. Once we get to the shop, you'll see. It's not just a tool; it's a commitment. Just... stop vibrating the floor, will you? You're going to shake my delicate calibrations from three blocks away!"
Virelle let out a sharp huff, the magical pressure receding slightly, though she didn't loosen her grip on the leash. "See that you remember your place."
They turned a corner into a narrow alleyway in the heart of the Industrial District. Tucked between a massive textile mill and a coal warehouse was a building that looked like it had been built, dismantled, and rebuilt a dozen times. Brass pipes crawled across the exterior like ivy, and a heavy iron door stood slightly ajar, emitting a rhythmic hiss-click-clank sound.
"Welcome to the Anvilrun Works," Marnie muttered, pushing the door open with her shoulder.
The interior was a sensory overload of steampunk energy. The air was thick with the scent of hot brass and ozone. Everywhere Aiven looked, there were gears—thousands of them—interlocking in complex, hypnotic patterns along the walls.
Unlike the sleek, elegant magic Aiven had seen in the higher sectors, this felt raw and visceral.
"Over here," Marnie said, leading them past a workbench covered in blueprints. Even while leashed, she couldn't help but point out her handiwork with a spark of pride. "See that? A mana-bolt crossbow. Doesn't need a string. The mana stone in the stock creates a localized kinetic burst. And that sword—the 'Sun-Sunderer.' It draws mana from the hilt to cauterize wounds as it cuts."
Aiven stared at a staff leaning against a rack. It wasn't made of wood, but of interlocking bronze rings that seemed to float independently of one another, held together by a faint blue glow.
"Each one of these is a Mana-Gear," Marnie explained, her voice gaining its usual blunt strength. "The stones are rechargeable. You don't need to be a high-tier mage to use 'em; you just need enough latent mana to jump-start the engine. Most of the gears here are fine, beginner-friendly. But for a few of the masterpieces that I have, people are too scared of the tech, calling it 'unstable.' But you..."
She stopped in front of a heavy velvet curtain at the back of the room and looked at Aiven. "You're practically a walking mana-battery. You aren't just a customer, kid. You're the only person I've met who can actually provide the fuel this arm needs and use it to its full potential."
Aiven wondered how Marnie could see through whatever veil Virelle had wrapped around his extraordinary mana—how she could be so certain—but the thought slipped away, drowned out by something far heavier and far more fragile: the hope that, for once, he might stop being the one who needed protecting.
Aiven swallowed hard. He looked at the curtain, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Show me."