Arwin scrubbed at a plate of Maristeel. He’d been at it for the past hour or so, and it was just finally starting to clear out. The grime covering the metal was beyond stubborn. He’d tried burning it to see if that would work faster, but the result was the vilest black smoke that he’d ever smelt or seen.
Even being near it felt like it would somehow twist Arwin into an undead. That idea was quickly abandoned and he returned to the tried-and-true method of scratching at the metal. And now his efforts had finally paid off.
After working for a few more minutes, Arwin brushed the flecks of grime away and held the newly polished Maristeel up to the light of the hearth. Blue ripples swirled across its surface in greeting.
It was ready to use and it was about time. He’d spent a lot more time than he’d thought yesterday working on Rodrick’s greaves, and he hadn’t had a chance to make himself any food. The time was getting a little tight before he had to make something else.
I know I can make some bracelets with no problem, so that shouldn’t be a big problem yet. I can make two if I really need to. That’ll come after I make the chestpiece, then. I think I should be able to get it done today before nightfall since I already have a pretty good understanding of what I need to do.
It would follow a similar pattern to the greaves, focusing on light but effectively protected vital areas. He already had all the Brightsteel and Maristeel he needed. The leather was another story. There was almost none of it left.
He headed out, pausing as he spotted his old smithy. Ridley had been hard at work, and it was showing. The stone walls were already up to his head in height and the building was starting to look like, well, a building.
It seemed like it wouldn’t be long before the mason was done. Arwin continued on to the tavern, his mood considerably heightened. He stepped through the door to the clink of cutlery and was pleased to find Reya and Rodrick eating breakfast.
“You’re back early,” Rodrick said. “What happened? Don’t tell me you burned down your smithy.”
The wind picked up and a shingle fell from a house behind him, clattering to the ground. Rex spun toward it, his sword flying free of its sheath. He stared at the broken shingle, then let out a quiet laugh and sheathed the weapon again.
My nerves are shot. The street isn’t haunted. And, technically, I’m not even on the street. Jessen was really clear about that. Don’t go on the haunted street. It goes against the rules. Blah, blah, blah.
Rex worked his way through the alleys. His job was easy. All he had to do was find a house near the haunted street and head up to the roof to spend a day studying what the idiots squatting on it were doing.
As if a smith and a group of thieves would be doing literally anything of note. I swear he only gave me this job because I was late to a guild meeting. I’ve got half a mind to just head back now and say there wasn’t anything worth watching, but that crazed bastard would probably somehow figure me out.
Rex rubbed the back of his neck as a shiver ran down his spine. He wasn’t sure what it was about this area of the city, but the wind was damn cold. And, even if he wasn’t on the actual haunted street, it didn’t help that the entirety of this area felt completely abandoned.
He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of so much as a mouse in the last few minutes. Rex ground his teeth and pressed onward. He wasn’t far now. The street was just a block down, so any house nearby would be more than suitable for his purposes. He just had to –
Rex’s foot caught on something and he stumbled, taking several steps forward and letting out a slew of curses as his heart jumped in his chest. He spun, drawing his sword, only to find a drunkard slumped against a wall, his legs spewing into the alleyway and a half-full mug resting in an open hand.
“You idiot,” Rex growled. “Watch where you’re passing out.”
The drunkard’s head tilted up to meet Rex’s eyes. His eyes were watery and unfocused, swallowed by the haze of alcohol. The man hiccupped and lifted his mug, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
Rex’s lips curled in distaste. He’d gotten so lost in his own thoughts that he’d somehow missed a man passed out right in front of him.
“Just screw off,” Rex said, turning and striding toward an alley. He was close enough to the street – he didn’t even give a shit what building he chose anymore. The sooner he could get out of here, the better.
Rex turned the corner and skidded to a stop. The drunkard was leaning against the wall in front of him and drinking from his tankard. The hair on Rex’s neck and arms stood on end.
“What in the Nine Underlands?” Rex asked, taking a step back and pointing his sword at the drunkard. “Who are you? What are you playing at?”
The man lowered the tankard, looking at Rex through furrowed eyebrows. “Me? You’re asking my name?”
“I’m asking what your game is,” Rex snarled. “Take one step toward me and I’ll slice you open.”
The drunkard took another drink from his tankard and let out a belch. “You’re the one that tripped over me, you know. You should pay more attention to your surroundings.”
Rex’s grip tightened on his sword. Something was off. “You just stay over there. I swear to any god that’s listening, I’ll run you through if I see you again.”
He took a step back, then slipped out of the alleyway. Rex could practically hear Jessen’s laughter mocking him in the back of his mind. Words echoed through his skull.
What, are you scared of a drunk? What’s he going to do, throw up on you?
Rex gritted his teeth and shoved Jessen’s voice out of his head. He must have been more tired than he’d thought if his guild leader’s voice was haunting him. Jessen didn’t give a shit about how things were done as long as they were accomplished.
I’ll just find another building.
He poked his head into the next alleyway over and was relieved to find that there was no trace of the drunkard. The man had gotten scared off by his warning. Rex couldn’t keep himself from throwing one last glance over his shoulder, but the street behind him was empty as well.
There’s nothing to be scared of.
Letting out a small sigh, Rex turned to step back into the alley – and found himself staring into two burning blue eyes, as deep as the ocean and as cold as ice. A spike of terror slammed into him despite his self-assurances. It drove into his chest with such intensity that his surprised cry came out as nothing more than a strangled squeak. The drunkard stood just inches before him.
There was a faint flash of silver, so fast that Rex barely even managed to pick up on it. Something jerked taut around his throat and dug into his skin. A garotte.
Rex thrust his sword forward to run the man through, but it passed clean through his body as if nothing was there.
Wisps of blue swirled away from the drunkard where the blade had struck him. Rex wheezed, dropping his blade and trying to grab at the thin wire choking the life out of him. He tried to bat the man’s hands away, but his arms passed through his body just as easily as the sword had.
The terror built into a storm in Rex’s stomach. The wire seemed to grow tighter by the instant, but he couldn’t so much as touch the man holding it.