Arwin held his breath as he gazed upon the results of his and Lillia’s work as the Mesh scrawled words through the air before him.
[Millstone Maw: Epic Quality]
[Reaving Stone]: The insatiable hunger of a Wyrmling has been imbued into this item, causing the grindstone to have increased friction against the plate when rolling across it. This effect will be magnified when it is grinding organic matter.
[Inanimate Hunger]: While not alive, this item has been imbued with endless hunger that can never be sated. Any organic magical objects that fit within this item and have a Tier equal to or lower than this item’s tier can be ground into paste within it. The duration this takes is increased the greater the target magical item’s tier is.
[The Soul of the Forge]: This is a set item of [3] pieces forged by Arwin Tyrr and Lillian Los. When the entire set is connected, it will gain the [Awoken] trait and become active.
Arwin pulled his eyes away from the millstone to meet Lillia’s. They exchanged a delighted grin and she grabbed his arm in excitement.
“You did it!” Lillia exclaimed with a disbelieving laugh. “And that description — creepy. I’ve seen some weird shit, but a bellows that’s guaranteed to come to life once it’s finished… I can’t wait to see what that’ll look like.”
“Not just me,” Arwin corrected. “Your name is right there. Your intent was easily half of the work. I was just the tool.”
Lillia rolled her eyes and flicked him in the chest. “Don’t give me that humility shit. I’m not a little girl anymore, Arwin. I’ve lived long enough to know when someone did something impressive. I helped, but you did the brunt of the work. Wipe that look off your face. You might regret showing me this.”
A clang rang out behind her as a blade slammed into the wall and spun free. The setting sunlight flashed off the weapon’s blade, momentarily blinding her as she threw a panicked glance over her shoulder.
Melissa’s senses screamed a warning and she spun, lifting her sword as a shadow arced for her. A ringing crash echoed down the streets as a dark sword darted out, nearly ripping Melissa’s weapon from her hands as the weapons collided.
The shadows peeled back like a blooming flower to reveal a man clothed in dark grays, his face completely covered by a mask. Melissa jumped back as the man lunged at her again. She twisted her sword and braced her hand against the flat of the blade.
A second crash split the evening air and Melissa stumbled under the force of the blow, just barely managing to keep her grip on her sword. The man’s eyes were flat and cold, completely emotionless. They were the eyes of an assassin.
Melissa drove her knee toward the man’s groin. His free hand drove down, striking her in the kneecap. Violent pain ripped through Melissa’s body and she screamed. The assassin thrust his sword for her throat.
She dropped to the ground, drawing on every scrap of training she had to push through the agony. The sword carved through the air above her and she thrust her blade for the man’s leg. Melissa earned herself a flicker of satisfaction as she felt her blade carve through flesh.
It was short lived. The assassin didn’t so much as flinch. He’d already adjusted his grip on his sword. His foot slammed into Melissa’s stomach, driving all the air from her lungs in a pained wheeze and pinning her in place. Her sword fell from her fingers and clattered to the ground at her side.
There was no smug laughter. No offer for last words. The only thing the assassin did was plunge his sword down. Melissa desperately twisted her upper body in an attempt to free herself, but the man was just too heavy.
The blade flashed down and bit into her chest, straight on a path for her heart — and then it slammed to a halt. Melissa laid frozen on the ground, blood slamming so violently in her ears that she could barely hear, as she looked up in disbelief.
A pale hand had wrapped around the pommel of the sword. The assassin’s hands trembled as he tried to push the blade down, but the weapon didn’t budge an inch. Melissa’s eyes trailed the hand back to the body it belonged to.
His other hand held a half-finished tankard of ale and his eyes were glazed over in a drunken stupor. Long, ragged white hair hung around the man’s face and he swayed back and forth as if he were a single sip away from passing out.
“Who are you?” the assassin snarled, furiously trying to rip his sword free of the man’s hand. The blade wouldn’t budge from its spot. Melissa didn’t dare even try to move. The tip of the sword was lodged in her chest. A single twitch was all it would take to end her life.
The drunkard didn’t reply. He stumbled forward, his foot slamming to the ground just beside Melissa’s hand. Then he blurred. The man moved so fast that Melissa momentarily lost track of him.
One moment, he was standing directly above her. The next, he was behind the assassin. Melissa’s would-be killer let out a strangled gasp and released the sword as his hands shot up to his throat, clawing at it as blood started to race down his neck.
Melissa slapped the sword away before gravity could push its point any deeper and rolled to the side. She scrambled to her feet, her breath coming out in ragged gasps, and stared in disbelief as blood poured down the neck of the assassin that had nearly killed her.
The drunkard had pulled the man against his back and leaned forward to lift the assassin off his feet, suspending him entirely by the garotte tearing into his neck. Melissa grabbed her sword from where she’d dropped it and prepared to run the assassin through before he managed to overpower her mysterious savior.
She didn’t get a chance to. By the time she’d grabbed the blade and straightened again, the assassin’s struggles had ceased. The drunkard held the now-dead man by the hair, a huge gash in his throat still weeping.
Melissa’s blood turned ice cold as she met the drunkard’s gaze. His eyes had lost the drunken glaze and were as cold as the ice-blue sea. Her hair stood on end and she took a step back. Then she stopped herself.
It doesn’t matter what he looks like. This man just saved my life. Is he one of Father’s old warriors? Maybe I got a little lucky for once. Gods know I deserve it... but I don’t recognize this man.
Her father’s words rang through her head.
Assume nothing. Trust nobody but yourself and your word. Others lie, but a noble is nothing more than their word and the actions they take to enforce it.
“Thank you,” Melissa said, bowing her head. “I owe you my life.”
“Just get off my street. It’s been too damned loud as of late,” the ragged man said, slinging the dead assassin over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
I’d offer you something, but I don’t have anything to give. Not yet.
Melissa opened her mouth to thank him once more as she went to oblige his request. The words she was trying to form caught in her throat as the icy feeling in her skin spread, stretching fingers into her chest.
She froze. Her lips felt gummy and thick. Her gaze jerked down and she ripped the hole in her shirt open wider, staring down at the point where the sword had bit into her. The small wound was a sickly gray.
Poison. A strong one. Fuck.
Somewhere in the back of Melissa’s head, she dimly heard her father admonishing her for using words unsuitable to a noble. She barely registered it. Her eyes darted back to those of the drunkard as her throat tightened and started to close in on itself.