Finding a cart took longer than eliminating the death mouths. Someone was always willing to lend equipment around in Lyall’s hometown—he understood to ask that for free would not happen here in the city—but the amount of people who gave him odd looks after he asked to borrow the vehicle and a horse to pull it for the afternoon felt a tad unnecessary. Most demanded a direct purchase. Then Lyall finally came across someone willing, but... 

“Ten gold,” the stout woman before him, Larlene, rigidly stared him down. “That’s already a steal for what the cart and one of my girls is really worth. Negotiation doesn’t happen anymore after too many of you adventurers and mercenaries killed my horses within days. There were wolves. We couldn’t fit them through the door. The fireball was bigger than we thought. I’m done with all that bullshit! The price is set.” 

“I hear you. I’ll pay,” Lyall placed the coins in her calloused palm. “I promise I’ll have your horse and cart back by the end of the day.” 

“I’d love to believe you,” Larlene sighed, tone softening. “At least tell me you know how to ride. I can’t count how many idiots come for horses who don’t even know how to put their foot in the stirrup.” 

“I am a skilled rider, no worries,” Lyall smiled. 

“Alright. C’mon, I’ll show you Tabba.” 

Fifteen minutes later, Lyall left the marketplace stable with the black draft horse Tabba pulling the cart. She walked steady and proud, cutting the two-hour travel time to the bunker following the road to an hour-and-a-half. The forest branches quivered upon Lyall’s swift return, and their jovial aura comforted that he could, in fact, hitch Tabba to a tree and expect her to not be dead upon his return. Lyall took a deep breath and descended into the bunker once more. Then again and again. Marks on his map signified the location of the seven bodies of the eager fighters tricked into their doom by Lord Tancred’s greed. It was no easy or clean task wrapping the bodies in the set of shrouds Lyall purchased for a gold and hauling them onto the cart, but the recovery was done in time for Tabba to be mounted, the road to be traveled, and their return to occur shortly before the city gates were closed for the night. 

“You’ve come through a lot today,” the female small folk remained on duty, so did the long-bearded dwarf and one of the same human men. She tiptoed and peered around Tabba. “Supplies you couldn’t leave until the morning?” 

“No. Bodies recovered from the site of the job I completed this morning. The ones who...” 

To say ‘failed’ froze his tongue. The people behind him did not fail. They were killed. A small blessing, Lyall didn’t have to say anything at all. What he said so far snapped the guards to attention, called over a grumbling captain ready to leave his shift, and produced numerous pieces of paper Lyall had to sign. The bodies were transferred to a different wagon for identification, and Lyall hurried Tabba and the cart back to Larlene and her tapping foot. She thanked him for following his word and bequeathed him a chunk of bread after hearing his stomach rumbling and admittance that he’d not eaten since breakfast. 

Lyall didn’t bother with dinner upon reaching his inn. The kaleidoscopic streaks of the world’s magic painting the stars meant he’d missed the time frame for a peaceful meal. Now the rowdy and about-to-be drunks fought over tables and spots at the bar, and Lyall barely had energy enough to climb to his third-floor corner room, stay awake through his bath, and manage a pair of pants before crawling into bed. Not even the bruising on his arm, which had only darkened since his last look, received more medicine. His fingers curled around a gem pendant hanging upon his neck, and he was gone. 

Lyall did nothing of note for the next three days aside from buying a new shield—the crafter Vinton recommended knocked the price down to eight gold instead of the usual ten. He spent most of his time at the inn allowing his arm to heal, writing in his journal, and handing over his last gold piece earned from the death mouth job to send letters and a share of his profit from his other work home. The streets on the fourth morning were mist-drenched from the night’s rain. Lyall dodged puddles glad for pockets of warm glow radiating behind the gray cloud cover and treated himself to a fresh, steaming roll from the bakery closest to the adventuring guild that shuddered his tastebuds with the perfect blend of butter and yeast. He passed Greenhorn Square, earned entry into the Mall, and immediately had his head assaulted by Vinton’s large hand. 

“Atta boy!” the older man praised, digging his fingers deeper into the ruffling of Lyall’s hair. Lyall licked the butter from his lips. 

“...What did I do?” 

Vinton smiled and switched to clamping his hand on Lyall’s shoulder. “Word’s gotten out. You retrieved those poor souls from that bunker. The guild might actually give Tancred a slap on the wrist this time around for making it clear he had no intention to do the same.” 

“I’d love for him to get more than a slap on the wrist,” Lyall glared at that unmanned front belonging to the lord, “but I will take comfort in the news regardless.” 

“I believe every bastard’s day of reckoning will come. Wish that I could do it myself, but, eh...I’ve never made it off the first level. Could be your calling though,” Vinton nudged him with his elbow. 

“I try to stick away from the complications of revenge or vigilante justice. I’ll simply focus on my next job and pray Lord Tancred’s actions see their appropriate consequences.” 

“Not a bad plan either! Who’s your favorite Infinite to pray to? Mine’s Ilyn.” Vinton dug from his pack a holy symbol etched with a host of raised fists. 

“Whoever will listen,” Lyall gave a sideways smile. 

“Wise move.” Vinton patted his shoulder again. “I’ll leave you be. I can see Hoyt getting to the front of our line, and that man has trouble sticking to task. He’ll be asking the worker for their favorite recipes if I don’t head over.” 

“Good luck.” 

With a wave, Vinton took off. Lyall picked a couch and grabbed a green apple from the nearest bowl to survey the lines. Each front technically served one queue, but it was unofficial practice for the second worker most fronts employed to meet the eye of those waiting like Lyall who had a proven track record or previous success to be ushered over directly. Several staff gave him friendly smiles and approving nods. None seemed to have a job though. Lyall contemplated getting in line for simple work to clean away the drudge of the prior job when a figure abruptly took the chair across from him. 

The individual was male and a few years younger than Lyall. Twenty-two or twenty-three, perhaps, yet a touch of boyish roundness clinging to his cheeks and jaw betrayed those gained years. His pale skin bore a white sheen that tricked Lyall’s eye with a hint of shine as sunlight broke through the barrier clouds and bobbed in erratic spotlights across their pair. Before the man said a word, his tall eyes of blood-orange hue loudly spoke enthusiasm. 

“You’re this Lyall Blakely the guild’s been talking about recently, yes? I’m Cylon.” His speech was smooth and flowing but somehow distant, like the echo of a violin’s sway. “It seems you’re in the mood for a new job, and I’m in the need of a partner.” 

“Well, Cylon,” Lyall leaned forward, “what do you have to offer?” 

“A job from Riath’s Engineering Guild. A golem factory from the Artifex era was recently discovered, and the Engineering Guild has first dibs on accessing it. They largely want a scout to run recon, but a much larger payment awaits if any defensive measures can be removed. I’m good at sneaking around and not being hit,” Cylon stretched out his arms, showcasing his light, lithe form, “but it being a golem factory means there’ll at least be a few hard hitters. That’s where you’d come in. I can cause distractions from a distance while you smashy-smash.” 

“If you’re looking for smashy-smash, you’d be better off with someone like her.” Lyall jabbed a finger to a woman sitting halfway across the floor, war hammer at her side. Taller than him with engorged muscles pulling her brown skin taut, there was no better example in the Mall of pure strength. 

“I meant ‘smashy-smash’ more as a general expression of melee might. I don’t know what kind of golems we might encounter, so I’d prefer someone who’s well-rounded, adaptive, and trustworthy than simply strong. You carry a bow as well as a sword, no one would have gotten out of that bunker alive without some quick thinking, and you’ve proven your good character by retrieving those bodies.” 

“Can I see the job details?” 

“Of course.” Cylon handed over his booklet. Lyall glanced at the request’s details, which produced no new information aside from that the factory was to the east and Cylon had five days to return with significant information before another crew was sent. Lyall flicked through the pages of previous work, to which Cylon remarked, “Yeah, no, go right ahead.” 

Lyall did go right ahead. More rows were filled than expected, and all bore completion stamps with a third receiving an additional mark of commendation. Not a bad track record. However, Lyall’s eye caught the vast array of sister guild halls Cylon took jobs from. A clear pattern of working in an area for a month or two before moving on appeared. 

“Mind sharing your own work history?” Cylon asked. 

“Sure.” 

Cylon snatched Lyall’s presented booklet like candy before a spoiled child. “Huh. I thought this would be more filled. You’ve only done work in Riath for about a month. You can already do second-floor jobs though...” 

“Thorne Holden, my mentor growing up, brought me with him on various jobs throughout those years. I earned enough letters of recommendation to bypass Greenhorn Square and start taking the more notable requests offered in the Mall.” 

“A true hero in the making!” Cylon gave Lyall’s booklet back, and Lyall did the same with his. 

“I’m not looking to be a hero or make history. Right now, I’m looking for a job. I’d like to join you on yours.” 

“Perfect!” Cylon jumped to his feet. “Let’s stop by the Engineer Guild’s front to add you to the roster, and, unless you need any supplies, we can catch a travel wagon to Brimmar Hills. That’s the town closest to the factory, and we can reach it by evening if we leave soon.” 

“I’m stocked up and ready to leave.” 

“Just have to add you to the roster then.” 

That took five minutes. Vinton and Hoyt, working out the details of their job at the counter, waved Lyall off, and Lyall trailed his new companion to the eastern gate where they managed to snag the next traveler’s caravan heading out. Seating was squished, and the return of the rain—the wagon thankfully bore a covering—heavied Lyall’s lashes. He closed his eyes and let chatty Cylon do most of the talking with the others throughout the day. They reached Brimmar Hills, a standard large town though with a noticeable increase of small folk, right as the silver stars popped into existence from the steady daily slumber of the sun. Lyall and Cylon paid for a shared room to save coin. 

“Can I ask...” Cylon began after they settled upon their lumpy but acceptable mattresses. 

“Hmm?” 

“You don’t want to be a hero or make history. What’s your motivation for taking this kind of work then?” 

Lyall’s palm itched and burned resisting the instinct to clamp his fingers over his pendant. He stared at the ceiling with a gaze chasing its hairline cracks as words failed him. 

“Got it,” Cylon didn’t let the awkward air linger. “What about your heritage instead? Hoyt’s been telling everyone your father is an elf. I’ve never seen one myself.” 

“Neither have I,” Lyall joked wryly, and he didn’t need to turn his head to know Cylon rose a brow. “Mother said Father was exactly like the tales we hear of elves—present but not present, prone to their wanderlust and disappearing on the paths between the creation lines we other mortals can’t see. My parents shared a brief dalliance, and Father simply continued on his enigmatic path long before Mother knew she carried me.” 

“So, he’s still alive?” 

“I assume so,” Lyall shrugged. “Mother said he was a warrior, a warrior exuding such grace his fighting was more like dancing.” 

“Interesting. Do you want to meet him someday?” 

“At least once. I don’t bemoan his absence. It was common for me to disappear into the woods or to the stream in my youth without consideration for anything else, so I understand enough Father’s natural habit to roam.” 

“Huh.” 

A pause. A chance for Lyall to ask a question about his companion in return, and Lyall prepped the curiosity on his tongue. Cylon flipped towards the wall with a loud, exaggerated yawn. 

“We should get up early, so let’s get to sleep.” 

“Right,” Lyall didn’t protest. 

He turned towards the other wall, satisfied his impatient hand by clutching the pendant, closed his eyes, and drifted off.