The clearing was largely still, with only the far-off chirping of birds. Hunter stood with arms crossed, studying Luenor who sat on a flat stone surrounded by faintly glowing crystals. This time, he had planned more carefully — better controlled breathing, better timed release patterns, and a better rhythm of mana-pull. He even wrote a new method for channeling that was taken from one of the elf mages.
"You ready?" Hunter questioned.
Luenor nodded with determination. "This time, I'm gonna try to stretch it out longer."
As he reached for the mana surroundings him, his body responded — channels lit like glowing rivers beneath his skin. The energy seemed to be flowing more smoothly this time. He started rotating the mana around inside his limbs, allowing it to fuel each of his muscles.
But then it happened again.
The flow became turbulent, a swelling mass of instability. Ambient mana was colliding with the mana that he was merging with from the core. His arms were trembling. His veins were so bright, it was painful. Cracks of steam were hissing from his fingertips.
"Too much—!" Luenor gasped.
Hunter sprinted forward, bringing his palm crashing into Luenor's chest to sever the link. There was a small wave ripple outward that tipped over crates and sent leaves swirling in the air.
Luenor dropped back, coughing and sweating down his chin.
"Still too unstable," Hunter said as he checked Luenor's pulse, "You're pulling in mana faster than your body can redirect."
Luenor moaned. "It was working… until it wasn't."
"You're getting closer," Hunter said, "But you need more than control. You need harmony."
____
Heavy clangs of hammer on steel rang in from the smithy's open entryway, near the eastern square of Duskwatch.
Burizan, with his belly jumping from the effort of moving, strutting in with puffed chest. Inside was a stocky man with wide shoulders dressed in a thick fiery red smock and clad in an apron who was hammering a flat piece of hot metal into shape.
The blacksmith must not have heard him, because he didn't acknowledge Burizan. "What do ya need, stranger?"
"I do," Burizan puffed up even more. "I need to know about Skyshard blades."
The blacksmith looked up, squinting. "I aint heard of 'em."
Burizan scoffed with disbelief. "Dont lie to me. You folks know everythin'."
"I aint interested. Go bother the gossiping-idiot tailors down the lane."
Burizan was still nervous despite his attitude, and he reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded item of cloth. He unfurled it, revealing a crude white mask symbol on it; Alfrenzo's mark.
The blacksmith halted mid-swing, eyes quizzical. His strong hands loosened and there was a look of surprise on his face.
"You… work for Alfrenzo?"
Burizan's voice took on a fake grandeur. "Of course. And you… with how high you regard him, might as well let me in on everything you know."
The blacksmith leaned on his hammer, eyes glazed. "Alfrenzo was there to help my family during the beast wave… food, clothes, shelter. I owe him."
Burizan grinned, smug as hell. "Then talk."
The old man rubbed his beard. "Skyshard blades? They're just swords, nothing special for metal properties. The only trick is the mana stone fused into 'em. The forging methods aren't available here. Our old orders came in, from the routes of Viscount Como. The blades came from the much deeper south, Marquis Mellon."
Burizan scribbled the specifics down on a piece of crumpled parchment. "Where in Mellon?"
"Who knows?" the blacksmith replied. "But the black market hears everything. If you can afford it, they can tell you."
A tavern named The Flickering Torch stood just past the smithy, its stained windows glowing with candlelight, no matter the hour. Burizan entered with his stature swaying through the cramped bounded, immediately garnering attention.
Murmured conversations quieted. Eyes followed the unusually wealthy, unusually large man with suspicion.
He ignored them.
At the bar, a bony barkeep with a twitchy mustache welcomed him, "What can I do for you, good sir?"
Burizan leaned in and replied, "Stronger than ale. Something... informative. Like what they call 'black market materials' in the alleys."
The bartender blinked, then let out a tired sigh. "You guys really don't know how to be subtle."
Burizan grinned, unaffected. "I can be subtle, when I am hungry. Right now, I am not."
The bartender's eyes darted to the coin pouch Burizan pulled from under his cloak. He dropped it on the counter — the sound of gold sharp and heavy.
In an instant the barkeep whisked it away.
"Follow me."
Burizan nodded and waddled behind him as he unlocked a small wooden door hidden behind the wall of alcohol. The hinges creaked.
Behind them, two scruffy drinkers exchanged glances. One nudged the other.
"Did you see that gold pouch?"
The other squinted at Burizan's bulk disappearing through the door. "Suit up boys.... we have a pig to slaughter."