Caster’s gaze shifted between his rough tools and the iron-cast walls around him. The dim, flickering light from a lone torch cast dancing shadows on his workbench, where the worn mace lay, waiting. Each scuff and nick in the wood handle held a tale of its own; it wasn’t just a tool but a companion, a weapon that had been through as much as he had. And here he was, weighing its life and usefulness like a weary healer judging the last pulse of an old patient.He ran his hand over the handle one last time, tracing the grains and grooves with a practiced eye. “Adding a stone’s one thing,” he muttered. “But what it needs is stability.” His fingers slid to a small crack, an old fracture that hadn’t yet spread but threatened to. “If that widens… this thing’s done.”His hands worked without thought, reaching into the assortment of stones, metals, and powders he had scavenged over time. His fingers found a small, rough mana stone, and he rolled it between his fingers, feeling its faint warm

Casting his small treaty of provisions, a load of stale bread crusts, some wrinkled fruits, and a hard wedge of cheese that once lived on a more hospitable broke surviving clunk to clunk. He made a gagging noise as he peered at the dried meat again and poked it with distaste. "Wouldn't it kill the fates to give me a real meal?" Just once. Something hot, even." He sneaked a look over at where a stove should be, the ones that made his mouth water when a hearty stew bubbled away. For a moment he smirked, "No stove yet … maybe I could conjure a magical pan up." "Oil might be asking for a miracle."Peering out the window he squinted at the city in the early light. Carts creaked along cobbled paths and vendors hawked fresh fish and newly baked bread in the place I had walked into, even now. He’d done a lot with the house in the week that he’d been there, turning it into something livable, barely. "What the hell?' he murmured, 'Doors actually close now' he concluded feeling a bit more proud

Caster was mature enough to see the world as it was. He understood that most younger folk saw it through a lens of hope and ambition, their dreams of treasure and fame setting them apart from his more grounded approach. Some were from humble beginnings: sons and daughters of farmers; young people from families that were better off but that had fallen on hard times and now were boy or girl determined to claw back some of that perceived lost respect, no matter the price."My jaw twisted into a small smirk as I imagined their wide eyes and wide, baseless plans and all they think is, ‘Get some gold, a shiny sword, you’ll be a hero.’" It was the same story, time and again: things that were often only dreams, rarely aligning with reality.Lowfield had been a deliberate choice despite what she had become. Knowing full well it wouldn’t be clear, he took the fast route but he took the fast route. The road taught him about its steep hills, its rocky passages and on occasion, the unfriendly tra

Caster sat at his workbench, staring at the mess in front of him. Tools were scattered everywhere, papers and sketches covered the surface, and there were notes scribbled in every corner. It all felt overwhelming. His fingers tapped the wood of the table, a soft rhythm that couldn’t drown out the restlessness gnawing at him.There was so much he had to do. So many ideas, so many things he wanted to build. But where to start? His mind was a storm of thoughts, and none of them seemed to stick long enough to make sense.He muttered to himself, almost as if trying to remind himself why he was still here. "If I’m going to stay in this city, I might as well make the most of it," he said quietly, his voice raspy with exhaustion. "Maybe I’ll find something here. Something worth the effort."Caster shifted his gaze toward the window. Down below, the street was alive with people, carts rolling by, voices shouting, children playing. The city pulsed with energy. But it was the construction site

The auction hall smelled of sawdust and fresh paint. The walls were rough, and a faint draft moved through the cracks in the half-finished ceiling. Torches burned along the walls, giving off uneven light. Shadows stretched across the room like long fingers. The air was thick with voices, low, eager, restless.Caster sat near the middle, paddle 27 resting on his knee. His eyes moved again and again across the faces in the room. He studied them carefully. Adventurers in worn leather leaned forward with hungry looks, hands twitching for treasure. Merchants whispered into each other’s ears, already planning what profit they would make from resale. Nobles sat still, hiding behind dark cloaks, but their jeweled rings flashed whenever they shifted their hands.Caster crossed his arms, quiet. He didn’t want to look nervous, but his mind kept working, weighing every person, every mood.A bell rang, sharp and clear. The voices cut off at once. From the side of the stage, the demon in the tal