Chương 75: Karthvale

Menard Avent Wildcreek thought the mornings that carried ash drizzle were the most storm-soured and crack-bound of the lot. He'd lived well past forty years in Karthvale and still hadn't grown used to them. Folks liked to crow about how it was a proper Karthvale morning, taking a strange pride in enduring it while they shuttered their windows tight and wrapped scarves over their mouths so their lungs wouldn't clog and their clothes wouldn't stain.

Smokesick, cinder-brained nonsense—the same sort of thinking Menard had once fallen into himself—and it irritated him more than it should that most of his kin still swore by it. He'd had friends from Marrowfen who talked about vaultspat luck like it was a curse that stuck to a place. Karthvale only had crag-hard living and grit, but Menard wouldn't be surprised if some of that Marrowfen misfortune had drifted across the Reaches and Highlands and rubbed off on him at some point when he was young.

It would explain more than a few of the strange turns his life had taken. He stifled a rough yawn against the back of his knuckles and scratched at the stubble along his jaw with the other as he limped his way around the shop, tidying where he could and casting the occasional glance toward the front window. Outside, the ash hung thin and gray, like a bad thought that wouldn't quite leave.

Fine motes clung to the glass and wormed their way into every hairline crack they could find, working under the doorframe and along the window seams, filling the shop with the faint, bitter tang of burnt stone. Menard swept the worst of it into a corner to deal with later, then drew the curtains and lit a few candles to push back the gloom. After that, he headed into the back room to check his stock. There was never much foot traffic during an ash drizzle, and he didn't expect today to be any different.

He was in the middle of recalibrating a Resonance sink—careful work, slow and exact—when the bell over the front door gave a sharp, unexpected chime. Menard blinked.

"Mommy, look! What's that?" a small, bright voice piped up.

"Hmm?" a woman replied.

"Oh. Wow. I… think that's a grandfather clock? Unique design, though."

"Grandfather clock? Why is it called that?"

"Good question, kid." There was a brief pause.

"…Mommy, you didn't answer!" A quiet laugh followed.

"Sorry, sorry. I don't actually know. Maybe because it's the sort of clock you'd only ever see at an old grandpa's place."

"Like Grandpa Korrin?"

"Like Grandpa Korrin." Menard set his tools aside and stepped out from the back room into the shop proper, his gaze settling on the pair standing in front of his Resonance regulator. The tall, narrow column of stone and brass was bolted firmly to the floor, its stacked plates etched with fine calibration marks. A vertical spine of glass ran down its center, glowing faintly as slow currents of Resonance rose and fell within, paced by the steady swing of the pendulum core suspended inside.

Mother and daughter turned toward him. They were near enough mirror images—wane-born both, same glossy dark hair, same bones, just worn different by the years. The woman was clearly Kindled, her clothes unmistakably Resonance-crafted in both make and finish, while the girl wore a simpler dress. Strangely, neither of them was covered in ash. Menard slowed, eyes lingering on the woman's face. For some reason, he thought she looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place why.

"Are you the owner here?" she asked, offering a polite smile. He quickly let the thought go, pulling up the sort of smile folk expected from a man with a counter to mind.

"That I am. Welcome to Menard's Second Measures."

"You're Menard, I take it?"

"The one and only. What can I do for you?"

"I'm Vera, and this is my daughter, Serel." She nudged the girl forward a touch. Serel lifted a small hand and gave him a shy little wave.

"Hello…" Menard felt his smile ease before he could stop it. Endearing. Kids could be damned endearing. He was glad enough he didn't have any of his own—he'd long since left the trouble of carrying on the Wildcreek name to his sister—but every now and then, sights like this made him feel the shape of what he'd missed. Might've been nice, seeing something like this on the regular. At least for a few years, anyway. Then they grew into tiny terrors. Like his nieces and nephews.

He shook the thought loose and looked back to the woman.

"You do general Resonance work?" she asked.

"Resonance crafting, sigil-carving, that sort of thing?"

"Resonance crafting only," he said. She hummed, thoughtful, then lifted her hand as a faint glow gathered above her palm.

"That might be enough." Once, Menard might've stared. These days, folk flashing their Vaultrings around didn't mean much—he had worked with and for enough deep-pocketed types that it barely raised a brow. What did catch him, though, was the candle-thin stalk of pale light that slipped into being above her skin. His eyes tightened.

"This is…?"

"A Wick of the Quiet Wake," Vera said.

"You familiar with it?" His hand twitched toward it before he caught himself and pulled back. A faint line creased his brow.

"Can't say that I am." House Hollow, though. That much was plain as day. And the Resonance bleeding off it was no small thing for something so small. He'd wager it'd fetch several gilds easy. Maybe even ashmarks. Might've been worth more than everything else sitting in his shop combined. He looked back up at her.

"You want work done on it?" She nodded.

"Yes. Nothing too fancy. We only got into town last night and we'll be heading out again around evening. It's my daughter's toy, and while it works fine as-is, I thought it might be nice to make it a little easier for her to carry around. Do you do socketing here?" Menard frowned.

"Socketing?" She gave him a brief, odd look, then shook her head.

"Sorry—Resonance Sheathing. That's the right term, yeah?"

"It is," he said slowly, eyes dropping back to the Wick. He studied it a second longer. Then stopped. His gaze snapped back to her, then slid down to the girl watching him with wide, earnest eyes. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. …Had she said this was her daughter's toy?

"Something wrong?" Vera asked. Menard pulled himself back sharp, clearing his throat as he refocused on the Wick. It wasn't his place to judge what wealthy folk spent their coin on or how they spoiled their children. His job was the work. Nothing else.

"Mind if I take a closer look?" he asked, extending a hand.

"Go ahead." She passed it over without hesitation. Menard rolled it between thumb and finger, surprised by the warmth of it, then teased a thin thread of Resonance into its structure to feel how it answered.

"So, Sheathing," he murmured, half to himself.

"You planning to turn it into a proper artifact down the line, or just want it worked into something wearable? Pendant, necklace—""Maybe more later," she said.

"For now, just something easier for her to keep on her. A necklace would be fine. But like I said, doesn't need to be fancy." Menard nodded.

"I can do that. Shouldn't take long. I settle costs after the work's done, though. Just so you know."

"That's fine. Don't hold back. Just give me the best you can manage in the time you've got." He glanced at her, then back to the Wick.

"Will do." Turning, he limped over to his bench and set the Wick carefully into a padded lockbox. He pulled his ledger from a drawer, wet his thumb, and flipped to a clean page, jotting down the particulars. Bringing out his tracing seal, he placed a sheet of thin parchment over the page and pressed the seal against it. With a narrow ribbon of tightly controlled Resonance, inkless letters bled through, copying the entry line for line. Menard added a short note by hand and slid it across the counter.

"Work chit." Vera eyed it for a moment before it vanished into her Vaultring.

"I should have it done by evening," he said.

"Come by whenever's good for you."

"Thank you." She glanced down.

"Serel. Anything you want to say?" The girl studied him, hesitated, then smiled.

"Thank you!" Menard blinked, caught a little off guard, then dipped his head.

"Don't mention it, young lady." His gaze drifted to the door, to the faint dusting of ash gathering along the threshold.

"You heading back out in the drizzle?" he asked, looking back to Vera.

"We are."

"Then keep an eye on the kid's breathing. Ash won't kill you, but there's no sense lettin' it sit in young lungs for nothing." He jerked his chin toward the shelves.

"I've got spare scarves if you want one for her." An amused curve touched her mouth.

"I appreciate it, but we're fine." She rested a hand on Serel's head.

"Her other parent's good at keeping things like that away. Don't need a mask or an umbrella when you've got someone like that around." Something about the way she said it snagged at Menard, but he didn't bother chasing the thought. The two of them offered their goodbyes and headed for the door. He stayed behind the counter, lowering his gaze to the ledger to add a couple of notes as the woman pushed the door open. Outside, someone was waiting for them.

The air around the doorway was strange—clear in a way the rest of the street wasn't, the ash thinning and drifting aside like it knew better than to linger. Menard's hand stiffened around the quill as his eyes caught on the figure standing there. Full plate, black as spent coal, a dark sun worked across the chest. Vermilion hair spilled from the back of the helm, the face hidden save for the mouth and jaw behind angled cheek guards. A narrow visor cut across the helm's front, glowing a deep, ember-red from within.

"Did they agree to your work?" the armored woman asked, voice cool.

"He did. Should be finished before we leave tonight," Vera replied casually.

"Good." The armored woman placed a gauntleted hand atop Serel's head, far gentler than her appearance would suggest. The girl beamed up at her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Menard stared. He had spent over forty years in Karthvale. He was past fifty now. The years in between had been spent on the fronts. Marching and digging in alongside other poor sods, doing their best to hold back tribulations with mortal hands.

Fighting cultists, beasts, and things wearing god-marked colors, scraping through on grit, stubbornness, and dumb luck more times than he cared to count, and he'd buried enough names along the way that he'd stopped trying to remember them all. He wasn't special for it. You could toss a stone down the street of any town in the central dominions and hit a half-dozen folk who'd stood against one tribulation or another. He'd had a knack or two that kept him alive longer than most, but that was all.

When the Chainfather finally fell and his cult went with him, Menard had figured that was the end of it. Time to lay it down. Time to be done. Even though he was ashamed of it at times, he couldn't bring himself to offer more of what he had left. That said, he'd still been around for a few of the more momentous occasions. Seen some of the faces that stepped forward when things went properly wrong. The faces that stood against the tribulations on behalf of even the most cowardly and ordinary mortals.

And he would never forget the figure of the Flamebearer—the one they whispered about after Ninefold Wake, the scion of the Wounded Sun. The woman who called herself Vera glanced back at him through the open door one last time, lifting a hand in a brief, easy wave before stepping away. It clicked into place all at once. Why she had seemed familiar. Vera. Veralyth Mournvale. The Ashborn Ascendant. Menard stood there for a long moment, mind grinding as it tried to make sense of what had just walked out of his shop.

Slowly, his gaze dropped to the lockbox sitting on his bench.

"…Ash take me," he muttered.

"That guy was staring at you like he'd seen a ghost," Vera said, squinting slightly as she looked back through the thin gray haze behind them. The ash parted cleanly in their wake, pushed aside by the quiet pressure of Elaria's Resonance.

"He was Menard Avent Wildcreek," Elaria replied.

"A former brace-captain in the Ashward Companies. I assume he recognized me."

"You know him?" Vera glanced over, mildly surprised.

"I have never spoken to him," Elaria said.

"But I am aware of him. He was a capable artisan during his service."

"Is that why you suggested we come here when I said I was looking for a Resonance crafter?"

"Yes." Vera studied her profile for a moment.

"Do you remember the names and jobs of everyone who ever fought under you?" Elaria looked at her.

"No. That would be absurd."

"It would, wouldn't it?"

"I remember some. Either by chance or by circumstance. Nothing more."

"Huh. Alright." Vera turned forward again, keeping hold of Serel's hand as they walked. She was surprised by how many people were actually out and about right now. It wasn't bustling, exactly, but it was far from dead. Enough folk were moving with purpose—head down, scarves up, just getting on with things—that the city at least felt alive. Karthvale sat near the western edge of the Stonewake Highlands, which was about as far away from Caer Virell as you could be and still call it a part of the 'central dominions.'

The city itself sat very close to a region known as the Karthvale Crags, where storms regularly kicked up thick clouds of ash, which then drifted down over Karthvale in these thin, miserable drizzles. In Ashen Legacy, it'd been a neat bit of environmental flavor. Here, she imagined it was just a constant nuisance. Which made it hard not to respect the people still walking around in it without much complaint.

And made her very grateful for Elaria's Emberward path, which let her stop the ash from ever quite touching them. Vera did have ways of handling it herself, but nothing that was nearly as convenient. They turned a corner and kept heading down the street. After getting used to Marrowfen's bone-carved halls and stylized architecture, Karthvale felt… blunt. Basalt and rough-cut stone, most of it. A lot of compact buildings, only a few stories high, built thick and close together. Narrow streets, with solid walls.

Everything about the place felt practical first, aesthetic second. It almost felt less like a city and more like something that had started as a fortress and never quite let go of that mindset. Of course, it was still far removed from some of the proper fortresses present in the game, but Vera wouldn't be surprised if that had been its origin. They'd arrived around sundown the night before.

This time, to avoid causing a scene, they had set Vorthalor down a good distance outside the walls and come in on foot, found an inn, and called it a night. Vera had assumed they'd be leaving again first thing in the morning, but Elaria had surprised her by saying they would be staying through the day. Apparently, the woman had 'business' to attend to. Vera didn't doubt that there was some truth behind that.

But she couldn't help but wonder if Serel's excitement about exploring somewhere new might've helped nudge the decision just a little. Either way, since they were staying in Karthvale for the day, Vera had figured she might as well take care of the Wick. Getting it socketed so Serel could wear it instead of carrying it around loose just made sense. It was something players did all the time back in Ashen Legacy.

Socketing was the easiest way to create basic trinkets if you needed specific stat boosts, and it was also a necessary part of preparing materials for later crafting. Karthvale, if she remembered right, had always been a pretty solid spot for crafters in the game. Not flashy, but reliable. Good enough that it felt like a good opportunity to take advantage of it while they were here. Serel, for her part, had been very into the idea of her Wick getting 'upgraded.'

Vera found herself looking forward to seeing the girl's face once it was finished. The streets grew denser as they walked, buildings closing in, the feel of the place shifting as they edged closer to the city's center. Vera glanced around, then sideways at Elaria.

"So," she said, "where exactly are we headed next?"

"To the Castellan's hall," Elaria replied.

"I have already arranged an audience for us."

"Wait, for 'us?' As in, both of us?"

"Yes."

"I thought this was something you were doing. Like… on your own. Later."

"No," Elaria said evenly.

"We are meeting them together." Vera's mind flicked back to who held that position in the game, and a slow breath left her.

"…I'm guessing you're not letting me wriggle out of it at this point?"