The dinner carried into the evening, the warmth of firelight warding off the chill that crept through the old stone walls. Around the long oak table, plates were half?cleared.

  General Rennard set down his knife, ignoring what remained of his meal as his full attention shifted to Edric. His weathered face, marked by long border patrols and hardened by old skirmishes.

  “So, Sir Edric,” he said, the honorific carrying just enough weight to suggest doubt, “how does an archer hero with no bow skills plan to make himself useful in Galenmurk?”

  The blunt question silenced the table. Even King Browen seemed to sense the shift, pausing in his gleeful destruction of a bread roll to look up with wide eyes. Around the table, conversation stilled into watchful quiet: curiosity, skepticism, and in Kornic’s case, thinly veiled amusement.

  Edric felt the weight of their collective attention but met Rennard’s gaze evenly. This wasn’t Halric’s sneering goad or the Queen’s cold disdain—it was a soldier asking a fair question.

  *What do I tell them?* he wondered, glancing toward Zylenaia for any signal. His most meaningful contribution—the introduction of firearms—would be slow and wasn't something to parade before a table full of witnesses, least of all Kornic.

  He hesitated too long. Rennard’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Perhaps,” the Sheriff said dryly, “Mira is the better asset of the two, after all.”

  Mira straightened. Her voice, though polite, carried a clear edge. “You praise me too much, General,” she said smoothly. “I’m sure Sir Edric will prove his worth in time.”

  Edric appreciated the support, but Rennard deserved an answer. Partial honesty, he decided, was better than outright evasion.

  “In my past life,” Edric said carefully, “I was a weapons?smith. I specialized in projectile weapons—more advanced than those common here.”

  Rennard’s interest stirred despite himself. “What sort of weapons?”

  “For now, I’d like to begin with something familiar to both our worlds—a crossbow,” Edric explained. “It’s essentially a bow mounted horizontally on a stock. Once drawn, the tension’s held by a mechanism, letting the shooter aim without maintaining the pull. It’s easier to master than a longbow—and potentially more powerful.”

  Rennard folded his arms, unimpressed. “And how will a new kind of bow help against demons that tear through stone? Or wyverns that attack from the sky?”

  *Fair question,* Edric conceded inwardly. The man’s doubt wasn’t contempt—it was practical.

  “The crossbow’s just a starting point,” Edric pressed on. “A proof of concept. If successful, it could lead to weapons based on similar mechanics—stronger, faster to use.”

  The General grunted, not convinced but no longer dismissive. “We’ll see,” he said.

  Seeing an opportunity, Edric shifted objectives. “For this project, I’ll need access to skilled craftsmen—a bowyer, a carpenter, and a blacksmith, ideally.”

  His request drew an unexpected note of discomfort. Dorin and Rennard exchanged glances; Zylenaia’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly.

  *Interesting,* Edric thought. *There’s a story there.*

  “I’ve noticed the woodwork here is exceptional,” he said, letting the tension ease. His gaze lingered on the carved chair backs and the detailed trim around the doorway. “Whoever handles that level of precision could craft fine stocks or frames.”

  The intricacy of each pattern spoke of a master’s hand—someone capable of delicate shaping and exact measurements. *A craftsman like that could make a stock that fits mechanisms perfectly,* he reasoned.

  Dorin nodded, pride slipping into his tone. “That would be Maryn’s work. He’s our master carpenter—and you’re in luck; he also serves as bowyer when needed. Been with us since before the last king.”

  “His shop’s in the western quarter,” Dorin continued. “Near the old millpond. You can’t miss it—the facade's carved with marshland scenes.”

  Edric felt a surge of anticipation. The thought of returning to proper tools again sparked a quiet thrill. After a week of politics, the idea of *building* felt almost sacred.

  “And what about a blacksmith?” he asked, watching their faces closely. “For the metalwork.”

  The mood became heavier immediately. Rennard’s expression darkened; Dorin’s voice lost its cheer.

  “That is a more complicated matter,” the General said grimly. He set his cup down with a dull thunk. “Our head smith, Brehmer, and most of his apprentices were taken in the last raid.”

  “Taken?” Edric asked.

  “Abducted,” Dorin clarified, his usual composure faltering. “Demons sometimes take people alive. We don’t know why.”

  The words sank into a silence that no one hurried to break.

  “Only one apprentice remains,” Dorin said at last. “A boy named Finn. He was homesick the day of the attack—too weak to work the forge.” He sighed. “I’ve been helping him recover what trade we can, but progress is slow. The boy’s lungs are weak.”

  “I’d like to meet him,” Edric said without hesitation. “See what I can do to help. I’ve worked metal before.”

  Both Dorin and Rennard perked up at this. Though skeptical of his crossbow proposal, they found the possibility of improving their blacksmithing situation more alluring.

  “You know smithing?” Dorin asked, barely disguising his eagerness.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Different techniques than yours, perhaps,” Edric hedged, “but yes—relevant experience.”

  *And maybe a few innovations from my world.*

  “I’ll arrange an introduction,” Dorin promised. “The boy could use encouragement.”

  Kornic, who had been observing while draining his wine, shoved back his chair. The wooden legs scraped against the stone floor with a sharp rasp.

  “The ship will be ready by midday,” he announced flatly. “Don’t keep my men waiting, Regent.”

  Without further ceremony, he grabbed a nearby flask of wine and departed, the heavy door swinging shut behind him with a dull thud.

  Edric watched him go—relieved to see him leave, but aware that Mira would soon be alone in his company.

  *I hope Zylenaia knows what she’s doing,* he thought.

  The conversation resumed in the wake of Kornic’s exit. Conversation turned to local happenings and the progress of repairs throughout Larkenshire. Without warning, a thin wail cut through the discussion. King Browen suddenly scrunched up his face and began to cry.

  His caretaker immediately leaned closer, offering soothing sounds and a wooden toy, but the infant king was having none of it. His cries grew louder, tiny fists waving furiously in the air.

  Without hesitation, Zylenaia excused herself from the conversation, rose from her seat, and crossed to the high chair. She scooped King Browen up, cradling him against her shoulder and patting his back.

  “There, there, Your Majesty,” she murmured, her tone shifting seamlessly from political leader to nurturing guardian. “What’s troubling you, hmm? Tired of sitting still? I understand completely.”

  Edric watched, fascinated by the transformation. The fierce Regent who had negotiated his release from Ayzelsted was now swaying gently, humming a quiet tune to calm a fretful baby.

  King Browen’s cries tapered into hiccupping whimpers as Zylenaia continued to bounce and pat him. She turned back toward the table, the infant still nestled against her shoulder, now chewing on a strand of her white hair.

  “While I’m away,” she said to Edric, her voice somehow balancing the formality of a Regent with the warmth of a caretaker, “I’d like you to check on His Majesty periodically—just to ensure his safety and well-being.”

  Edric blinked. “I don’t know anything about babies.”

  “You needn’t change diapers or prepare meals,” Zylenaia assured him with a laugh. “His caretakers can manage that. But an extra pair of eyes—especially the Herald’s chosen—would bring me peace of mind.”

  Mira, who had been watching the exchange with soft eyes, spoke up. “Surely checking on an infant king should fall under an attendant’s responsibilities,” she said, the slight emphasis revealing her continued disappointment over the upcoming separation.

  “Under normal circumstances, perhaps,” Zylenaia conceded, still bouncing the now?calm Browen. “But given your diplomatic duties and Sir Edric’s protective role here, this arrangement is sensible.”

  Mira’s lips pressed together, but she nodded, recognizing that the matter was settled for the evening.

  Edric studied the tiny monarch, who had now abandoned Zylenaia’s hair in favor of tugging at her earring.

  *So much for no obligations,* he thought with a blend of resignation and reluctant fondness. *Me babysitting royalty. Sarah would have laughed herself sick.*

  “If anything concerning happens,” Zylenaia continued, adjusting her hold as Browen squirmed, “send word through the church immediately—preferably through Brother Tarvish, when he’s available.”

  Edric frowned, puzzled. “Through the church? Why not just send a messenger?”

  His question earned several confused looks, as if he’d asked why water was wet or the sky blue.

  Zylenaia was the first to understand. “Ah, of course. Your world must send messages differently.” She thought for a moment. “Did you perhaps use horses or foot messengers? I recall reading histories of such methods from our distant past.”

  “We have more advanced systems now,” Edric said, “but yes, that’s the general idea.”

  Brother Tarvish leaned forward, folding his tattooed hands. “The Herald blesses the clergy with summoning magic, so we are able to summon scroll tubes containing written documents between us,” he explained gently. “Each chapel maintains a schedule—Tuesday and Friday for the eastern settlements, Wednesday for those to the north, and so forth. We use our gifts to relay messages and disseminate proclamations.”

  “Summoning again,” Edric muttered, unable to keep a touch of bitterness from his voice. The unidirectional nature of it—one way only—was an unforgivable reminder of his own arrival here.

  “Yes,” Brother Tarvish replied, either missing or ignoring the tone. “The scroll tubes are crafted to endure the transition and protect their contents. We place letters inside, and at the appointed hour they are summoned to their destination.”

  Edric’s practical instincts engaged. “Why limit it to letters? With that ability, you could revolutionize trade, transport—”

  Brother Tarvish shook his head with a faint, patient smile. “Summoning is constrained by a cleric’s strength, distance, and the size or weight of the object. Letters are light; within reach of nearly all clergy. Larger items would require greater power, and even strong summoners must rest between attempts.” His expression grew somber. “And summoning living beings—especially unwilling ones—calls for power of an entirely different magnitude.”

  *Like the ritual that brought me here,* he noted.

  The conversation drifted toward other topics as the meal wound down, but Edric kept mulling over the idea of their summoning network. The limitations Brother Tarvish described made sense—consistent with the other magic he’d seen—but it hinted at unrealized potential.

  As the evening drew to a close, the atmosphere softened. The weighty discussions of trade routes, diplomacy, and defense gave way to more relaxed conversations. Dorin—bolstered by good food and better wine—began recounting the story of his ill?fated attempt to drain part of the eastern marsh for farmland. His vivid gestures, along with Zylenaia’s wry interjections, soon had the table laughing. Even Edric found himself joining in despite the lingering formality of the night.

  Servants moved quietly through the hall, clearing plates and refilling goblets one final time. King Browen had been transferred back to his caretaker, still fast asleep, his tiny face serene in untroubled slumber. The fire had burned down to a bed of glowing embers, filling the room with a warm, flickering calm.

  Zylenaia shifted back into the tone of command, issuing her closing instructions. Dorin was to ensure the trade goods were fully cataloged before loading.

  General Rennard would manage security in her absence, paying special attention to the eastern watchtowers.

  Brother Tarvish would oversee his usual parish duties and monitor any messages returning through the church’s network.

  “And Sir Edric,” she concluded, turning to him with a thoughtful smile, “I trust you’ll quickly find your footing here. Between Maryn’s workshop, young Finn’s forge, your training with General Rennard, and the occasional visit to His Majesty, your days should be quite full.”

  By the time the dinner ended, he found himself cautiously optimistic.

  Train with Rennard; Meet Maryn; Assess the forge; Check on the infant king; Each challenge formed a step forward and something to keep himself busy.

  He caught Mira watching him with a mixture of concern and curiosity, clearly wondering what he was thinking.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said quietly as they stood. “Focus on your diplomatic duties and come back safely.”

  A small, genuine smile touched her face—the first since news of her journey. “I shall endeavor to return promptly, sir,” she replied, the formality undercut by warmth. “The Herald’s chosen shouldn’t be left long without proper attendance.”

  As the group dispersed from the dining hall, Brother Tarvish fell into step beside him. The priest’s tattooed face looked thoughtful in the shifting lamplight of the corridor.

  “The Herald works through strange instruments sometimes,” Tarvish said softly, eyeing him with a humble smirk.

  Edric stiffened, instinctively bristling at the phrasing. “I’m not interested in being anyone’s instrument,” he replied curtly.

  Rather than taking offense, Tarvish gave a slow, understanding nod and a faint, knowing smile.

  He paused at a junction in the corridor, inclining his head. “Good night, Sir Edric. May your dreams bring clarity.”

  With that cryptic farewell, the priest turned down a side passage, leaving Edric alone to follow a waiting servant toward his assigned quarters—mind humming with the night’s revelations and the challenges already forming in their wake.

  *Tomorrow, I start building.* he thought as he climbed the narrow stairs to his room.