Caleb clung to the ladder, his forearm muscles straining against his skin.
Corinne kept a steady grip on his hand, smiling with a confidence that seemed impossible for someone her age. "Don't worry about him. Mom will handle it."
The simple declaration short-circuited his brain. Handle it? In his experience, dealing with violent drunks involved restraining orders, lawyers, and police reports. This medieval ordeal demanded something else entirely. Yet Corinne spoke with absolute certainty, as if her mother's word alone could shield him from a man who'd strangled him just hours ago.
She guided him down the remaining rungs, then led him through overlapping shadows cast by dual suns, a wonder Caleb didn't have the time to appreciate. Avoiding the main courtyard, they slipped through a narrow door he hadn't noticed before, hidden behind a stack of empty barrels. The transition from stable air to the inn's interior soaked him in warmth, order, and the smell of baking bread mixed with lye soap and lavender.
They entered a small, utilitarian room that said "staff only." Wicker baskets overflowed with linens sorted by type, awaiting washing. Shelves held neat rows of cleaning supplies, their labels hand-written in flowing script. A spout marked with a faintly glowing rune fed into a sizable copper basin that occupied one wall. Nothing was out of place.
"Thalorin!"
A resonant contralto voice, underpinned by an unmistakable note of command, made him flinch instinctively before recognition filtered through.
Cassia Hearthsong stood in the doorway, and Caleb's first thought was how much Corinne resembled her human mother. Rich brown hair shot through with silver was pulled back from a fair, capable face. Her dark brown eyes held depths earned through years of running the family business. They widened in alarm as she took in his battered state.
"Rufan Caldorn again?" She stepped into the room and, despite her smaller stature, the way she stood seemed to shrink the room around her. "Don't you worry your head about that good-for-nothing lout for one second, dear. Any man who would treat his own son that way... well, he isn't worth the air he breathes, now is he? If he comes sniffing around my inn looking for you, he'll find a locked door and a deaf ear, if not worse."
The ferocity in her voice brought him up short. He recognized her through Thal's memories, yet she remained a stranger to him. A stranger ready to stand between him and danger without hesitation, offering an immediate defense of someone she saw as a child in need.
When did I become so cynical that basic human decency shocks me?
"Corinne, fetch water and a cloth. The good ones, not the bar rags."
"Yes Mom!" Corinne gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before darting away, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Cassia softened. She peered from the scrapes on his palms to the darkening bruises on his neck, her lips thinning for a moment before the concern returned. "Take your time getting washed up, Thal. There are fresh clothes in that basket. They're from last season's lost and found, but they're clean and mended and some should fit you. Corinne will be right outside when you're ready."
After she left, Caleb took a moment to collect himself before moving to the basin, every muscle protesting. He leaned on the cool rim, looking at the apparently magical spout. It was carved from stone, its surface etched with glowing runes that made it resemble a prop from a fantasy flick.
A part of him expected failure. He reached out an unsure hand, his fingertips brushing the carved surface as he studied the strange shapes and symbols: a flowing, wave-like glyph. A memory unlocked of Thal's mother’s finger tracing the exact same sigil in their kitchen, her voice explaining, "The rune answers to your desire. Call the water, and it will come."
Despite some memory-born confidence, his Earthen skepticism told him there was still a non-zero chance this thing exploded in his face. Or at least asked him to agree to a fifty-page terms of service agreement before dispensing water. Yet he placed his palm on it and closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts and pushing his will at the object. The mental effort felt alien, like trying to move a phantom limb. Water. I need water. Flow for me.
For a second, nothing happened. Then his fingers felt a vibration, the sensation traveling up his arm as the runes flared with a soft blue light. Water, clear and cold, streamed from the spout.
Holy mackerel!
He stared, mesmerized, as the water flowed without a pump, pipes, or any other logical explanation his old world could offer. It just… was. Because he willed it to be. He, Caleb Foster, a middle-aged nobody from suburbia, had performed an act of magic.
This had to be what Corinne experienced, he enviously realized. Yet only a faint reflection of the real thing. He studied his hand, then turned back to the luminous symbol. Corinne's status display recalled in his mind's eye, its clean edges and concrete words overlaying his vision. Those statistics were a language, representing a dialogue with reality itself. A dialogue that excluded him. And after the alley, after Rufan, he knew he couldn't survive as an outsider to that conversation. He needed a voice. He needed access.
He cupped his hands, the stream cool against his skin. As the water washed away the dirt and blood, it also cleansed him of his final dregs of disbelief. This was real. The simple act became a sacrament, each splash a confirmation of his impossible new existence.
He paused, leaning over the basin as the water stilled into a murky, copper-tinted mirror.
A stranger stared back at him. Gone were the tired blue eyes and receding hairline of a man with a dad bod. In their place was a boy barely sixteen. Unruly auburn hair framed a thin, almost gaunt, pale face with sharp features. His eyes, a startling moss-green, held a haunted look that felt simultaneously strange and natural because of the conflict between Thal's memories and his own. The disconnect actually made him dizzy for a moment, and he had to grip the basin to keep from collapsing. The reflection held an undeniable reality. This was his face now. As he pushed a wet strand from his forehead, he saw the ears, tapered to a fine point. He choked back an involuntary sob of denial.
This isn't me. This CAN'T be me. But I feel it. Every inch of this body is now... mine. He gritted his teeth as he forced himself to accept what was staring back at him. I'm in a teenager's body, with pointed ears, in another world. He pressed his palms against his temples, fingers digging into the unfamiliar hair. Get it together, Foster.
The clothes Cassia had indicated were indeed simple. A linen shirt that had seen better days but smelled of lavender sachets, dark trousers with careful patches at the knees, and, miracle of miracles, leather shoes. They had softened with use, the soles thin but intact. After hours of bare feet on stone and filth, the worn leather footwear felt like armor against the world.
He found Corinne waiting outside, practically vibrating with nervous energy. She led him down a short hallway to a small office. Ledgers stacked on shelves, what appeared to be an abacus beside an inkwell, the nerve center of the inn's operations. Cassia sat behind a modest desk, her demeanor shifting. Still warm and kind, but now businesslike.
"Corinne says you've helped in the kitchen before." Cassia folded her hands, merchant's rings catching the light from a small window. "Do you have any Skills, Thal? Can you share your Status screen?"
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Caleb shifted in his chair. The old leather creaked beneath him, loud in the small room. "I... I can't access it."
Her brow furrowed. "You're past your sixteenth birthday, right?"
He nodded, grimacing.
The transformation was instantaneous. Cassia's warmth evaporated, replaced by something intense and dangerous. She fixed her eyes on something beyond the walls, hunting a target across town.
"He didn't..." Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "That man is a monster."
Caleb's corporate instincts saw an opportunity that reframed the situation from a simple interview: he was delivering a crisis management pitch. As he searched for the right words, he breathed in the scent of roasting garlic and thyme drifting from the kitchen down the hall.
The aroma sparked a composite memory formed from scattered moments: the steady thump of a cleaver, the sting of onion vapor, and Corinne’s flour-dusted cheek as she’d passed him a bowl of peeled potatoes. It gave him his angle. More vivid, though, was another memory from home.
"Now watch closely," Evelynn said, her hands steady on the knife. "Rock the blade, don't just chop. Let the weight and motion do the work."
The memory was so clear he could smell the onions, feel Evelynn guiding his hands through the technique. He remembered Katie doing homework at the breakfast bar, and Jack stealing pieces of sliced vegetables when he thought no one was looking.
Caleb blinked back the recollections. "I'm good with a knife... for vegetables," he clarified. [Savant of the Mind] and [Savant of the Body] waited, promising rapid skill acquisition. "And I'm a quick study."
"He is, Mom!" Corinne burst in, unable to contain herself. "He helped us peel a whole crate of potatoes last harvest festival! He was super fast, and he's a really hard worker!"
Caleb met Cassia's eyes, projecting a steadiness he didn't feel. "I can clean, serve, and mend, whatever you need. I'm more capable than I look." He touched his throat where Rufan's fingertips still left purple stains on his skin. "I won't bring trouble to your door. He—" His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard against the sudden tightness brought on by Thal's emotional echoes. "Rufan kept what was rightfully mine. My chance. But I don't need him. I just need a fair shot at earning my own way."
Cassia studied him with those shrewd eyes, weighing his potential against his risks. The silence stretched, but Caleb clamped down on his urge to begin fidgeting.
"Alright. Here is the offer." She leaned back, decision made. "You'll start with provisional pay of three silver a day. You'll help Gareth in the kitchen with prep work and have a cot in the staff quarters. We'll provide two square meals a day. You work hard, you prove you learn as fast as you claim to, and we'll talk about more pay and more responsibility."
Three silver. Caleb lacked any reference point for its value, but Thal's memories supplied one. At this rate, a single spirit stone would cost over a month's wages.
"I can also hold your earnings for you, if you like. To keep it safe."
The offer had immediate value. She would keep his earnings safe from Rufan's grasping hands, and from street thugs like Narbok. Caleb nodded quickly. "Yes. Please. I'll take it, all of it."
His legs went unsteady with it. The tension he had carried since the alleyway finally eased. He had done it. Had found a place to land. And as the warmth of that realization spread through his chest, a chime rang out, and a translucent blue box resolved in the lower corner of his vision.
[New Skill Gained: Diplomacy (F) - Practiced]
Caleb blinked as the notification settled into his awareness. [Diplomacy], and at the Practiced level no less. He smiled. All those soul-crushing meetings and the endless client placation; the corporate dance of reading rooms and managing egos. Apparently, they counted for something here. He'd navigated Cassia's suspicion the way he used to handle hostile clients, identifying pain points and offering solutions that left everyone mostly satisfied. His past life bleeding through, given form and rank in this strange new world.
"Good." Her motherly smile returned. "Let me give you a proper tour. You've been here before, I know, but now you're one of us."
One of us. He held those words close. Finally, there is some hope in all this darkness.
She led him from the office back into the inn proper. As they approached the common room entrance, Caleb saw delicate carvings of intertwined oak leaves and hunting beasts, but no handle or other way to open the doors. He instinctively slowed, but Cassia stepped confidently onto the stone threshold. A faint sigil on the floor pulsed with light for a heartbeat, and the massive doors swung inward, smooth and silent. Automatic doors, his mind supplied, stunned. Powered by runes?
He followed her inside, and his breath caught. He'd glimpsed it through Thal's memories, but standing in it himself was something else. The main common room soared four stories, with a polished wooden gallery circling the upper levels. A fireplace easily wide enough to roast a whole boar dominated one wall, its hearth built from river stones fitted together with an artisan's care. The air felt expensive: beeswax polish, herbs hanging from the rafters, and the rich smell of meat roasting with exotic spices. It was a perfect, stable temperature, free of the damp chill from the forest outside or the oppressive heat from the massive fire. More runes, he assumed. A whole, integrated system.
He stood in awe. Someone had designed this; had mastered it. The basic water rune had offered a glimpse of potential, but this unified network demonstrated genuine command. He felt a sudden, driving need to understand how it all worked. To be a part of that, to even begin to comprehend it… he had to get his foot in the door.
Continuing to catalogue details, he noted runic stones embedded in the ceiling beams providing steady illumination, free of sputtering candles or smoking torches. Private booths tucked into alcoves offered discretion for sensitive conversations. Polished mahogany and gleaming brass fixtures formed a masterwork of a bar.
Then the walls captured his attention completely. Trophies covered every vertical surface, each positioned for maximum impact. The oil-slick carapace of a beetle the size of a compact car, and another carapace that seemed to be mostly fangs. Some kind of enormous spider, perhaps? A huge greatsword melted cleanly in half, the slagged steel of both pieces still frozen in tear-shaped drips. There were dozens, each with their own story.
Small brass plaques identified the donors: The Bloodoak Legion, Vireth's Whispers, and The Runesworn Covenant, to name a few. The inn doubled as a shrine to deadly achievements, a gathering point for professional monster hunters. The walls themselves were a record of violence wrapped in glory, each trophy marking another notch on someone's blood-soaked ledger.
"Catches the eye, doesn't it?" Cassia asked with pride. "Gareth's father started the tradition forty years ago. 'Every trophy tells a story,' he used to say. 'And stories bring customers.'"
And customers there were. The room was flush with power and coin. A table of dwarves in battered steel mail argued loudly over a map, their tankards slamming on the wood. In a secluded booth, a robed figure with elegantly pointed green ears ignored their meal, eyes fixed on a glowing rune they drew in the air. Near the bar, a merchant in silks too bright for this frontier town laughed, trying to impress a table of mercenaries whose scarred faces and notched blades told their own tales. This was a place where adventures were bandied about over food and drink. And in a quiet corner a bard readied his lute, preparing to turn those deeds into song.
Caleb passed through the common room toward the back of the building as he followed Cassia. The sounds of comfort faded as they entered a utilitarian hallway. The decorations here were more practical: hooks for aprons and a schedule board, with notices about supplier deliveries.
"Now then." Cassia paused before a heavy door. "Gareth can be... particular. But he's a fair man. Just focus on your work and you'll do fine."
From beyond the door came the repeating impact of a cleaver striking wood: thump-thump-thump. It built to a crescendo before a single word was roared in the other room:
"Another haunch!"
Cassia sighed with long patience. "That would be your new boss." She rested her hand on the latch. "Try not to lose a finger."
As she pushed open the door, Caleb was inundated with a scene of purposeful motion. Steam billowed from a dozen pots, cooks threaded past each other through the clatter of hot pans and bare blades, and orders were barked and obeyed in a seamless flow. The thump continued unabated, the kitchen's metronome originating from a massive figure working at a butcher's block in the center of the room.
Gareth Hearthsong stood six-foot-three, built from decades of hauling carcasses and butchering meat, with iron-grey hair cut short and a sturdy build, along with an olive complexion that hinted at his mixed blood. The half-elf moved with a craftsman's surety despite his power. The cleaver in his grip seemed an extension of his will, reducing what looked like an entire haunch of some creature to exact portions in mere moments.
"More parsley!" he roared after tasting a dish.
A young man, maybe twenty and streaming sweat, scrambled to comply, nearly colliding with a girl managing three separate sauce reductions simultaneously. The kitchen was a dance of barely controlled chaos, a blur of fire and steel where every cook moved with a purpose.
Cassia cleared her throat.
Gareth paused mid-swing. He turned, and Caleb got his first clear look at him. Scowl-lined, stern features with gently pointed ears. He fixed Caleb with uncompromising forest-green eyes, and Caleb couldn't help thinking that the assessment found him wanting.
"This the new boy?"