The next morning was cooler than the previous ones, yet the city woke louder than Roland was used to. People stood in small groups by wells, workshop entrances, and street corners, talking in low voices that from a distance sounded like ordinary chatter,but up close fell into the familiar rhythm of rumors.
Walking his usual route to work, Roland slowed his pace. Not because he meant to eavesdrop, but because the conversations clung to him on their own. They were about things the entire city was talking about now.
"They say the Halvens have already made a decision," someone murmured near the bakery. "And not a small one."
"I heard Arven himself is sending his eldest," another voice replied. "The son's supposed to lead the expedition. If a House sends its own blood, they're taking it seriously."
"Or showing off," a third person muttered, without much conviction. "Though with a Beast-rank dungeon, they wouldn't risk it without a reason."
Roland kept walking, snippets of conversation overlapping into a picture of a city trying to calm itself with the thought that someone "important" had taken charge.
"My cousin heard it from a northern merchant," someone else said. "They saw a dragon on the road. Not far away,actually saw it. Flying high, but clearly."
"Oh, come on," the reply scoffed. "Dragons are children's stories."
"That's what I thought too," the first voice said more quietly. "But he swore to it. Said the ground trembled, and the air felt heavy. Like before a storm."
That made Roland slow even more. Dragons, to him, were just tales from childhood,exaggerated stories of monsters larger than houses, breathing fire and destroying entire kingdoms. Things so distant from everyday life they barely felt real.
And yet, the way people spoke now,without laughter, without theatrical exaggeration,sent an unpleasant chill through him. If even part of those rumors was true, then the world he knew was far more magical than he had ever believed.
He passed a group gathered by a well.
"The guilds are already counting losses," said a woman wrapped in a thick shawl. "The dungeon hasn't even fully opened, and iron prices have jumped."
"They'll jump higher," a man replied, leaning against the stone rim. "Whenever the Halvens get involved, someone profits. And it's never us."
A few steps farther, near a tanner's workshop, someone spoke more quietly, anxiety clear in their voice.
"If the dungeon starts drawing adventurers from other cities, traders will follow. And then…"
"…then bread gets more expensive," another voice finished. "Like always."
Roland turned into a narrower street. Two older men stood by a cart loaded with sacks of flour.
"You buying today?" one asked.
"Not sure yet. If the Beast comes out of the dungeon, neither flour nor silver will help," the other muttered.
"It won't," the first replied, though it sounded more like a wish than certainty. "The Halvens will handle it. And if not them, then who?"
At an intersection, someone joked half-heartedly, "I'm stocking up. Worst case, I'll eat it myself."
"Or sell it for more," came the quick answer. "Like everyone else."
Roland walked on, leaving the voices behind as they blended into a single, low, nervous hum.
When he finally reached Mr. Klein's shop, he stopped for a moment and looked at the door. The empty street in front of it brought him unexpected relief.
There was no crowd.
No people lined up against the wall, waiting for opening time.
Just an ordinary morning, as if the world had decided,briefly,to pretend everything was fine.
Roland let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, adjusted the belt with his pouches, and stepped toward the door. He hoped the day would begin more calmly, even if somewhere in the background,beyond the walls and far outside his influence,decisions were being made and rumors were already circling their way back to him.
He opened the shop door and went inside. The bell above the frame rang, short and familiar, ushering him into the well-known space where the scents of metal, dust, and old leather mixed together,the unmistakable smell of a workday beginning.
"Good morning, Mr. Klein," he said automatically, setting down his bag and adjusting his belt. "Has Edgar not arrived yet?"
Mr. Klein stood behind the counter, leafing through an open ledger. He looked up only after a moment, as if only now realizing Roland was there.
"He won't be in today," he said calmly, closing the book and setting it aside. "A friend of his from the Adventurers' Guild is leaving for the Beast dungeon tomorrow. They decided it was better to spend the day together before they have to part."
Roland nodded. Edgar rarely took time off, but in situations like that, no one asked questions.
"So it's just the two of us today," Roland said, more stating a fact than complaining.
"Looks that way," Klein replied. "And that's why I have a task for you first thing this morning."
He tilted his head toward the back room.
"There's a crate of crystals in storage. An order from Hargen the smith at the Iron Gate. It needs to be delivered today."
Roland raised an eyebrow.
"On my own?" he asked, mildly surprised. "You usually hire guild hands for deliveries like that."
Klein nodded, but there was something more in his gaze than routine.
"Usually, yes," he said. "But with the current situation, adventurers have more important things to do than hauling crates across the city. A Beast dungeon won't clear itself."
Roland was silent for a moment, then nodded.
"I understand."
He went to the back and found the crate standing against the wall,solid, bound with metal bands, a simple chalk mark on the lid indicating its contents. He knelt, checked the seal, slid his fingers under the handles, and when he lifted it, felt the familiar weight. Unpleasant, but not unexpected.
"Heavy," he muttered.
"Crystals always are," Mr. Klein replied from the front. "That's why craftsmen value them."
Roland slung the crate onto the carrying harness he'd prepared, adjusted the grip, and headed for the door.
"I'll try not to take too long," he said before leaving.
"And don't throw it around," Klein added calmly. "Hargen has the temper of a blade. Best not to test his patience."
Roland smiled briefly, opened the door, and stepped back onto the street. The weight of the crate settled on his shoulders as he headed toward the forge by the Iron Gate,because even if the city lived on rumors of dungeons and dragons, someone still had to deliver crystals so the work could go on.
***
Edgar's house was quiet in a way that had nothing to do with peace. It was the kind of stillness that hung in the air before something unpleasant, because when someone was preparing for a dungeon, even conversations sounded different,more practical, as if no one wanted to waste time on words that served no purpose.
They sat at a simple table. Instead of food, Edgar laid out item after item, arranging them in neat rows with the same care he used when sorting goods in the shop. Being at home didn't erase habits.
"All right," Edgar said, sliding the first item closer. "Let's start with the basics."
His friend, Rethan, leaned back in his chair, watching with clear interest but none of the nervousness of someone afraid of tomorrow. He'd been in dungeons enough times to know fear didn't make anything easier.
Edgar pushed over a plain, unremarkable amulet.
"It dampens body temperature and reduces how much hot air affects your lungs," he explained. "You won't be breathing like you're in a meadow, but without it you'll be wheezing like an old bellows after fifteen minutes."
"So, standard," Rethan said, picking it up. "And the guild claims you can't find stuff like this anywhere in the city."
Edgar snorted and reached for the next item.
"Because you can't."
A thin, flexible armor insert landed on the table, its surface slightly matte.
"This goes on the chest. It won't stop an impact, but it disperses heat. If something explodes or flares too close, it'll keep your insides from boiling."
Rethan raised his eyebrows.
"You know, I heard people complaining at the guild today," he said with a grin. "Everyone's running around the city like their pants are on fire,and here you are, pulling all this out like a magician."
Edgar looked at him briefly.
"That's why you weren't running around the city or standing in our shop," he said calmly. "You knew I'd sort something out for you."
Rethan laughed softly, without mockery.
"I won't deny it," he said, reaching for the next items. "That's what friends are for."
Edgar handed him two more things: a small vial of oil for coating boots, reducing adhesion to molten rock, and a simple wristband that soothed minor burns and skin cracks.
"They won't save you if you do something stupid," he added. "But they might make sure you come back in one piece."
"That'll do," Rethan said, gathering the items into a small pile.
He extended his hand. The ring on his finger glimmered faintly, almost imperceptibly, and all the items vanished as if they'd never been there.
Edgar watched for a moment, open envy on his face.
"It still pisses me off," he said flatly. "That you have a storage ring, and I'm still hauling crates like a normal person."
Rethan smiled wider, resting his elbows on the table.
"Connections," he said lightly. "You have to know who to drink with, and who not to get in the way of."