CHAPTER 19: BREASTPLATE

Wade stepped out of the Lion’s Guild building, exhaling deeply.

The afternoon air hit his face, cooler than the heavy atmosphere inside.

He drew in a breath and let it out slowly, trying to clear his head. It didn’t work.

His thoughts were still buzzing in a whirlwind of words, diagrams, and Sebastian’s deep voice hammering home strategy after strategy.

There was so much to think about.

Mirror wraiths. Illusions. The way they could slip out of reflections and strike from angles no one expected.

The party formation, with Sebastian leading the front, Ingrid keeping distance with her arrows, Rowan weaving wards and buffs, and Wade filling in gaps.

And rules. So many rules.

When to advance. When to fall back.

Never swing blindly at shadows. Always test reflections before stepping too close.

Check your own silhouette, because sometimes it wasn’t yours anymore.

It all made sense when Sebastian laid it out on the table in the strategy room, his calloused fingers tapping the map as he spoke, Rowan tossing in helpful quips, and Ingrid offering her clipped observations.

Together, they made it sound simple.

But Wade knew the truth.

This was their second, third, tenth dungeon. They had habits built on real fights. He didn’t.

For him, when the Dimensional Ledger eventually paid out and dropped its first key in his hands, he would be going into dungeons no one else had seen before.

There would be no strategies, no records, and no maps drawn by survivors. Just him, whatever he was able to scrounge up, and the great unknown.

His stomach knotted at the thought.

He shook his head and forced his feet to move. He had other things to focus on right now. Armor.

"Chin up, Wade." He muttered to himself as he made his way down the street. "No use worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet."

Minutes later, he was at his destination.

Tom’s shop sat in its usual spot at the end of the lane, the steady ring of hammer on anvil echoing out into the street. The smell of hot iron and coal drifted on the air.

Wade ducked under the doorway and stepped inside. The heat hit him immediately, wrapping around him like a blanket.

Sparks flew as Tom hammered down on a glowing piece of metal, the muscles in his arms shifting with every strike.

For a moment, he imagined the man fighting beside Sebastian, Rowan, and Ingrid, and somehow, the image fit so well, Wade eyed the man, wondering if he was a veteran adventurer in retirement.

The blacksmith looked up when Wade entered.

"Ah, the boy with no breastplate," Tom said, setting the hammer aside. His voice was gruff. "You’re here for the fitting."

"Yes," Wade said, moving closer.

His coin pouch was much lighter than before, but the thought of walking into the Shattered Hall tomorrow without protection made his chest tighten.

Tom wiped his brow with the back of his forearm, then pulled a breastplate off a stand.

It was simple steel, polished but not shining, with thick straps that looked like they’d outlast a war. He held it up. "Try it."

Wade set his sword aside and slipped the armor over his head.

Tom tugged at the straps, tightening them until they bit into Wade’s shoulders.

The metal pressed firmly against his chest, heavier than he expected.

"Raise your arms," Tom ordered.

Wade obeyed. The edge of the plate pinched against his underarm. He winced.

"Twist."

He twisted. The plate shifted awkwardly against his ribs, the leather straps creaking.

Tom grunted. "Not perfect. Needs shaping. You’ll have to come back later. I’ll complete it soon."

"Wait, no." Wade interjected. "I need it tomorrow.

"Tomorrow?" Tom frowned.

Wade nodded. "Yeah. Dungeon delve."

"Then you’ll live with it as is." Tom stepped back, arms crossed. "Armor isn’t meant to be comfortable. It’s meant to keep your guts inside when something tries to spill them. You can bring it back after your little run, and I’ll adjust it properly."

Wade flexed his arms again, the weight awkward but manageable. He wasn’t about to argue. He needed it now, not later.

"It’ll do," Wade said.

Tom smirked faintly. "Of course it’ll do. I made it."

Wade chuckled under his breath, then reached for his coin pouch instinctively before remembering he’d already paid yesterday.

Relief washed through him at the thought. He didn’t have many coins left for much of anything right now.

Tom clapped him on the shoulder, the sound like a hammer against steel. "Don’t get killed. I don’t like refunds."

Wade grinned despite himself. "I’ll try."

He looked down at the breastplate, but decided not to just stuff it in his inventory.

He needed to get used to the weight. And besides, he’d seen adventurers around with armor on. He wouldn’t look out of place.

With a smile, he collected his sword and slung it over his back again.

The breastplate sat heavy on his chest, pulling at his shoulders, but the weight gave him a strange sense of reassurance.

His torso wasn’t bare anymore. If something struck, there would be steel between him and the wound.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t enchanted. But it was his.

"Thanks, Tom," Wade said, turning toward the door.

The blacksmith had already gone back to his anvil, hammer striking down in steady rhythm.

He didn’t reply, though Wade thought he saw a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Outside, the air felt cooler again, and the city bustled with its usual energy.

Merchants shouted prices, carts rattled across cobblestones, and guild banners rippled in the wind.

Wade shifted the straps of his new armor and started walking.

The breastplate wasn’t as comfortable as he would have liked.

It pinched under his arms, shifted when he bent, and made breathing just a little more shallow than before.

But he had a dungeon delve tomorrow, and walking into it without armor was a gamble he wasn’t willing to take.

He could live with a little discomfort.

Tomorrow, he would need every edge he could get.