The light of dawn spilled across wooden floorboards, painting Rhek’s bedroom in muted hues of orange and yellow. A long groan broke the quiet of the morning. Wood creaked as he rolled out of his cot and, reluctantly, set to his routine like a golem infused with not quite enough mana.

He spooned dark, fragrant leaves into a mug and poured steaming water over. With the warm cup in hand, he shuffled to the balcony and eased into a squat chair. He carefully kept from twinging his knee as he settled, and when done, inhaled the strong scent of the liquid. He held the breath for a moment, then released.

Brown eyes swept across the idyllic view of Meridian from this perfectly situated, private cabin home—a view even many of the upper nobility would kill for.

Gods, but it was the worst.

Who had talked him into this? He stared balefully out at the gorgeous cityscape as steam drifted from his mug to lick at his face. Not four weeks into his retirement and he was losing his mind. He didn’t understand. Who took pleasure in this hollowness? What was a man with no mission to drive him forward? Why had he abandoned what little purpose remained?

He found the idea appealing in the abstract, admittedly, even now. Finally getting to rest. And he was far too bullheaded to let anyone convince him to do anything; closing up shop had been his own decision.

Still. This was what people aspired to in their old age? What they spent their lives pursuing? Peace and quiet in their twilight years?

Why?

For the millionth time, Rhek was discovering that every person, from king to peasant, was a blithering idiot. This had been a mistake. He would rather work himself to death than wither away in dreadful monotony.

The only reason he hadn’t dragged himself back to his workshop already was because of how big of a deal he’d made of quitting. At least he hadn’t dismantled his workshop entirely. Maybe even then, he’d known peace and quiet would never sit right with him, so he hadn’t put that final nail in the coffin.

He had to survive at least a year. His pride demanded it. Any faster would be too mortifying, considering the sheer drama surrounding that event.

A year of retirement. He could manage it. He just had to suffer through.

He took a sip from his mug, and his nose wrinkled at the bitter taste.

He stood up, shuffled over, and poured the liquid over his balcony.

Who enjoyed this horse dung?

“Good riddance.”

He spat over the balcony to make his disdain clear, then sat with a huff, shoving the mug away.

Several moments passed as he stewed in annoyance, arms crossed.

Why was he in such a bad mood? And it was a particularly bad one; nobody would accuse Rhek Verontell of being a chipper person, but even his attitude wasn’t this sour on average.

Dredging up an answer wasn’t difficult. Last night, he’d gotten a response back from Leif. A simple three words, seemingly polite, but curt in context. No, thank you. The letter hadn’t even been signed.

One apprentice, he could’ve chalked up to bad luck. All four shunning him…it was clear he was the problem. That was the conclusion any rational man would make.

And he knew he wasn’t pleasant company. But he was a good teacher. Or…an effective one. There was a difference between those two things, and a rather substantial one, even he knew.

“Bah. What do I care?”

He stood, too annoyed to sit and enjoy that vile sunrise for what felt like the millionth time. Though it had only been a few dozen. Had only a month passed since he’d stormed out of the Guild with that rant of his?

He stalked to the kitchen and started the morning’s chores early. Despite his wealth, he disliked people invading his personal space too much to hire a servant. Halfway through noisily putting away last night’s dishes, a knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

He would be ashamed to admit that excitement filled him. Thankfully, he was well-practiced with denial, and stuffed that condemning emotion down. He wiped his hands and hurried to the door, his actions contradicting the grumbling under his breath.

That it might be a personal visit didn’t so much as cross his mind. He didn’t get those. He expected, and found, business on the other side of the threshold.

Stellan.

“What part of retired don’t you understand?” Rhek snapped.

“Rhek! So great to see you,” the aggravatingly tall—and implacably cheerful—human said. “Can I come in?”

“No.”

The Leatherworking Guild’s highest-ranking intermediary beamed with the unyielding congeniality only a man who had spent his life working with difficult people could muster. “Outside is fine too. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

“Retired.” He enunciated the word slowly. “That means no more jobs. I’m pretty sure I made that clear.”

“Right, right,” Stellan said smoothly. “You certainly did. Those circumstances notwithstanding, the Guild made the executive decision to come extend the offer. A particularly wealthy client requested you by name, and we thought you might be interested.”

Despite his first instinct to slam the door in Stellan’s face, Rhek studied him, eyes narrowing. “There’s nothing interesting

about making armor for some spoiled duke’s son,” he said, though his thoughts were rushing forward. Very wealthy? For someone to even consider commissioning him, one of three Master Leatherworkers in the human kingdoms, gold spilling out of one’s ears was the barest prerequisite. For Stellan to highlight the client’s wealth meant, even by his standards, the starting offer must be generous.

Rhek already had plenty of coin to go around, though. All Master craftsmen did. Or could, assuming they weren’t idiots. High-rank craftsmen were often guilty of bankrupting themselves through the purchases of ever-more-exotic materials. Past rank fifty, advancing nearly required buying ludicrously expensive materials…and the products resulting from those projects only sometimes made back their investments. Rhek himself had almost emptied his bank account thanks to too many poorly chosen ventures in a row.

“It isn’t about the money,” Rhek said with a grunt, though he considered the Guild’s intermediary with a reluctantly appraising gaze.

Stellan’s smile grew incrementally. Perceptive man he was, he knew he’d caught Rhek’s attention. Or barring that, that Rhek was sniffing around the bait. He cursed himself. He should’ve made a bigger show of disinterest—that was the first rule of negotiation. Was it too late to slam the door in his face?

“Of course,” Stellan said. “I meant to imply no such thing. I should correct a misconception that perhaps you’ve made, though. The client requested the final product to be as unassuming as possible. Something a silver-rank wouldn’t draw a second glance wearing. The level requirement is three hundred and eighty-five.”

Rhek paused.

Damn him, but that was interesting. More than interesting. When someone came to a Master Craftsman willing to dump a ludicrous amount of coin on a set of gear, the client never said ‘make it as bland as possible.’ The amount of jewels and other frippery he’d stitched into his work over the years made him nauseous, but commissions like those paid the bills, and experimental materials were expensive. So he’d bitten his tongue and done the work, distasteful as he found it.

Then there was the matter of level. Three hundred and eighty? Who in the hells had enough coin to commission him for silver-rank gear? Generally, Master Craftsmen were hired for mithril-rank projects at the lowest, most often orichalcum. That way, his outrageous prices made sense, since the gear might be used for a decade or two. Levels came slow at those heights.

A silver? No matter how excellently made, gear for a silver-ranker taking his career seriously would grow obsolete in a few years at most, sometimes months. Since anyone who could afford a Master Craftsman no doubt could apprentice under an orichalcum, or if not that, purchase protection, scrolls, consumables, and whatever other resources needed to rapidly and safely ascend the lower levels.

All of those thoughts sprinted through his head, and Stellan’s smile grew as he watched Rhek make the obvious conclusions. “One more thing,” the damnably smug man said. It was rare an intermediary entered negotiations with so many carrots to dangle; usually he had to fight for his life to get Rhek to accept a job. He was clearly enjoying himself. “The client wants to collaborate.”

Rhek’s interest evaporated. “Bah. A leech?” Such requests weren’t uncommon; there were few more efficient ways to rank up a collaborative than working with a craftsman far superior, and certain unscrupulous individuals used item commissions as a guise for such sessions.

Rhek could suffer through mentoring a guildmate. Dealing with a confused helper who he had some relation to and would be working with for dozens of subsequent projects was bearable, but even that he’d never been fond of. Random collaborators for an outside commission? He would rather pluck his beard out one hair at a time.

And that ignored how a weak collaborator actively harmed the final product. Unlike most people, he took pride in his work. “Not happening. Only Experts and higher, you know that. Doesn’t matter how much coin they’re willing to throw at me.”

Well, there was probably some number he would eventually say yes to, but it would take a ridiculous quantity, especially in his current mood.

He didn’t even particularly enjoy settling for Experts, since that would mean working with someone a full tier below him, an adventurer in the 60s. But the gear would at least see a minor improvement for the headache, a tangible, if often inconsequential, benefit for dealing with a stranger.

“Not a problem,” Stellan said easily. “The client assures me that the collaborator’s rank will be higher than your own.”

Rhek paused.

What?

For an adventurer to have a collaborative in the high Master range—upper 70s—would almost undoubtedly mean they were Titled. He was no novice to go squealing in excitement at the prospect of co-crafting with someone of such considerable status, but those opportunities were very few and far between even for him. Titled could often afford any craftsmen they desired, and while Rhek was one of the highest-rank leatherworkers in the world, he wasn’t the highest. Nor in the top three. Titled had better avenues to pursue if they wanted the best, and Titled did, obviously, want the best. They lacked neither the coin nor the connections to procure such.

He had enough information, now, to piece together the puzzle. A Titled-rank adventurer had wandered into Meridian and wanted to commission the most available leatherworker a set of gear for his apprentice. Coin was no issue; it rarely was for Titled. Unlike the more common type of commission, this gear wasn’t for a high-ranking noble’s snotty scion to look stylish. It needed to be practical, and more intriguingly, subtle, something that wouldn’t draw attention. Which could mean the Titled himself was adventuring incognito. Would it, even, be a Titled without a Title? A level thousand-plus not recognized by any of the mortal kingdoms? Those were rare, but not unheard of. Or perhaps it was an even stranger situation. Meridian attracted all sorts, including wayward immortals.

Whatever the case, a Titled would no doubt be disgusted with anything less than an extraordinary. Maybe a masterwork. Which would be a formidable task even for him. He’d yet to reach that crowning milestone.

 He eyed Stellan for a long moment, then reluctantly opened the door. “Come on in, then. Give me the details.”

The bastard had the nerve to smirk as he strode inside, but Rhek was probably being uncharitable with that interpretation. Stellan was definitely enjoying himself somewhat, though.

“So? What’s the starting offer?” Rhek grunted when they’d settled into seats in his kitchen. He didn’t offer tea. He didn’t want the man to linger. At least, that was what he told himself.

“Nine hundred gold. Any requests allowed, and all exotic materials provided.”

He couldn’t help the incredulity in his voice. “Nine orichalcum. With materials provided?” He’d expected a generous offer, but that went beyond generous.

“Indeed. And the client would prefer local parts, for resonance.”

Resonance—a crafting term for how materials harvested off monsters and subsequently used to co-craft by that same adventurer improved the quality of the product. Not by a huge amount, but if the goal was the absolute best result, then hand-collecting as many materials as possible was a common practice. That boded well for the client’s perspective; this wasn’t a throwaway project Rhek was being hired for.

“What’s local to him?” Rhek asked.

“The client specified within the Central Kingdom.” Stellan sounded mildly confused, despite being the one to answer. “Apparently, travel is less difficult for them than most. I was assured that any request could be met.”

This was getting more and more interesting. To the point of being bizarre, quite frankly. As much as he would enjoy the payout—nine hundred gold would have been a sizable sum even if the materials hadn’t been provided—the real reason Rhek’s pulse picked up was because of the opportunity he sensed. It wasn’t every day he could send a Titled out on a fetch quest. And silver-rank gear or not, aiming for a masterwork-quality item would be immensely satisfying from a professional standpoint. He still had his pride, retired or not. And a masterwork might be within reach…though he knew it was unlikely.

“Any requests?” Rhek repeated, a hint of greed glinting in his eyes.

“The client insisted any and all resources, regardless of rarity or quantity, so long as they can be found within the Central Kingdom. Ultimate quality is their singular concern.”

How utterly ridiculous. He’d never been given such free rein in his life. Did this person have any clue what they were doing? How rare certain materials could become, even for an adventurer with a Titled’s means?

He found himself smiling for the first time in weeks.

“Well, then,” he mused, leaning back and crossing his arms. “I’ll get a list made up right now.”