Crispin awoke to a world that no longer felt like a jagged edge of ice. The suffocating chill of the Feral's bite had vanished, replaced by a deep, radiating warmth that hummed within his marrow. He lay still for a moment; his eyes remained closed as he focused on the sensations within his chest.
[System Notification]
You are immune to Feral Toxin.
You have gained Night Vision (5 Ki)
Ki +5 | Dexterity 13→14 | Perception 15→16
A complex rhythm played behind his ribs. His human heartbeat with a frantic, familiar energy, fueled by the rush of returning health. Beneath it, the Heart of Perseus pulsed with a steady, crystalline resonance. The artifact felt integrated; it was a secondary engine that circulated a strange heat through his blood. He felt balanced, anchored, and whole.
He opened his eyes to the soft, filtered light of the High Rest. The ornate walnut furniture glowed in the morning mist. His gaze drifted to the bedside table, where a heavy leather pouch sat atop a scrap of parchment. He reached for it; the weight of the coins clinked with a sound of substantial wealth. He pulled the note from under the bag.
"Here is 57 Gold from your kills. I have paid 50 Silver to the priest for your detoxification. You owe me a drink…or three. ~V."
Images flashed through his mind like lightning strikes in a summer storm. In the ministry's dim light, he saw Vaelen leaning over him. Her hands bathed his fever-racked body. He recalled the scent of her skin while she comforted him during the worst of the tremors. His face turned deep, hot red. He rocked his head, trying to dismiss the memories as a lingering hallucination of the curse. The intimacy felt too real to be a dream.
Regulus shifted against his side. The slime had abandoned his wyvern form, resting instead as a translucent blue sphere of jelly. Crispin watched the heart within the slime's center. The four chambers shimmered, beating in a perfect, silent synchronization with the Heart of Perseus.
A firm knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," Crispin said. His voice sounded deeper than he remembered.
Vaelen entered the room with an odd, predatory smirk playing across her lips. She carried a wooden tray laden with roasted fowl, thick slices of buttered bread, and a steaming cup of herbal tea. The aroma hit Crispin like a physical blow. His stomach twisted with a sudden, ravenous hunger.
It was all he could do not to lunge for the food. Vaelen set the tray across his lap and reached out, stroking his white hair with a terrifying familiarity. Her fingers traced a slow line down his chest, lingering over the spot where his two hearts beat in tandem.
"Easy, lover," Vaelen whispered. "Eat with more care, or it could make you sick."
Crispin's heart gave a violent thump at her choice of words. His throat felt dry. "Don't call me that."
Vaelen's smirk only deepened. "Crispin," she corrected.
She sat on the edge of the bed and watched him eat. Crispin wolfed down the bread and fowl; the flavors felt explosive after days of nothing but medicinal bitters. He felt the energy returning to his limbs with every swallow. When the tray was empty, he set it on the nightstand and looked at his handler. Her presence felt different now—less like a distant mentor and more like an anchor in the shifting gravity of the Shard-Fall.
"You need a few days to recover," Vaelen said. Her voice softened. "I recommend you take it. Regain your strength. Maybe upgrade your gear before the next hunt. You can wait until you are ready."
She leaned in; her lips brushed against his collarbone just above the bandages. Crispin stood up to escape the sudden heat of her proximity. He reached for a pair of black trousers and slipped into them. He did not feel shy or awkward around her.
The memories of the last three days flooded his senses. So much for it being a hallucination… His mind felt shrouded in a heavy, white fog.
"Is this fog in my head normal after being bitten?"
"Quite normal," Vaelen replied. She stood up and smoothed the leather of her vest. "The Feral curse leaves a lingering shadow on the senses. I can go to the apothecary and get something for it if you wish."
"Please."
Crispin stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her into a firm hug. He felt the solid, dangerous strength of her body against his. "Thank you for your care. I wasn't sure I was going to remain human for a while. I feel normal."
"It was three days," Vaelen said. She let out a dry, amused chuckle and patted his backside before pulling away. "You have done well just by surviving. Go get that gear, and I'll leave the recovery powders on your desk."
Crispin dressed in his travel-worn clothes and headed down to the lobby. The High Rest was quiet; the marble floors, polished to a mirror finish, gleamed. He approached the front desk, where Bir'lyn the innkeeper was busy counting linens.
"I'll pay for another week," Crispin said. He slid five silver coins across the counter. The heavy metal rang against the stone.
"Thank you, sir," Bir'lyn said. His expression remained flat until he looked up at Crispin. "Sir... if you and your companion continue to be so loud during your... festivities, I will charge an extra fee for the noise."
Crispin's face burned a brilliant crimson. He nodded; an embarrassed smile touched his lips despite his shame. He followed the streets out of the inn before the halfling could say more.
The city of the Shard-Fall opened before him in a display of impossible architectural majesty. He walked along bridges of braided silk and steel that spanned the gaps between floating islands. Far below, the Magnitude Plains remained a sea of deep purple shadow, but up here, the light was clear and brilliant. Waterfalls flowed upward in localized eddies, turning into clouds of shimmering mist that smelled of sea spray and ancient stone. Every building was a masterpiece of white marble and dark, gravity-etched ore. The air carried the faint sound of wind-chimes and the distant, rhythmic hum of the living gravity that kept the city aloft.
He followed Bir'lyn's directions until he reached a shop with a sign depicting a hammer striking a sun-crystal. The Smith's Blessing.
The interior was a cacophony of heat and clanging metal. A hardened old man with arms like gnarled oak roots stood behind the counter. He eyed Crispin's frame, noting the height of his brow and the refined cut of his black gambeson.
"What have ye, boy?" the smith asked. His voice was a low growl.
"I need some new armor," Crispin said, setting his spear against the counter. "leather or scale."
"Fighting style?"
Crispin thought about his new class and the way Regulus moved like a shadow. "Stealth and movement."
The smith jerked his head toward the back wall. A mannequin wore a set of black leather armor that looked as though carvers had shaped it from the night sky itself. The leather was slick and polished; every seam ornamented with silver thread and a glossy blue material that seemed to shift and flow under the shop's lanterns.
Crispin reached out to stroke the blue metal. It glowed and vibrated with a faint, internal power. "What is this?"
"Twilight Bronze," the smith said.
The armor featured a reinforced collar that snapped against the chest. At the center of the gorget sat a deep violet jewel that pulsed with a steady, haunting light.
"Gravity Topaz," the smith explained. "In the Shard-Fall, it will give you normal balance. Away from here, it will almost let you glide in the air for a few moments. You are lucky to be looking at this, Aldyr. I made it for an elvish lord, but he met his end in the abyss before claiming it. It would suit your frame with a few minor adjustments."
"I love it," Crispin whispered.
Regulus poked his head out of the drake-skin satchel and let out an enthusiastic, high-pitched chirp.
"The bond likes it, lad," the smith noted. "Are ye a buyer?"
"How much?"
The smith's eyes narrowed with intensity. "50 Gold."
Crispin huffed, his mind racing through the logic of the forge. "I would do you a favor if I bought it. You already told me the one you made it for isn't coming back. How often do you have an elf with that much coin coming into your shop? I could take it off your hands for 45 Gold, but I won't go a copper more."
The smith stared at him; his face was a mask of stubborn stone. He let out a long, wheezing breath and nodded.
The adjustments took hours. The smith worked with a heavy set of pliers and a needle made of dragon-bone, tailoring the leather to Crispin's lean, athletic frame. When the smith finished, Crispin stood in front of a tall, polished mirror.
He had sold his feathered sleeve and pauldron, replacing them with an ornate elvish sleeve of Twilight Bronze that covered his left arm. Both of his gauntlets were now crafted from the same shifting blue alloy. A scale sleeve of iridescent plates ran down his left arm, providing a flexible but impenetrable defense. Twilight Bronze plates that caught the light with every movement reinforced his new leather greaves.
He knelt; the smith draped a half-cape of deep midnight blue silk over his right shoulder, fastening it with a silver clasp. Crispin stood up and examined himself in the mirror. He looked like a shadow given form. The black and blue of the armor made him stand out with an ethereal intensity. He looked like the lords he used to fear.
Crispin smiled, a fierce and certain expression. He counted out the 45 Gold coins. When had he ceased being just the boy from Thalandir?