Thorin's First Thundersday of Harvestfall, 1442, Carpenter's guildhall, city of Umbraholme.

Leoric stepped into the carpenter's guild and let the heavy door fall shut behind him. He inhaled deeply; the scent of resin, heated sap, and wood fragments permeated his senses.

For an instant he was a child again—Sophie sneaking into his father's garage, ears full of the rasp of saws and the grit of sawdust underfoot. Back then, he had only been an intruder. Here, he was welcome. A fellow craftsperson.

Inside, the noise softened to a rhythmic backdrop: chisel taps, the swish of hand planes, the groan of stretched bowstrings under tension.

It was busier here than in the weaver's hall, though still a far cry from the chaos of Luminara's markets. The artisans focused on their work, coaxing magic from grain and sinew rather than thread and rune.

He crossed the polished flagstone floor, boots thudding lightly. Along the left wall, a towering rack displayed longbows of every shape and finish: dusky nightwood laminates, pale silverbark curves, and one obsidian-lacquered bow so slim it looked ceremonial. Beside it, bundled arrow shafts stood upright like spears, each tagged with a small etched plate listing properties—draw, flex, elemental attunement.

A guild apprentice passed by—a young Full-blood felinae, balancing a plank nearly her size. Her arms trembled with the weight, but her focus never wavered. For an instant her eyes flicked to him, widening with recognition before she dipped her head in a quick greeting.

Leoric's ears twitched in response. Strange, being noticed here of all places. He was just another face in the guild, was he not? He could not see beneath the fur, but he could easily imagine the flush in her cheeks.

He returned a respectful nod and continued toward the back of the hall, to the crafting bays—where only yesterday he had fashioned his leather-reinforced elm longbow. Yesterday, though it already felt like a lifetime ago.

His hand drifted to the quiver at his side. A ranger, strictly speaking, was not required to craft arrows; their quiver would generate standard arrows as needed. Higher-tier quivers increased the quality of those arrows.

The quivers could also produce any of the special arrows stored inside. As soon as Vaelith returned, he expected to receive a new batch of custom arrowheads—courtesy of Kaelyn's alchemy and Elyssia's smithing.

In the meantime, he could prepare the shafts and fletching. At his current level, aspen lumber suited his needs best. Thankfully, he had had the foresight—when levelling his botanist class yesterday—to stock up on logs from a variety of trees.

"Didn't expect to stumble upon a member of the famous Golden Dawn today," a voice called out from across the hall. Low, amused. Northerner accent. Friendly, but watchful.

A Dwarf minneret in dark green leathers leant against a testing rig, a half-finished longbow resting against his shoulder. Pale and freckled, with a beard dusted in frost despite the warmth of the forge-choked air, he radiated calm confidence. His eyes—glacier-blue and alert—studied Leoric with an artisan's precision.

"You're Leoric, right?" he asked. "The ranger in the video. Dungeon run. Coralshade Cavern."

His stomach tightened. Was this the beginning of it—being cornered by strangers who knew more about him than he about them?

Leoric paused briefly, assessing whether the inquiry stemmed from admiration, curiosity, or an ulterior motive.

The dwarf caught the pause and raised a hand in apology. "Sorry. I forget my manners. Name's Halvar. Halvar Frostbow. Fellow ranger. And fellow carpenter, by the looks of it."

"Nice to meet you, Halvar," Leoric said, offering a nod. "Stargazer—just call me Leoric."

Leoric was not used to introducing himself like that, but it slipped out easily enough, the same way the wind slipped through leaves—naturally, even though he had never rehearsed. Pride curled warm in his chest, heady and dangerous; wariness coiled just as tightly beside it, reminding him how easily admiration could become scrutiny.

This is the first time someone's recognised me from those videos. I did design Leoric to turn heads—pop idol looks, tall, fluffy ears, and all. I shouldn't be surprised.

It was one thing to create an attractive, ideal avatar, and quite another to be recognised as such. Leoric suddenly realised he had better get used to the feeling while in a safe place like the game. Soon, the same would happen everywhere he went in the real world as Lee. After all, he will soon be one of the first and only Noble burrovians in the world.

And when that happened? There would be no undoing it. No crawling back into anonymity. Lee—the real-world version of him—would become famous.

He felt a pang of apprehension at the notion. But some small, dangerous part of him thrilled at the idea too.

"Aye," Halvar tilted his head like he was going through the video inside his head. "Nice trap work in there, by the way. Record time for Coralshade, and using an unconventional team compo, too. Maybe it'll catch on and shake up the meta a little. 'Sorry, elementalist only' gets tiresome."

"Class-elitism, already? Is that really a thing?" Leoric shrugged with a small smile. "We never intended to establish a new trend when we set out to run it. Most of the credits belong to our tank, Elyssia, in any case."

"That so?" the Dwarf said, raising an eyebrow. "Because it looks to me like you and lil' miss mage were there, dishing out most of the damage. Reckon some tanks and healers fancy themselves the most important party members. But, Nah! This game's different."

It was Leoric's time to tilt his head. "How so?"

"The real enemy's the clock. No matter how tough your tank is, or how good your healer is, the ones who determine if the group wins or loses, it's folks like you and me. Lazy damage dealers lead to hitting the enrage timers, or the healer running on fumes. Then everyone dies. And most of the time, there's nothing the healer coulda done different."

Leoric let out a short, amused breath. "I can't argue with that—ultimately, every quest and dungeons is over once the enemies die."

And that was the truth, even outside the game. In Sophie's work, no one cared about the process—only the outcome. The producers and assistants could coordinate, polish, and prop things up all they liked, but in the end it was the employees—the "damage dealers"—who carried the deliverable across the finish line. Everyone else existed to support that moment.

"And that's our job," Leoric continued. "But the better your damage dealers are, the better your tank has to be. Otherwise, the tank won't keep aggro, and the healer will have to work twice as hard keeping us alive."

Halvar grinned, all teeth. "Too true. High mobility and high damage tanks aren't getting enough respect, but they allow folks like you and me to unleash hell. And they don't need to be made of stone if the enemies melt before they can hit back." He leaned in slightly, as if letting Leoric in on a shared secret. "That's why our tank keeps shifting to her DPS form mid-battle."

Leoric raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you use a shifter as your main tank?"

"More or less. Neva handles mobility and burst threat. Her temp HP pool from shape shifting means she doesn't sponge up too much mana even when she full-times her damage-dealer form for trash mobs. Our third member also pitches in with his defensive iaijutsu-stance."

Leoric was not familiar with the particular stance, so he assumed it meant one of Halvar's party members had already unlocked the expert classes from level fifty. He guessed it would be a samurai-inspired class, from the name. "Sounds like you're running a no-tank strategy?"

"Trash pulls? Between bosses? Sure. But when the big guys show up?" Halvar wobbled one hand. "We use two, kinda? Neva and Chester—that's our kensei—figured a rhythm where they trade tanking duty. They line up one's offensive cooldowns with the other's defensive cooldowns."

Leoric stroked his chin, caught between curiosity and a dawning strategic appreciation. Halvar's team did not just work around the system—they partnered with it, weaving class mechanics and cooldown rotations into something fluid, aggressive, efficient.

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"I've seen parties with two tanks before," Leoric mused aloud, "but usually it's a fallback. Someone trying to pick up the slack when things go sideways. Sounds like your crew turned it into a rhythm instead of a safety net."

Halvar grinned. "It's like juggling knives, sure. But once they got the cadence right? Beautiful. Our healer says it's like playing with a metronome now—predictable spikes, predictable reprieves."

Leoric smiled at that. "And Neva's comfortable in both roles?"

"More than comfortable. She prefers it that way." He scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Honestly, I think she gets bored staying in any form too long. She's a shifter through and through—always looking for new angles, new ways to move."

The last bit made Leoric's ears twitch faintly. He thought of Kaelyn—how she had spoken about unlocking that exact class. How she had mentioned she felt it might help with her situation. Leoric was not sure what Kaelyn had in mind, but he felt it might have something to her rising popularity in both worlds.

Maybe she'd like to talk to this Neva.

Halvar apparently noticed Leoric's thoughts. He tilted his head. "Why the look?"

Leoric blinked, then gave a soft laugh. "Just thinking out loud. Kaelyn—one of my party members—is eyeing the shifter class. Might be nice for her to hear how others are using it. Do you think I could get your friend's contact details?"

"Hmm?" Halvar stroked his beard. "I'll check, but that should be easy enough. But in exchange, there's a favour I've been meaning to ask you…"

"I'll help however I can…?" Leoric answered, unsure how a low-level crafter and ranger could help someone who easily doubled his level in both.

"It's nothing complicated, really. I was just hoping to get the chance to speak with her, too. Your healer—"

Leoric's shoulders stiffened. Instinct said to step back, put distance between them—but he held his ground. Of course. Recognition was not for him. It was Kaelyn they were circling toward. It was always Kaelyn.

Halvar noticed his reaction and raised his hands defensively. "—No, no, nothing untoward, I swear!"

Leoric frowned and crossed his arms. "After making public news last night, I'm sure you understand she probably doesn't want me to go around sharing her contact information to strangers."

Halvar lowered his voice. Not quite conspiratorial, but quieter—more human. "Look, I know what it looked like. And you're right to be cautious. But… I've been meaning to talk to her since this morning."

Leoric narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Halvar exhaled, long and steady. "Because…" He looked around, making sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop, and leant in closer to whisper. His voice dipped low, steady but raw. "Whatever's happening to her—it's happening to me, too."

Leoric froze. His gaze flicked across the hall—apprentices at their benches, foremen hunched over plans—no one watching. Still, the hair on his neck prickled. This was not the kind of conversation you had in public, not unless you wanted to be overheard. Not unless you were reckless.

"… You mean outside the game," Leoric said quietly.

Halvar nodded once. "Yeah. Real life. Pretty sure it started yesterday." He scratched at the side of his neck, almost absentmindedly. "Thought I was going nuts at first. Until the itch turned into freckles. And I gained muscle mass I haven't earned. Not without gym time, anyway."

Leoric studied him. The way he stood—solid, grounded, but fidgeting just enough to betray nerves. The carefully casual way he leaned on his longbow again, like it was an anchor more than a prop.

"You're saying you're turning into your character," he said.

"Crazy talk, right? But, aye." The words came out with a quiet certainty, not defiance. "Not fully yet, but it's happening."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Leoric sighed, dropped his arms from their guarded cross, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Shit."

Halvar's brow lifted. "So I'm not crazy?"

"You might be," Leoric muttered. "But if you are, you're in excellent company."

They exchanged a look, then finally, Halvar gave a slow, relieved chuckle. "You too, then? Well, well. Guess that makes us all part of a very weird club."

Leoric shook his head in disbelief. "We'll need a secret handshake before long."

"Ah! That'd be a hoot." Halvar laughed. "But, huh… If you're going through this too, then I don't need her info. Maybe we can just move somewhere quieter and compare notes? The two of us?"

Leoric gave a single, wary nod. "Yeah. That sounds smart."

Halvar pushed off the testing rig, settling the unfinished longbow more comfortably over one shoulder. "There're some private rooms in the back to conduct business. Should be easy to find an empty one this time of day."

Leoric hesitated, then followed. He was not sure what to expect—confession, confirmation, consolation. Maybe all three. Maybe none. But one thing was certain now. They were not alone. He knew from the rumours, but it felt different talking to someone going through the same thing, rather than hearing about it happening to other people out there in the world.

The meeting room smelled different. Less sap and sawdust, more ink and parchment paper. Quiet, too. No loud hammering, chiselling or sawing. Leoric wondered if the booth had some kind of soundproofing ward.

Halvar closed the door behind them, dropped his longbow on a padded bench and exhaled like he had been holding something in for days.

Leoric moved to the other side of the room and leant against the wall. For a long while, neither of them said anything.

Then Halvar broke the silence. "The beard's what kills me," he muttered. "I woke up this morning, and it was there, mostly. And my voice—my voice dropped an entire octave, I'm sure. At first I thought I was just sick…"

A pang tugged at him—ridiculous, but sharp. Would he ever grow a beard now? The idea of growing older as Leoric rather than Sophie had not fully settled in his mind yet.

Leoric huffed a quiet breath, more empathy than humour. "Yeah? What were you like, before this?"

"Me?" Halvar looked down at his hands, then gestured to himself. "I was just Liam. A regular guy. Not tall or small, not big and not fit, either. Pretty ordinary. I picked Dwarf mainly because they weren't in the original version of the game, and Dwarf hunter was my main in an even older game. Figured I'd double down on the nostalgia for a little."

Leoric chuckled. "No pets for rangers in this game, though."

"Hey, you say that, but I was looking into unlocking beastmaster now that I hit fifty," Halvar responded in mock affront. "… But how about you? Big changes? Any regrets picking burrovian?"

Leoric drew in a long breath, giving himself time to think before answering. "I wondered about that yesterday, actually. Not even about the changes to my actual body, but the changes to my avatar. Come to think of it, what if the VR glitch wasn't a bug? What if virtual reality was simply a step ahead, a preview of things to come…?"

"Wait, you think what's happening to us and the VR glitch are intentional? Like everybody else, I just assumed the devs were just an incompetent bunch and would fix all this as soon as they figured out what caused the problem…"

Leoric stared straight into Halvar's eyes. "As long as it was just the glitch, and it affected everyone? I thought the same. Developer oversight. But now? I don't know anymore. It's just hard to figure out why it's happening to Kaelyn, me and the others. But harder still now that I know you are changing, too."

"You say 'the others'. What does that mean? Do you know of other cases?"

"Yeah." Leoric nodded solemnly, unsure how much to reveal. "At least two others."

"Your whole party, then?"

Leoric did not respond. Saying it felt like a step too far. But Halvar understood the implications of that silence.

"Shit, maybe it's contagious?"

Leoric almost laughed. "What, like some kind of virtual disease?"

"Like a computer virus…"

"Honestly?" Leoric's voice dropped, almost reverent. "If this is a virus… I hope it's terminal."

That silenced Halvar.

"I mean—" Leoric looked away, ears flattening slightly. "Not in the 'I want to die' sense. Just… I've never felt more me than I do now. The moment I got to be Leoric—really be him—something clicked. It's not just the body. It's like the world finally makes sense when I have this shape, this height, this voice. When I'm seen this way."

"Oh." Halvar blinked slowly, taking that in. "Take it you weren't a guy before, then?"

Leoric let the silence stretch. He had not practiced responses to this question yet. "I was. Kind of. Still am, I guess." He rubbed at his forearm, ears low. "It's complicated. The world kept insisting I was someone else—softer, smaller, prettier. I didn't hate her. But she wasn't the whole of me. This… this is closer."

Halvar scratched his beard again, the motion slower this time. "Damn."

"What?"

"Just… a new perspective to consider," he said. "I was here, just feeling sorry for myself, growing a beard I never asked for. But I almost forgot—it could be worse. Shit, I think Neva's player's a guy. If this is contagious, and she caught it from me… or maybe I caught it from her…?"

"Hey, don't go around panicking yet. She might've sounded like a guy and looked like one to you, but maybe she has never been one. Not really. But you should probably check on her."

Halvar closed his eyes and grimaced. "I can't imagine waking up with animal ears and a tail. Losing height for a beard and muscle, I can live with. Waking up the opposite gender? Yeah, glad I went with Halvar, all things considered."

Leoric gave a dry chuckle. "Careful. You say things like that, especially in here, and the system might decide to double down."

Halvar snorted. "Yeah, no thanks. I've got enough on my plate already. I don't need to add more. You hear that, devs? GMs? Whatever powers that be?"

They both laughed—brief, unguarded, a shared exhale.

Then Leoric's gaze drifted toward the window. "Still. I'm glad we talked. It's… easier knowing someone's going through it. Even if we're not going through the same thing exactly."

Halvar nodded. "Yeah. Same. You ever need to talk again, or just compare notes on the weirdness—message me. I mean it."

"I will." Leoric offered a hand. "Club Weirdos handshake?"

Halvar clasped his forearm with a grin. "You know what? Let me form an official chat group. I'll make you into a moderator, and we can add people to it as we find more. Us victims should stick together."

"Great idea. I'll let the others know."

Leoric had expected a quiet trip to the carpenter's guild, where he would fashion arrow shafts in peace. As the saying went, "No plan survives first contact with the enemy." Still, he was glad Halvar had approached him earlier.

All thanks to Kaelyn's videos. The introduction video, the dungeon runs, her interviews. She's at the centre of it all, and so many people will recognise her instantly—anyone else afflicted by this might seek her out—her, or one of her party members.

Leoric was not sure how he felt about being one of the faces closely associated with this phenomenon. But he knew he was glad for the chance to help other people going through the same. And perhaps together, they could figure out what and why it happened.

Maybe what Kaelyn and the rest of them needed was not a shield. Maybe it was a net—woven from people like Halvar, people who understood. A support strong enough to catch them when the ground shifted.

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