Ignis' First Firesday of Harvestfall, 1442, City of Frostspire.

The snow crunched under Kohana's boots as she trudged forward, her tail snapping erratically as she made her way through the powdery white. She kept her gaze on her target, the jarl's longhouse. After their meal, Elyssia had returned to the armourer's guild. "To grind out a dozen levels," she had said, making it sound so easy.

Kohana carried the crown of the king of the Highlands in one hand. The reward for completing the elite quest was proportional to its difficulty. She would get a brand new, level twenty weapon; an enchanted two-handed axe, one that added ice-elemental damage on every swing.

But no matter how shiny her new magic weapon might be once she got her hands on it, her thoughts were a tangled mess of regret, nerves, and... well, other things she did not want to think too hard about.

"Nice going, Kohana," she muttered, voice lost to the wind. "Confess your feelings to someone who flinches when you touch her. Real smooth."

The word echoed in her mind again. Love.

Why did she have to say it like that?

She could have gone with like, or care about, or literally anything else. But no. She had gone all in, like a gambler throwing her last coin on the table, hoping for a miracle.

But she knew why she said it. She had to. Who else was going to do something about the idea stuck in Elyssia's head? Her divorce had sown the ugly seed, and then it had festered, and grown like unchecked weeds. And now the poor woman carried with her this falsehood as if it was the most important truth in the world. The idea she was not worthy of love, and that nobody could love someone like her.

Kohana realised bland pronouncements like, "I'm into you," "I think you're beautiful, great, or funny," or "I care about you," lacked the power needed to break her free of her shackles. The words were too shallow, too commonplace.

How had Elyssia responded to that? When she asked her, "You know what I'm saying?" She had not run away, sure, but she also had not exactly jumped into Kohana's arms, declaring her undying devotion. She had uttered the words, "I do", but they had felt hollow, like she was agreeing to something she did not quite believe in.

And the look in her eyes—Gods, Kohana wished she could stop replaying the moment in her mind, just one instant. The uncertainty, the hesitation, the walls she had built around herself—it was like she had hit them headfirst and bounced right off.

Kohana sighed, her breath misting in the frigid air. She glanced over her shoulder, to the guild where she heard the sylvani's doming hammer striking repeatedly against metal plates, beating them into the shape she envisioned. When she left her there, Elyssia had looked… fine. Normal, even. But Kohana knew better. She had seen the way the sylvani had clutched the feast hall's furs like they were armour, the way she avoided meeting Kohana's eyes for too long. She was retreating again, back into her shell, the one all of Kohana's efforts had barely managed to crack.

Gods, what if I'm wrong? What if all my teasing and jokes just make her think I don't mean it—that I'm not serious?

She clenched her jaw. No. She could not let herself spiral. She had said it and was not about to take it back. Whether Elyssia believed it… this part was out of her hands.

Kohana closed her eyes and breathed in. Despite all her convincing arguments, maybe love had been the wrong word. Or maybe it had just come too soon. Elyssia was still figuring out who she even was in this world—or out of it.

"Real smooth, you dummy," she berated herself, opening her eyes. She let out a long sigh, running a hand through her dark hair. "You're gonna scare her off at this rate. Just like all the others."

Wouldn't be the first, and likely won't be the last. I've got a real gift when it comes to that.

How many times had she done something like that out in the real world? If patience was a virtue, then what did it mean for something like her? Someone with no patience whatsoever? It just was not in her nature to keep her feelings and thoughts to herself. How she wished she lived in a world where being honest, where wearing your heart on your sleeve was the norm.

As the fire goddess of passion and lady of love, wouldn't you like to see that world too, Pyra?

Passion, Kohana knew, was not always gentle. Sometimes it burned too hot and left only ash where warmth should have been. She kept walking as the snow fell in lazy spirals, glittering in the pale sunlight. It reminded her of Elyssia, in a way—quiet, deliberate, a little too distant. She yearned to touch the delicate snowflakes, their icy beauty a stark contrast to the warmth of her skin, knowing the slightest touch would melt them away.

Frostspire's market square was quieter now, the bonfire reduced to glowing embers, the chatter of merchants and adventurers replaced by the occasional howl of the wind. Kohana's boots crunched through the snow, but even the sound felt muffled, like the city itself had pulled inward, bracing for the cold.

She sighed, glancing up at the jarl's longhouse. The crown in her hand—the skull, really—felt heavier than it should have, like it was dragging her toward another awkward conversation. She could already picture the jarl's toothy grin, his booming voice praising her as a hero. She respected the guy, sure, but if he broke into another speech about honour and duty, she might scream. Maybe she could just drop off the crown and make a run for it before someone really noticed her.

The city would probably want to celebrate the hero who had just slain the beast that had preyed upon their hunters and game both. But the thought of more smiling faces, more raised mugs, felt hollow. She had slain the wyvern, sure. But she did not feel like a hero—not when the person she cared about most still felt miles away.

Kohana stood at the top of the few stairs leading to the longhouse. She was not in the mood for whatever was going to happen. She recalled fondly the meal she just had with Elyssia.

Then she remembered there would be mead. And thank the gods—because awkward conversations were best survived with a mug in hand.

Yeah. Alcohol? I could go for a drink or two.

Kohana pushed the doors open, the warmth of the hearth washing over her like a wave. It was almost stifling after the chill of the outdoors. The noise was just as jarring—the fiddler's lively tune, the sharp clink of mugs, the indistinct murmur of voices all blending together in a cacophony that made her ears ring after the snow-muted quiet outside.

But as soon as she stepped inside, the crowd went silent and the music stopped. Murmurs followed her as she stepped towards the jarl's seat.

"Is it possible…?" "She slew the king?" "Did she defeat it alone?"

Eyes followed her as she stepped forward, a ripple of whispers rolling through the crowd. Without looking up, Kohana could feel the weight of all those stares on her shoulders—the mix of admiration, gratitude, and disbelief hung heavy in the air. Normally, that kind of attention would have sent her tail swishing with pride, but tonight it felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. Someone who did not feel hollow inside.

Kohana forced a grin, lifting the crown in her hand.

The jarl stood from his seat. In a gravelly, commanding voice filled with the weight of absolute certainty, he thundered, "It is dead!" He gestured with both hands, drawing the attention of everyone in the hall. "Our very own Kohana Icebreaker of Frostspire has slain the king of the Highlands! Rejoice, everyone, our hunters will now have naught to fear! Let us feast and drink on this glorious day! Come, daughter of the North. You are our guest of honour today!"

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The jarl gestured for her to approach, and Kohana stepped forward. She liked the old man—his heart was in the right place—but gods, did he have to be so loud about everything?

She dropped the wyvern's crown onto the table with a clunk, the smile on her face turning genuine—if only for a moment—as the crowd erupted into cheers. A woman near the hearth raised her mug with a shout, sloshing ale onto the floor as she said, "To the Icebreaker!" A younger hunter stared at the skull in wide-eyed silence, his hand resting on the hilt of a dagger as if half-expecting the beast to come back to life. An old man standing in one corner began a raucous ballad of dragons and courageous hunters, but the sounds faded to silence when the words slipped from his memory, leaving only a thick silence heavy with the smell of stale beer.

Behind Kohana's jovial exterior, all she could think about was how much easier it had been to face a wyvern than it was to face her own feelings. The wyvern fight had been brutal, sure, but at least it made sense. You swung your weapon, dodged its claws, and waited for an opening. Emotions did not work like that. There were no clear-cut moves, no obvious weak spots to aim for. Loving someone—really loving them—was not about winning. It was about hoping you did not lose.

She barely had time to process the jarl's speech before the crowd swarmed her, voices overlapping as they guided her to a seat at his side. Someone took her hammer—she barely noticed who—and left her with two tankards of mead instead. She stared at them for a moment, their familiar weight grounding her in the chaos. Mead, at least, was simple. It did not ask questions or make her heart race or leave her wondering if she had said too much. She tipped one back, the sweet, heady warmth filling her chest.

"You idiot," she whispered into the empty tankard before she started downing the second.

She hoped she would not regret this later.

The rhythmic clang of hammers on metal filled the air in the armourer guild house, steady and unrelenting. It was almost meditative, a counterpoint to the restless thoughts swirling in Elyssia's mind. She flexed her fingers, glancing at the soot staining her gloves. Kohana had teased her once about being too polished for a forge, but Elyssia had always found a strange satisfaction in the work. It was messy, but left no room for uncertainty. You struck the metal, shaped it, and out came something better than before. If only people worked the same way.

"You have reached level fifteen for the armourer class."

Grimy soot and sweat mingled on Elyssia's brow as, for the umpteenth time, she wiped at her face with her thick work gloves, the coarse material doing little to clear the grime. For a moment, Elyssia could almost forget she was in the frigid north, for how hot and sweaty she was. She looked down at herself and the thick leather apron she had just purchased. It was so hot near the forge. She had doffed her white tunic a long time ago, wearing nothing but an undershirt and the apron over it. She had also swapped her combat breeches and boots for equipment better suited to the forge. The distinct needs of crafting and combat meant serious crafters quickly began collecting multiple sets of gear to accommodate their various needs.

Time for a break, I think… I feel like I pushed a little bit too much.

She put down her hammer, laying it atop of the anvil. The tension leaving her fingers as she let go of the grip made her wince in pain. She sat herself down on the cold, hard ground and massaged her sore right arm. Her biceps screamed in protest at the unexpected workout, muscles burning with lactic acid. She hissed between her teeth. The ache was real, but still easier to manage than thoughts.

Making armour was hard work to begin with, but her hyper focus got the best of her, and she had just kept at it, craft after craft. Surely Kohana would be back soon? She had said she was going to turn in a few quests, and she had expected her to shake her out of hammering a long time ago. It was so easy to follow the lure of the experience bar, inching towards the next level…

She looked up and scanned her surroundings. Only other armourers surrounded her—players and non-players alike—each working in their chosen corner of the guild. For a second, she had wondered—or feared—if Kohana had just been next to her, watching her working in silence. She had not seemed not to mind body doubling for her earlier.

Elyssia's eyes focused on the anvil in front of her. On it laid the bronze hoplon—a shield—she had just crafted. It had got her latest level up. She had crafted a dozen over the last hour, handing them one by one to fulfil work orders. They were one way to speed through levels as a crafter. Elyssia had to pay for all the materials herself, but at her level, ingots and such were a cuprum piece a dozen. She knew she could make more profit by selling her goods to players, but this was more expeditious. She was trading potential profit for experience points, which was far more valuable to her right now. Elyssia could afford to spend cuprums, but she needed those level ups.

Sufficiently rested, she stood up. "Finally reached the level for iron plates," she murmured to herself, almost surprised by the pride in her voice. She picked up the hoplon and brought it to the counter, turning in her work order.

The burly northerner standing behind the desk examined the hoplon carefully. "Good quality, as always, Windwhisper," he said, running a hand over the bronze surface. "Clean lines, sturdy edges. You'll be turning out iron shields in no time."

Elyssia gave a faint smile and a nod, but the words barely registered. Her thoughts returned to Kohana.

Surely, she should be back by now...?

She took out her battle bronze-plated leather gloves and boots. Now she could use iron plates, she could further reinforce those with new crafting recipes. Elyssia always preferred upgrading previous items, rather than building new ones, when there was a choice. She wondered where her attachment to inanimate objects came from?

Sentimentality? Whatever. Focus on crafting.

Just like bronze, iron ore and ingots were still available from the guild storehouse in limitless quantities. She did not need to go out and find iron veins yet, although doing so would make creating high-quality items easier. High-quality ingredients simplified the crafting process. This was one of the advantage of gathering her own minerals; she could keep the best quality ore for her personal projects.

She drew the bill of materials for her upgrades and was about to slide over the paper when she stopped to look around.

Since she's not back yet, I might as well make the best of this opportunity.

She opened her crafting interface and scanned through the list of recipes available to her. Her eyes locked on an iron chest plate, armour for tank classes. It would be an excellent piece for the brute—high strength, high vitality—a clear upgrade from whatever quest reward she might have picked up. But she froze with hesitation, the bill of material and quill in hand.

It's just a gear upgrade. Don't think too hard about it.

She went through the list of all items she could now craft and noted everything Kohana could wear, adding the various components and materials to the bill. Even if Kohana had received some quest rewards to upgrade from her starter equipment, the high-quality gear Elyssia would make for her would totally eclipse it.

And even more once I unlock the augment stones system.

This was yet another way crafted items were superior to quest rewards; she could customise and improve them further with augment stones. A stone provided different benefits, like increased critical hit rate, attack speed, or evasion.

Why wait for lucky drops with the attributes you want, when you can craft something and customise it precisely to your needs?

She wondered how Kohana would react to being gifted a full set of iron armour. The thought made her stomach clench, a tight knot forming in her chest, a feeling she could not quite define. The dracan had proved herself to be so... unrestrained, so quick to say exactly what was on her mind. Elyssia was not sure how to handle it all. She was not even sure what she felt about it—or if she wanted to find out.

Elyssia hoped she would not make too big of a deal or read too much into it. She did not mean this as a declaration of anything in particular. Just a fellow player providing a service to an acquaintance.

Teammates do that all the time, right?

Perhaps she could simply justify she had crafted one of each item to get the first-time experience bonus? After all, it was a pretty significant bonus—nearly triple the experience the craft normally granted—so it sounded like a pretty convincing argument in case Kohana made a big deal out of it.

Elyssia opened her coin pouch and dug out a few ferrum pieces. Iron was far pricier than bronze, but she could afford it. Moments later, the northerner came back with her order. She accepted the pile of materials and carried it a small stack at a time over to the table she now affectionately thought of as her own. She split up the materials in different stacks, organised for each item she was going to craft. For Kohana: helmet, chest plate, gauntlets, cuisses, and greaves. For herself: reinforcements for her boots, gloves, and bandanna.

She looked at the different piles and opted to start with Kohana's future headgear.

Crafting was simple. Predictable. You put the materials in, followed the steps, and out came a finished product. It did not leave room for doubt or second-guessing. It did not ask uncomfortable questions about how you felt or why someone like Kohana would care so much about someone like her.

As she finished the helmet, she inspected it. High quality on the first attempt. She nodded, satisfied at both the experience gain and the final product. "This is just good gear," she muttered, then paused. Her lips almost formed a name. She shut them before they could.

As she gently placed the helmet on the table, Kohana's words from earlier flickered through her mind, unbidden. "You are enough. You can just be."

Elyssia shook her head, pushing the thought aside as she picked up the next pile of materials. She could not afford to get distracted now. But the words lingered, soft and insistent, like a spark refusing to die. Kohana seemed to believe what she said. And maybe Elyssia wanted to believe it, too.

Iron gauntlets next. Forge first. Feel later.

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