Professor Kaelthorne's evaluation of their combat skills had concluded with a test of their ranged capabilities at the academy's shooting range.

It had been a disaster.

Darken and Weylan earned a grudging nod for their "barely adequate" crossbow handling, while nobles like Aldrich and Erik at least demonstrated basic proficiency with hunting bows. But the rest of the class struggled. Many failed to even hit the straw targets.

Ulmenglanz had only just begun learning the bow, and the three priestesses had no ranged combat training whatsoever. The rest fell somewhere between poor and pitiful.

To Weylan's surprise, Kane hadn't trained with any ranged weapon either. After a short counseling session with Kaelthorne, the mage-that-lifts had decided to start training with throwing axes, a weapon that could actually make use of his impressive strength.

The next few days passed in a blur of physical training, theoretical lessons, and alchemy sessions.

Weylan discovered he liked alchemy. Though the feeling wasn't mutual. Very few ingredients contained shadow-affinity mana, and the rest stubbornly resisted his efforts to coax them into a potion. They preferred to become sludge, or worse, a blackened crust that clung to the cauldron like tar and took ages to scrub off. By the time he was still struggling with cleanup, Darken and the more gifted half of the class had long since finished and left.

Weylan now stood in the room next to the alchemy lab, staring down at his scorched cauldron sitting in a giant stone sink. A defeated sigh escaped him.

Then he blinked.

He had an artifact for cleaning. Why, exactly, was he still scraping burnt goo with a spatula and splashing around like a dishmaid?

He pulled out his short staff, aimed it at the cauldron, and let his mana flow. A subtle distortion shimmered through the air as the enchantment activated. The artifact's cleaning spell connected with the charred residue, which began to dissolve into the water with a satisfying hiss and swirl.

Weylan grinned. That would make things so much easier.

Around him, students who were just rinsing out the last bits of their successful brews turned to watch.

Alina groaned. "You have a cleaning artifact and only now remember to use it?" she asked, exasperated. "Can I borrow it when you're done?"

"Sure," he said with a shrug.

The sudden improvement in morale didn't go unnoticed. Professor Voynich emerged from the lab, possibly ready to deliver a well-meaning alchemical proverb about the virtue of cleanliness… until his eyes landed on the artifact in Weylan's hand.

His voice cracked into a shriek. "Stop that at once!"

Weylan jumped back, scanning the area for anything about to explode or burst into flame. But aside from some gently bubbling soapwater, nothing looked dangerous.

Voynich was suddenly right next to him, face twisted with horror. "You're contaminating the cauldron with foreign magic! It's practically unusable now until the residue has time to fade!"

Weylan took a cautious step back. "Sorry! I didn't know."

The professor snatched the artifact out of his hand. "What even is this nonsense?"

"It's a spell focus," Weylan explained. "A new thing from Mulnirsheim. Some mage over there just started making them. They're amazing. I know someone who could get one for you, if you're interested. Not sure how much the shipping would cost, but maybe one of the next students from there could bring it."

Voynich turned the staff in his hands, curiosity beginning to outpace his anger. "Three activation runes. What does it do?"

"It channels the user's mana into one of three effects: Cleaning, Minor Repair, and Drying. Takes longer than normal casting, but uses less mana."

"So… you can just pass it around when you're out of mana? Is there a healing version?"

Weylan snorted. "I wish. Nobody's figured out how to enchant one for healing yet. I heard they couldn't find someone with healing magic and the right set of enchanting feats."

The professor eyed the cauldron, still caked in grime. He activated the artifact and watched it begin to work again. Then he layered an analysis spell over it. His eyebrows shot up.

"What the… who enchanted this?"

"Some mage back in Mulnirsheim. Very secretive guy. These just show up in bulk with certain merchants."

Voynich narrowed his eyes at the artifact, now scrubbing the cauldron in slow but steady spirals. "I can't think of a single enchanter capable of doing this. The matrix is flawless. Not even a flicker of instability. Whoever made this has a will like an anvil and the mind of a poet. He's not just a master enchanter; he must also have a deep understanding of alchemy. Mana contamination wouldn't be a problem outside of alchemy, so going to such a degree of effort can't be meant for anything else. Normally, you'd see mana smudges all over the cauldron after using something like this. But here? Nothing."

He handed the artifact back, still visibly impressed. "You may continue using this. I'll explain the risks of magical interference with alchemical tools in the next lesson."

He paused, then added, "And if you can, arrange for a set of five of these to be delivered to me."

Weylan grinned. He'd definitely pass the message along next time he had access to the communication conduit, or as anyone else called it, Sir Cloverton.

* * *

A few hours later, Weylan stood at the hall of artifacts in front of the cloak he'd craved. A hundred and fifty points. It seemed reasonable, compared to some of the other artifacts meant for upper class students and geniuses, but it was way out of reach. He flinched as a voice sounded from behind him.

"I still don't see why you want this tattered piece of fabric."

He turned and met Mirabelle's calm gaze. "I just do. Can't really explain it."

"You have more secrets than this whole academy, do you."

He smiled. "Is that a question?"

"A statement." She pulled out a notebook. "So, you're at about… thirty points?"

"Thirty-five. I do well in combat, but I don't win often enough. And never first place. I'm at most mediocre in alchemy, unless the professor provides me with something shadow affine. Which seems to be exceedingly rare. Don't talk about history. I couldn't answer a single question in class."

She pointed at a bundle of books in her hands. "You just have to read the subjects in advance."

"You're returning those to the library? Should I accompany you?"

Her calm smile faltered and she looked down, a bit embarrassed. "That's… actually why I was looking for you. The book-goblins give me the creeps. They stare at me, as if I'm eating their books. You should think they like people reading."

"They don't like anyone taking books out of the library. Try reading there, and maybe bring them some snacks?"

She mock-recoiled. "It's forbidden to bring food inside the library."

He held up a finger, triumphantly. "Exactly! Just don't let the librarian see you and choose something that doesn't leave crumbles or smudges."

She thought about that. "Maybe dried apple rings… There's a shop outside that has those. Let's get some." She pulled the grinning Weylan with her. Even as the bookworm wasn't his type romantically, he still enjoyed her enthusiasm.

* * *

Turned out the shop hadn't only stocked up on snacks, it also got a new shipment of weapons. Lots of students browsed the swords, warhammers and maces.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Weylan had enough weapons, but he had a look at the bucklers. He was still contemplating if a buckler would fit into his fighting style. But probably not.

A cry of triumph made everyone turn around to find Kane, the muscle mage, cradling a warhammer in his arm like a newborn. "That's it! Ironwood handle, deep-iron steel head. Finally, something that won't break after a few hits! And the quality is high enough to take an enchantment as soon as I can afford one."

Weylan took a look at the price tag and winced. Two hundred and twenty gold was expensive for an unenchanted weapon, but as it was made using two rare materials, it was probably worth it.

Kane paid and left, holding his new purchase like Faya tended to present her would-be-familiar.

Mirabelle got a big family bag of dried apple rings. Weylan only bought a small bag of candied fruit he immediately started snacking on their way to the library.

* * *

Bookhalla had calmed down since the frantic search for hoarderscale nests had begun. There were still book-goblins fetching books and scrolls, but everything seemed more systematic and organized. Not like the frantic scrambling at the start of the semester.

At the far end of the main hall, the work area of dryad librarian Eichenkiel had gotten a new addition. A wall of wood covered with dozens of parchment leaves, bark scrolls, and tanned hides. Each bore meticulous notations: maps of mountain hollows, charcoal sketches of bone-littered dens, records of livestock patterns gone awry, and arcane sigils said to resonate near potential slumbering nests. Woven twine, undyed, ochre, and deep green, ran across the surface like veins, connecting sightings, events, and facts. A charcoal drawing of a hoarderscale was placed in the middle, as if anyone would forget what they were looking for.

Eichenkiel stood in front of the wall, hands crossed behind his back. He studied the wall with silent intensity, standing as still as the giant tree dominating the hall.

As Weylan and Mirabelle entered, a book-goblin scampered over, flustered. "Students late! Library closes soon. No time, no time!"

Weylan stepped back, nodding toward Mirabelle. She swallowed, then reached into her satchel and produced a small bag. "I've come to return these books," she said, "and I bring gifts for the valiant guardians of Bookhalla."

The goblin eyed the bag suspiciously. "No food!"

"They're not messy," she assured him, carefully opening the pouch. "No crumbs. No grease. Just dried apple rings. See?"

The goblin gingerly picked one up, poked it with the fingers of his other hand, sniffed, then cautiously nibbled. His eyes widened. "Yummy!"

In a flash, he snatched the whole bag. "Readers always welcome! Tell Grobb when ready to leave. Grobb open door, close behind. No matter time. Grobb sleep here."

He darted away, clutching the bag like treasure.

Mirabelle chuckled. "That went better than I expected. Let's find some reference books on ranged weapon enchantments."

As the priestess wandered off toward the relevant shelves, Weylan meandered aimlessly through the stacks in the quiet hope to find something amazing by pure chance, since that was how his life worked.

Weylan turned a corner in the labyrinth of Bookhalla, following the smell of old parchment and the faint creak of wood under shifting weight. The sound of delicate motion reached him; books being slid gently into place with an almost reverent care. A sharp contrast to the usual manic movement of the book-goblins.

He'd expected to see a tired book-goblin. He didn't expect to see… her.

She stood halfway up a rolling ladder, her back turned, reaching toward the higher shelves. Her skin was stitched in a hundred careful seams, pale and smooth like hand-oiled leather, each patch connected with dark surgical thread in spirals and curves. Some parts pale, others more tanned. Her long, wild hair was a cascade of dark curls streaked with honey gold. Her corset-like leather bodice hugged the body of an academy student about his own age, and her short skirt swayed slightly as she moved.

She paused, sensing his presence.

Weylan blinked. Whatever she was, she was obviously patched together from parts of different humans. That should have resulted in an undead monstrosity, but it hadn't. She was… beautiful, in the way only something sculpted with great care could be. A work of art.

She turned, eyes wide and startled, lips slightly parted in a silent gasp.

"Uh... hi," Weylan said, lifting a hand in a tentative wave. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you. I was just... wandering."

The girl blinked twice. Then, quietly, "You're not… running away?"

"Should I be?" Weylan tilted his head. "You're literally just shelving books."

She looked down at herself, one stitched hand brushing self-consciously along her arm. "Most people do… or stare."

"Well," he said, smiling, "I won't mind watching you some more."

She gave him a confused look, unsure whether that was a compliment or just weird.

"I'm Weylan," he added. "First semester. I came here several times, but I've never seen you before."

"…Stitch," she said quietly, voice soft and strangely musical for someone made of yarn and enchantments. "I'm a book assistant. I help maintain the archive sections that scare off normal staff."

"Then I think we'll get along just fine," Weylan grinned. "I have a long history of getting lost in scary archive sections, or at least scary areas in general."

Her lips twitched, almost a smile. "You're… not uncomfortable?"

"Are you kidding? You're the most interesting person I've met all day." He gestured vaguely behind him. "And that includes a book-goblin who threatened me with a dust feather."

Stitch blinked again, this time in amusement. "Grobb?"

"Yeah," Weylan said. "Last week, he tried to scare me off. I think I stepped too close to some forbidden section."

"He sleeps under the enchanted map drawer. Don't go there. He doesn't like people invading his private space. Even though the librarian told him it's still public."

"Noted," he said, mock-serious.

There was a pause, filled only by the quiet shifting of dust motes and distant goblin feet.

Stitch finally spoke again, more confident this time. "You… really don't mind?"

"I've seen undead, rampaging revenants, hoarderscales, and giant monster snails. You?" He smiled. "You shelve books, wear leather like a boss, and have killer hair. What's not to like?"

A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, stitches creasing slightly at the corners of her eyes.

"You want help shelving?" Weylan offered. "I can reach high shelves and mess up the sorting system in at least three languages."

Stitch's laugh was soft and startled. "You can hand me the stack over there. If you don't mind alphabetical rune categorization by regional dialect."

Weylan saluted. "I have no idea what that means, but I'm all in."

He picked up the books one by one and held them up for her to shelve them. Sometimes he rolled the ladder along the shelves. They first worked mostly silent, then started to talk. Then Weylan finally couldn't resist asking any longer. "Say, what exactly are you?"

She smiled shyly. "That took quite a lot longer than normal. Usually, it's the first thing I'm asked. Most of the time quite loud and with a decent amount of fear and loathing."

"I…" He fell silent and just shrugged, failing for words.

She continued. "I'm a flesh-golem. Quite rare, since most of us are undead creations of necromancers."

"And you're not? I mean, you don't look like an undead abomination."

She arched an eyebrow. "Really?"

He blushed.

Her grin got mischievous. "It's quite a long story, let's sit down for a bit." She led him to a nearby reading nook. Three comfortable leather armchairs surrounding a circular table. Bookmarks, cheap paper, charcoal for drawing and pencils were provided on a shelf nearby, while at a wall without bookshelves, which did look out of place here, was a covered bowl, soap and towels to clean hands after working with ink and charcoal. They sat down and Stitch told her story. "There were unique circumstances. Twenty years ago, a lich necromancer appeared seemingly out of nowhere at a village a bit south of here. He had built his army in secret in underground caves for two centuries. After surfacing, he was spotted. A squad of soldiers from the kingdoms army was hurriedly dispatched and caught up to him shortly after he attacked a village. When they arrived, the necromancer had already started a ritual to drain the lifeforce from all of the villagers to power his magic and turn them into undead all at once. The army's healers countered the ritual and a group of arcane knights managed to slay the lich in a surprise attack at about the same time. The ritual backfired, but had nowhere to strike, since the caster was dead. There was a giant backlash. All villagers died. But most of the bodies didn't decay. They were too flooded with the mixed mana and lifeforce. The army's commander noticed it a day after the battle, while they were still busy destroying the rest of the undead that had gone rogue without a master. He sent for the mages of Wildeguard to assess the situation. I think he hoped there would be a way to revive the villagers, but a priest of Nistrul confirmed, their souls had already left. They were dead, but their bodies still refused to decompose. The army prepared to burn the corpses, as is custom anyway, but a master enchanter from Wildeguard had... other ideas. He had long since planned on building a golem as his masterpiece before joining the rank of the professors. He'd already completed a golem-core, but was still unsure what kind of body to animate." She paused. "Well… It was quite a controversy. But there were no next of kin to ask, since the whole village died and we didn't even know who to ask. Wildeguard was the local authority, so…" She shrugged, seemingly embarrassed. "Here I am."

Weylan leaned back, noticing just now how he'd been prepared to run or attack from the first mention of 'necromancer'. "You shouldn't feel guilty for existing. Those body parts would normally have been burned. Now they form something truly special."

Stitch smiled shyly.

* * *

They had just begun sorting a stack of particularly brittle scrolls when Mirabelle's voice cut through the air like a crossbow bolt.

"Weylan! There you…"

She rounded the shelf and froze.

Her shriek echoed through Bookhalla. "WAAAH!"

A nearby goblin yelped and dropped an armful of scrolls.

Mirabelle clutched her chest. "By the light of Lieselotte, what is that?!"

Weylan instinctively stepped in front of Stitch, hands raised. "Mirabelle! Calm down. She's not dangerous."

Stitch flinched back, curling one arm around her torso and avoiding Mirabelle's wide-eyed stare.

"I didn't mean… I thought you were being attacked by some… stitched-together corpse monster!"

"I'm right here," Stitch whispered, voice barely audible.

Weylan's tone turned cold. "She's not a monster. And she's a book assistant. Same as the goblins you've befriended."

Mirabelle looked between them, visibly processing the new information. She exhaled, the panic draining into embarrassed silence.

"…Right," she muttered. "Sorry. I just wasn't expecting…"

"I get that a lot," Stitch said, even quieter now.

Weylan looked over his shoulder, offering her a reassuring nod. "She's okay. Just… intense."

"I'll wait outside," Stitch said quickly, backing away into the shadowy stacks.

Mirabelle watched her go, biting her lip. "I really didn't mean to…"

"You did," Weylan said, gentler this time. "But you also didn't know. She does look… surprising."

Mirabelle sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Yeah. I will."

She looked back toward where Stitch had disappeared. "She's really… unique."

"She's brilliant," Weylan said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "A true work of art."

"What exactly is she?" Mirabelle asked as they turned toward the exit. Her steps were a little faster than usual, but she still remembered to gather her stack of books.

The great doors of the library closed behind them with a soft thud.

Weylan checked the surrounding by out of habit, then answered. "She's a flesh golem. And her name is Stitch, by the way."

Mirabelle shot him a dry look. "Stitch. Seriously?"

Weylan looked confused, then his eyes widened. "Oh… That's… a bit on the nose. Who's that inconsiderate in naming his creation?"

"Who created her, anyway?"

He frowned, then shrugged. "I didn't ask. Some mage from Wildeguard. I'll ask next time I visit her."

Mirabelle looked at him from the side. "Which will be tomorrow, I guess?"

Weylan blushed. "Well… I did forget to get the reference book I need…"

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