Alexander led them to the communal tent—a large canvas structure held up by wooden poles, open on two sides to let air flow through. Inside, rough-hewn tables and benches were arranged in rows, and a cooking area was set up at the far end with several fire pits and preparation surfaces.

A few mimics were already there, preparing vegetables for the evening meal. They looked up when Marron's group entered, their forms flickering slightly with what she recognized as nervous excitement.

"Keeper is in the back," Alexander said, gesturing to a curtained-off section at the rear of the tent. "He doesn't come out much during the day—says the sunlight bothers him after so long underground. But he's been waiting to meet you."

Marron felt a flutter of nervousness. "What should I expect?"

"Keeper is... different from the rest of us." Alexander's voice was careful. "He's old. Very old. Underground for nearly a century, he said. And he's not like other mimics. You'll see."

He pulled aside the curtain.

The space was lit by only a few candles, but surely Keeper had employed some skilled magic in illusions. His home was absolutely massive.

Is this what dolls feel like when they witness humans for the first time?

It smelled of old earth and paper--nothing unpleasant.

And there, sitting on a low stool near a small table covered in papers and artifacts, was Keeper.

Well, low for him. For Marron, it was like looking at an "adult" table from a child's point of view.

He really isn't like any mimic we've ever seen before.

Mokko gasped. "So tall."

Even the most stable mimics in the settlement (Alexander among them) still gave off an uncanny feeling. Like a supernatural creature who wanted to look as human as possible. If others were none the wiser, they could have played it off as a trick of the light.

Marron witnessed the quickly shifting proportions and the edges of hems that didn't look quite right among the townspeople.

In comparison, Keeper did not glitch at all.

The figure was twice as tall as Alexander, and she felt positively microscopic. Visually, she just about reached his thigh, maybe.

The figure was tall and wore a long hooded robe made of dark, heavy fabric that seemed to absorb the candlelight. The hood was drawn up, shadowing most of the face, and where features should be visible, there was instead a smooth, pale mask.

Not a mask worn over a face. A mask that was the face—featureless except for two oval cutouts where eyes should be.

Marron found herself looking into those cutouts, expecting darkness or the flat black of a mimic's true form.

Instead, she saw blue.

Bright, clear blue—like a summer sky, like deep water in sunlight. Not eyes, exactly. Just... blue. Luminous and steady and somehow aware.

"Miss Louvel," Keeper said, and his voice was calm, resonant, weighted with something that might have been age or wisdom or both. "I am pleased you came. Alexander spoke highly of you, but I wanted to see for myself."

The voice came from behind the mask, but Marron couldn't see a mouth move. Couldn't see anything move. Just that steady blue gaze and the sound of words that seemed to vibrate in the air itself.

"I'm Marron," she said, finding her voice. "Alexander said you have stories. About kitchen treasures. About Legendary Tools."

"I do." Keeper gestured to several stools arranged near the table. "Please, sit. Your companions as well. What I have to share is not for standing."

+

They sat—Marron, Millie, Mokko, with Lucy's jar placed carefully on the table where she could see. Alexander remained standing near the curtain, respectful but present.

Keeper was quiet for a long moment, those blue eyes fixed on Marron with an intensity that made her want to fidget. Then he spoke.

"You carry two already," he said. It wasn't a question.

Marron's hand instinctively went to her cart. "How did you—"

"I can sense them. The tools recognize each other, even when dormant. Your cart—" He tilted his head slightly. "—sings of nourishment and intent. And the pot you carry—it hums with patience. Steady. Reliable. The old metalworkers would be pleased their work still functions."

"You know about them," Marron breathed. "You know what they are."

"I know what they were." Keeper's voice took on a different quality—not quite sadness, but something like it. "Before they were lost. Before they were stolen. Before adventurers claimed them as trophies and locked them away in dungeons, thinking they were merely prizes to be won."

He stood slowly, moving to the table where several items were laid out—pottery shards, old tools, fragments of what might have been decorative tiles.

"This world—Savoria—was not always as it is now. Before the cataclysm, before the dungeons, there was... civilization. Different from what you know today, but still civilization. Cities that weren't built around adventurer guilds. Communities that valued craft over conquest."

Keeper picked up one of the pottery shards, running his fingers over its glazed surface.

"In that time, there were craftspeople who achieved transcendence through their work. Not through magic in the way you understand it—not spells woven into objects—but through skill so profound it became indistinguishable from magic. A smith who understood metal so deeply that the blade knew how to cut. A potter whose vessels knew how to hold. A weaver whose cloth knew how to warm."

He set down the shard and turned back to them.

"And in the kitchens—the heart of every home, every community—there were cooks who understood nourishment so completely that their tools became... alive, in a sense. Aware. Responsive to need rather than just technique."

+

"The Legendary Tools," Marron said.

"Yes. Though they were not called 'legendary' then. They were simply... the masterworks. Tools made by those who had achieved perfect understanding of their craft." Keeper's blue gaze fixed on her again. "How many were made? No one knows. The records were lost in the cataclysm. But there were many—enough that most communities had at least one. A village might have a pot that never burned food. A city might have a knife that always cut true. A monastery might have a bowl that kept anything placed in it at the perfect temperature."

"What happened to them?" Millie asked quietly.

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