Worthy sighed heavily as he moved through the common room of the Steelarm Inn, shifting tables and pushing chairs. It was the little details that made a good common room, this was something he'd learned over his years as a slayer. Travelling from town to town, barony to earldom and city to city in search of the next contract meant a lot of time spent sleeping in beds that weren't your own and although none could accuse him of being the sharpest weapon on the rack, Worthy had an eye for the little things.

His inn wasn't the most patronised in Foxbridge and the wider duchy because he traded on the family name, though it certainly helped. His brother's exploits might bring the patrons through the door, but it was the quality service that kept them coming back.

When the chairs were crooked, it showed a lack of care, made the atmosphere feel off. After all, if the Innkeeper didn't bother to straighten the chairs, where else might corners be cut? He'd made it a point across his career to only stay in businesses with neat chairs. When the tables weren't arranged properly it made it harder to move through the space, made life more difficult for his servers, made it harder for the patrons to reach the bar. Best to head off trouble before it had a chance to make itself known in his estimation.

It was that kind of 'fussing over the little things', as his brother put it, that made sure the Steelarm Inn enjoyed a stellar reputation and operated as regular as a clock. Which was why he was so concerned about his nephew. Gaining a Class was a big deal for a kid, it was the moment you finally became an adult, a fully functioning person. For someone like Tyron, who'd lived with the constant expectation that he would do incredible things when he grew up, just like his parents (and to a lesser extent, his uncle), the shock of getting such a humdrum Class would be world shattering.

The poor kid. When he'd come to eat over the past few days, it hadn't been hard to notice the growing bags under his eyes, the sallow skin. It was easy to see that he hadn't been sleeping. At least he was getting food into him. If all went well, then his damned parents would show up in a few days at the latest and then they could sit down together and work out what the boy would do for his future.

Being a Scribe wasn't a great start, but it's not like there's nothing that you can do with it. With the right mix of secondary Classes, he could turn himself into a reasonable spellcaster. Enough to support Slayer groups on expedition if he worked hard. If he wanted to, Worthy was confident that the boy could be a hell of a Scribe though. If he levelled it enough, chose his secondaries carefully, he'd make money hand over fist working for a lord, or even the royal treasury.

He'd be getting paid better than half the slayers in the kingdom without any risk of getting eaten. Didn't seem like a bad deal to Worthy.

Though in his heart, he knew it wasn't what the kid wanted for himself. Tyron liked to play it cool, act like he wasn't bothered by it, but deep down he longed for the sort of renown that the legendary Slayers received. Defenders of the people, warriors of light, wardens of civilisation. It was all nonsense as far as Worthy was concerned. He'd been in the business long enough to know that there wasn't any glory there, just blood and guts and shit.

But he could remember what it was like when he was a boy, how he'd longed to go into battle, fend off the creatures from the rifts. He saw that same burning ambition in his nephew and having that dream crushed before it could even begin was a mighty sad thing.

Every chair in its place and every table properly arranged, the innkeeper stepped back to appreciate his work. Not so rigid as to look sterile, but just organised enough to make for a smooth day of business. Perfect is what it was. Now for the cleaning. With a little more life in his step, he moved to the storage cupboard and removed the enchanted gear he kept stored. The bucket which heated the water and kept it near boiling point. The sponge he'd had to order special from his sister-in-law. Only her contacts would allow him to get his hands on something like this.

Death magick enhanced, the sponge would suck the life from everything it touched, leaving a trail of death in its wake. With his powerful defensive stats and build, Worthy himself was immune to the effect, but the bacteria on his tables were not. With a savage sense of glee he got to work, swiping the piping hot water which he could barely feel across his tables, imagining devastated armies of microbes begging for their lives as he approached each wooden surface.

"No mercy," he rumbled, thoroughly wiping down another table with grim satisfaction.

Tables done, he was about to head into the kitchen for the morning clean down when the door opened unexpectedly. Worthy turned, surprise written plain upon his face, to see Tyron standing in the doorway, swaying on his feet, his eyes half-focused as his hands grasped at nothing by his sides.

"Boy?" Worthy asked as he walked closer, "are you alright?"

Tyron's hands rose and seemed to search for the door. Not finding it in front of him, he took a few staggered steps into the common room, that same semi-vacant expression on his face. A sense of alarm began to rise in Worthy as he drew nearer, the boy didn't look right, not at all. It was something beyond just fatigue and sleep deprivation, something that tickled at his memory.

"Hey, uncle," the boy slurred, "any chance I can… get something to eat? I'm… I'm starving… I think?"

At his side now, Worthy gripped his nephew by the shoulder to steady him and took a good look at his face. Eyes close to bloodshot, face drawn and covered in dust, black marks and streaks across his skin, the kid looked like hell.

"Holy shit, boy. What in the ninth rift have you been doing?"

The kid was still unsteady on his feet, even with the powerful slayer’s hand steadying him. At the question, a slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Magick, uncle. I did magick. I wasn't sure if I could, but I did it."

"Magick? You can do magick any time, why would you stay up all night doing it, you mad boy?" Worthy berated him even as he felt his heart pang.

He could easily imagine Tyron, unable to accept his fate working through the night to develop his magical talent. Even so, that shouldn't put him in this state…

"Fuck!" he swore.

Of course! How could he miss it! He almost pulled up his death sponge to wipe at the kid's face but stopped himself at the last moment before he threw the cleaning tool into the corner with another curse. Megan emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron, an expression between disapproval and amusement on her face.

"What's all this cursing so early in the morning, husband?" she mock scolded before she saw Tyron and gasped. "Tyron! What's happened?"

"Get me a cloth woman!" Worthy bellowed as he reached down to scoop the boy from his feet. "And warm water!"

"Uncle?" Tyron asked, a faint tremor in his voice, "what's happening?"

"Shut up, lad," Worthy said as he carried him swiftly into the kitchen, laying him down on the table as one of the kitchen staff held open the door.

"Here's the cloth."

"Ta."

With one hand, the former hammerman gently brushed the hair back from the boy's face as he used the cloth to wipe away the dust and grime around his mouth. After a few moments, he leaned closer to get a better look before he swore explosively.

"FUCK!" his hand smashed down on the table, smashing an imprint onto the treated wood, made to be hard enough to prevent knives from cutting it.

"What's wrong with him, Worthy?" Megan asked, frightened by her husband's unusual expression of anger.

For the moment, he ignored her, his hands tightening around his nephew's head.

"How many boy?" he whispered, voice trembling from suppressed rage. "How many did you have last night?"

"Uncle? I.. Don't know what you mean."

"The crystals boy. How many crystals? Try to think."

The urgency in his tone seemed to do something for Tyron, his eyes almost focused for a half second, before it vanished, his mind retreating into the fog once more.

"I-I'm not sure. Crystals? I'm so … tired."

"No! Don't sleep!" Worthy slapped him across the face, hard.

"Worthy!" Megan was almost in tears at this point. "What's wrong!?"

With a visible struggle, Worthy mastered his temper as he continued to lean over his nephew, his focus never leaving his face.

"This idiot has been up all night casting spells. Which would be fine, normally. It's not smart to do it, but it's not like he hasn't done it before. Except this time he must have burned through all his energy and decided that he should use some arcane crystals to top himself off."

His wife gasped.

"Isn't that?"

"Fuckin' dangerous? Yes, it is," he growled. "If the little idiot used too many, then he's already dead."

With barely any effort, Worthy slipped his arms underneath Tyron's increasingly limp form and hoisted him up.

"I'll put him in the back room, make him comfortable. Send someone to run and get the apothecary, tell the old bastard to move his ass, I don't care how early it is. Megan, pull together some of the leftovers, if we can get some food into him, that can help."

As the small crowd that had gathered in the kitchen raced to do as he'd said, the broad shouldered man carried his nephew as gently as a baby to a spare room on the ground floor.

"Don't you dare die lad. Not before your father comes home and kicks your arse over this first," he muttered.

Ten minutes later, the town apothecary, a leather skinned old codger named Yarrus, was dragged into the room by Berry, one of the kitchen hands. Worthy gave her a nod as the healer drew himself up, cursing the youth and their lack of respect for their elders.

"I'm here Worthy, what is worth dragging me out of bed for?"

"My nephew. He's used arcane crystals, I'm not sure how many."

"Magick toxicity?" the old man sucked in a deep breath as he rushed to the bedside. "That's not good."

"No shit," Worthy growled, "can you do anything for him?"

"I can," Yarrus confirmed, a sly tone creeping into his voice, "but perhaps we should first discuss the matter of payment?"

In one motion, the innkeeper snatched the old man up off the ground by his neck, holding him there as easily as if he were a sack of potatoes.

"How about you heal him first? Worthy rumbled, fire dancing in his eyes, "or maybe you'd like to explain to Magnin why his only son is dead because you wanted to argue about the price?"

The apothecary frantically clawed at the hand that gripped him, but couldn't budge it so much as an inch. Worthy slowly lowered him until the tips of his toes touched the ground before loosening his grip just enough to let the man breathe.

"This is assault!" Yarrus gasped, "you think you can do this to me?"

"You heal this boy or I'll do far worse. I'll pay your fucking coin when you're done! Get to it!"

With a face filled with contempt, Worthy released the apothecary who slumped to the ground before crawling to the bedside and rummaging through his robes. The old hammerman watched him carefully as the healer began to pluck various herbs from his pockets, fetching a mortar and pestle from the bag he'd brought with him to start grinding away.

"It's advanced quickly," Yarrus muttered, mostly to himself, "you can already see the veins in his face turning blue and the bruising around the mouth. His temperature is... normal enough for now, but that will change in the next hour or so. Judging by the rapidity of the spread, I'd say he had three crystals, at least."

Worthy sucked in a breath, his brow creased with concern. Three crystals into someone who hadn't built up a tolerance was a high dose. Three in one night was a high dose for someone who'd been using them regularly for a long period. He didn't have much experience with mage training, having never gone through anything like it himself, he'd still worked with plenty of spellcasters over the years, and most of them wouldn't take more than one crystal at a time, and only when they had to.

Just what had the kid been doing last night? Why did he have to push himself this hard? And where the hell did he get his hands on the things? They're restricted!

The answer was obvious, but he couldn't believe that Beory would be so careless with her own equipment that Tyron had gotten his hands on them. Had he bought them himself? With what money? He had a small stash of funds to take care of himself, certainly not enough to purchase arcane crystals, not that anyone in Foxbridge sold the damn things.

"You're lucky I did my rounds at Skyice Keep," Yarrus said as he pulled a series of needles from his bag and began coating the tips in the mixture he had prepared, "I treated many for this condition during my time there."

A grunt was the only reply the apothecary received and his face soured as he drew the first of the needles out of the compound he had prepared.

"By placing these at the nexus points in the extremities, I'll be able to draw away some of the excess magick in his body. Hopefully, it will be enough to prevent the worst ramifications of his overdose, but as with all things in life, there is no certainty."

"Get to it," Worthy said.

Moving with the utmost care, Yarrus allowed his experience and skills to guide him as he turned over the boy's arms so the palms faced upward, tracing the needle along his veins. When he was satisfied, he inserted the thin rod of tempered medicinal steel at the midpoint of the forearm, quickly replicating the effort on the other arm. With this done, he rolled up the boy's pants to mid-calf and inserted two more needles above the ankle on each leg.

After a few minute of patient watching, the four needles began to emit a soft light.

"There," Yarrus nodded in satisfaction, "a portion of the energy is being drained away. I must caution you, should too much magick be taken from his system then there will be adverse side effects to that as well. Monitor the needles carefully. When the light is half as dim as it is now, remove them immediately, lest he suffer as a result."

"Is that all we can do?" Worthy asked.

"With the resources we have to hand here in Foxbridge? Yes. If a high level Arcane Healer were in town, they could do much more, but alas you are stuck with me."

The old man pushed himself to his feet with a grunt.

"And I expect to be paid."

Avarice glinted clear and bright in the apothecaries eyes. The Steelarms were the wealthiest family in town and hardly suffered from as much as a cough across the years. The opportunity to dip his hands into those deep pockets was near enough to get him salivating.

"You can settle accounts with Magnin when he gets home. He shouldn't be more than a few days away."

Worthy dismissed the apothecary with a few words and knelt by the side of his nephew, taking the boy's hand in his own. A range of emotions writhed across Yarrus' face as he contemplated trying to wring funds from a powerful slayer. Greed, concern, fear followed quickly by glum acceptance.

Magnin might decide to shower him with gold, or just as easily short change him and there was absolutely nothing that he, a small town healer could do about it. Someone like Magnin was worth a thousand of him in the eyes of the kingdom. If the warrior decided to cut him down in the street he likely wouldn't be punished for it.

Grinding his teeth, Yarrus stalked out of the room and stomped through the inn, unheeded by everyone. Instead, their focus was on the semi-conscious young man in the back room.