The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the rutted road as the group approached Blackridge's formidable outer gates. The mining town's walls rose twenty feet high, constructed of massive pine logs banded with iron—defenses that spoke of frequent threats. The air carried the metallic tang of ore smelting from the dozens of chimneys visible beyond the walls, mixing with the sharper stench of the tannery just inside the gates.

  Captain Durn, a grizzled veteran with a nose that had been broken too many times to set properly, leaned over the palisade. His patched leather armor bore the faded insignia of Blackridge's garrison. "Halt and state your business!" he bellowed, raising a hand. Along the walls, six archers nocked arrows, their movements crisp with military precision.

  Jorvan Hearthwell hurried forward, waving his broad-brimmed hat. "Captain! It's Jorvan Hearthwell! These good folk saved us from bandits on the West Road!"

  The captain's bushy eyebrows rose as he squinted at the group. His gaze lingered on S-01's imposing form before snapping to Hale. A slow, vicious smile spread across his weathered face. "Well I'll be damned. Hale, finally caught." He spat over the wall. "Open the gates! Slowly now!"

  The heavy timber gates groaned open just enough to admit the group, but the guards kept their weapons ready. Captain Durn stepped forward, his calloused hand resting on his sword hilt as he eyed the mismatched party.

  "You there—state your names and business in Blackridge," he demanded, eyeing S-01's imposing form. "And why's a holy knight traveling with the likes of you?"

  Borin stepped forward, planting his warhammer in the dirt. "Borin Ironhaft. This here's Aelin." He jerked a thumb toward S-01. "Brother Steelhelm took a vow of silence after a wyrm attack ruined his voice."

  The captain's skeptical gaze swept over them. "And what brings a dwarf, an elf, and a mute paladin to a mining town?"

  Before Borin could answer, Jorvan Hearthwell pushed forward. "They saved my family from bandits on the West Road! Would've lost everything if not for them!"

  The guards lowered their weapons slowly, though the youngest - a freckle-faced recruit - couldn't stop staring at S-01's imposing figure. "By the Forge, that's the biggest paladin I've ever seen!"

  Borin chuckled, slapping the recruit's shoulder good-naturedly. "Aye, and the quietest."

  Captain Durn rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "Can't say I trust you completely, brother," he said to S-01, "but any friend of the Hearthwells is welcome in Blackridge." He leaned closer conspiratorially. "Between us, we've been hoping someone would deal with those bandits on the West Road."

  The captain's eyes narrowed as his gaze landed on Hale.

  "Well, well," Durn growled. "If it isn't Hale the Liar."

  Hale flashed a crooked grin. "Miss me, Durn? You'll want to hear what I have to say about that one—" he jerked his chin at S-01, "—before you start thanking anyone."

  Durn spat over the wall. "Only thing I want from you is your neck in a noose."

  As they entered the bustling mining town, Hale kept up his tirade. "That's no paladin! It's a bloody steam sentinel from a moving dungeon! They've got the fortress hidden in the hills!"

  The guards laughed. One even mimed playing a tiny violin.

  "Good one, Hale," Durn said, rolling his eyes. "Last month you swore you were the lost prince of Aerilon." He turned to Borin. "We've had a bounty on this one for months. Fifty silver for his sorry hide."

  As Hale was dragged away, the Hearthwell family gathered around their rescuers. Young Tomas stared up at S-01 with wide eyes. "Will we see you again?" he asked, voice hushed with awe.

  The disguised sentinel inclined its head slightly—just enough to seem benevolent, not enough to risk revealing the metallic glint beneath its hood.

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  Lissa Hearthwell smoothed her daughter Elin's hair before stepping forward. "You'll always have a place at our hearth," she said firmly, pressing a small, cloth-wrapped bundle into Aelin's hands. "Dried fruit and travel bread. It's not much, but it's honest fare."

  Jorvan clasped Borin's forearm in the traditional merchant's greeting. "Come by Hearthwell Forge in three days' time," he said. "We'll have your remaining payment ready, and I'll see to any repairs your arms and armor need." He hesitated, then added in a lower voice, "And if you're still in town when the next ore shipment comes in... well, let's just say the garrison could use extra blades."

  Borin grinned, hefting his warhammer. "We'll keep that in mind."

  Aelin gave the children a rare, small smile as she tucked the food into her pack. "Stay sharp on the roads."

  As the merchant family disappeared into the crowd, heading toward the craftsman's quarter where their new forge awaited, Tomas kept looking back over his shoulder at S-01 until his father gently steered him around a corner.

  Hunting for Cores

  The Blackridge marketplace sprawled across the town square, a riot of colors and smells under the midday sun. Borin wrinkled his nose at the pungent odor of curing leather from a tanner's stall as they pushed through the crowded thoroughfare. The scent of roasting meats from a nearby skewer vendor mingled with the earthy aroma of fresh herbs and the metallic tang of the blacksmith's forge nearby.

  "Watch where you're—oh! Begging your pardon, Brother!" A plump merchant woman nearly dropped her basket of dried mushrooms as she stumbled back from S-01's imposing form.

  Aelin guided their group toward a row of alchemical stalls, their wooden counters displaying glittering powders and bottled essences that caught the sunlight. The first vendor, a thin man with yellow-stained fingers from years of handling sulfur, perked up at their approach.

  "Quality reagents! Dragon's Claw, Phoenix Feather, even some genuine—"

  "Mana cores," Borin interrupted, leaning heavily on the counter. "Proper ones. Not that weak stuff."

  The man's eager expression collapsed like a deflated bladder. "Not for three seasons now," he sighed, scratching at his patchy beard. "The dungeon caravans from the east stopped coming after the bandits took over the Pass." He reached under his counter and produced a small wooden box, revealing a sad collection of dim, pebble-sized cores that barely glimmered. "These pitiful things are all I've got—barely enough to power a child's toy. Twenty silver for the lot?"

  Borin snorted. "Worth less than goat droppings."

  At the next stall, an elderly dwarf woman with arms thick as tree trunks squinted at them through lenses that magnified her eyes to comical proportions. Her stall displayed an array of glowing mosses and luminescent fungi.

  "Cores?" She let out a rasping chuckle that turned into a cough. "Hah! I've got some lovely glow-moss here that lasts nearly a full moon-cycle if you keep it moist. Perfect for—"

  "We need proper dungeon cores," Aelin said firmly, her fingers tapping impatiently on the carved wooden counter. "Class three or better."

  The dwarf's wrinkled face darkened as she adjusted her spectacles. "Then you'll be wanting the Hero's Guild down by the garrison, lass." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Though mark my words—something's not right in the wilds these days. My cousin's mining crew abandoned their silver claim last week, left good tools and everything." She glanced around nervously before continuing. "Said the beasts were acting... unnatural. Like they were being driven by something."

  As they moved through the market, they stopped at three more stalls with similar results:

  A gnomish tinkerer with mechanical birds flitting about his booth shook his head sadly. "Used to get regular shipments from the Crystal Depths, but the dungeon's gone quiet. Last adventuring party that went in... well, let's just say only half came back, and they weren't right in the head after."

  A surly half-orc blacksmith barely looked up from his anvil. "No cores. No ore either, thanks to those damned bandits. Come back next week if you want a decent sword."

  Finally, at a stall selling preserved monster parts, a nervous young scholar perked up at their question. "M-mana cores? There's been sightings of a wyvern near the old iron mines! It took out a whole mining crew last week!" He pushed his glasses up his nose. "The Hero's Guild has been offering good money for its capture or death... not that anyone's been brave enough to try."

  Victor's voice crackled through their earpieces: "That sounds promising."

  Borin cracked his knuckles. "Looks like we're going wyvern hunting."

  "Wait," Victor's voice crackled through their earpieces. "Before you charge into the mountains, we should check with the Hero's Guild officially, we don't want to upset the locals and if there's already a contract out for this wyvern, we might get paid twice—once for the core we keep, and once for the kill."

  Aelin nodded. "And they might have more information about these 'unnatural' behaviors everyone keeps mentioning."