“No,” the Armory said. Arwin blinked. He looked from the shield to the whorls of red mist rising up across from him. His head tilted to the side. “What do you mean, no? Why not?” “Do you recall feeding me a training dummy?” “Well, no. Can’t you just smack me or something?” “And take the damage myself?” Irritation tinged the Armory’s voice. “No. If you desire a training partner, then either feed me something that I can use to replicate a training partner or find someone else. I am not your beating block. I am more than a mere tool. I am the Infernal Armory.” Humble, are we? I suppose that’s fair enough, though. No sword is going to want to be used like a butter knife. “Point taken,” Arwin said. He looked down at the shield in his hands, then dismissed it with a thought. “I’ll look into finding a training dummy to feed you. Do you happen to know what time it is?” “More than enough time to get a little more work in,” Arwin mused. He rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. “You have enough energy to get one more quick piece of work in?” “Idiotic, yes.” The man cut Tironal off before he could finish his sentence. “I am not a fool. Such a change would be entirely too evident, and whoever took my Dungeon Heart would immediately flee — not to mention I suspect your guild would be crushed by the Dawnseekers when you lost so much momentum.” “There’s more than just the Dawnseekers to concern ourselves with,” Tironal said. His hands tightened. “The Montibeau family’s heir returned to their estate and has managed to stabilize them. They aren’t a significant threat as they are now, but more competition means even more ways things can go wrong.” “You misunderstand me. I do not care about your guild or the struggles it faces. They are of your own making. I know you desire to keep it in one piece, and at the moment, its purposes suit mine. Do not confuse that for me caring about your guild. You will find the Dungeon Heart.” “I will endeavor to pour more resources into this,” Tironal promised, his jaw tightening until it ached. “My spymaster, Charles, will dedicate all the time he has left to aiding you. We will manage without him for the time being.” The assassin watched Tironal impassively for several long seconds. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Very well. I will return in time to meet him. Ensure he has something useful for me. I am displeased with the amount of time that I have already wasted in this worthless city. There will not be a third chance for you to prove yourself.” Despite his position, a flicker of anger rolled through Tironal. He’d spent years building up the Ardent Guild. Thousands upon thousands of gold invested into its growth. Into its people. The guild wasn’t the strongest merchant guild in existence, but it was his creation. The manifestation of his years on this world, and the culmination of the desires of everyone under his banner. It was the path into the future that they had fought to claim. “Is that a threat?” Tironal asked, his fist tightening. “I have done nothing but attempt to aid you. I was not responsible for the death of your apprentice. I do not mean to challenge the Setting Sun, but—” “It is not a threat, Tironal. I have no plans of taking action against your guild,” the assassin said flatly. “That is not how I operate. You may feel threatened by my presence, but if I wished your guild to be destroyed, it would already be gone. I do not threaten you. There are simply other pathways to what I desire beyond relying on your incompetent men. If they accomplish what you cannot, then I will pay them rather than you. And I am a very, very wealthy man. I do not suspect a merchant guild will last long if one of its competitors suddenly becomes richer than it. Do you understand?” Tironal swallowed. “Yes. I understand.” “Good,” the assassin said. Tironal slumped in his desk and ran his hands through his hair, letting out a groan. This wasn’t how he’d planned the move into Milten to go at all. Things had gone completely wrong at every single turn, but he couldn’t stop now. There was too much invested on their success. If he wanted to keep the momentum the Ardent Guild had picked up and ensure they properly established themselves in Milten, had to find the Dungeon Heart — or someone who he could pin its loss on. Twelve slipped into a dark alleyway, leaving the Ardent guild behind him as he strode to his next meeting. Tironal was worthless. Anyone with a spymaster of any true worth would have already located the Dungeon Heart. The item was hardly lacking in power. If Twelve had been present with his true body, then it would have taken him mere minutes to track it down. Unfortunately, he had nowhere near the amount of time to spare sending his true form for what was, in the end, nothing more than a side mission. Losing the Dungeon Heart was infuriating, but there were worse fates that could come to pass if he failed in his other duties. He had a duty to more than himself. The rest of the Setting Sun had tasks far more important than a magical item, even one as strong as this one. Fortunately, Tironal is far from the only one with an active information network in Milten. His time has already come to an end. Twelve came to a stop at the end of the alley. A woman clad in rags looked up at him through a mat of ragged, dirty hair. She held out a mug with a few small coins resting at its base. “You are not a church,” Twelve said. “Where is your puppet master?” The old woman’s lips split apart in a toothless grin and she lowered the mug. “You don’t look like a beggar to me. He did say he’s lookin’ to keep expanding and that he’d give bonuses for ‘ferrals, or something like that. That what you are?”