Old Shard said he did not know where to begin.
So I suggested starting with a name.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Old Shard nodded.
And said it.
"Grace."
A pause.
"Graciella Vespera Oathkeeper."
The moment her name left his mouth, Old Shard poured a small amount of liquor onto the sand.
I had seen him do this many times before.
After meals.
Before stories.
Sometimes without explanation.
This time, however, something different happened.
Master Grim did the same.
Master Stonefist did the same.
Master Ironbeard.
Master Blackthorn.
One after another.
No discussion.
No hesitation.
Just a simple motion repeated by everyone who had known her.
For the first time, I understood the ritual was not habit.
It was remembrance.
The desert accepted the drink quietly.
Then Old Shard began speaking.
According to him, they met Grace three years after Master Roderick joined the caravan.
At the time, they were traveling through the southern regions.
Somewhere far from established routes.
Far from civilization.
Far from places sensible people willingly visit.
Then they saw a monastery burning.
Not a small fire.
A catastrophe.
An ancient monastery engulfed in flames.
And worse—
it was under attack.
By things that should not have existed.
Even now, Old Shard does not know what they were.
Only that they did not belong.
That was enough.
According to Old Shard, Caravan Master immediately wanted to leave.
His exact reasoning was simple.
Not their monastery.
Not their problem.
Not their responsibility.
A perfectly reasonable position.
Then someone heard a scream.
Not a loud scream.
Not dramatic.
A weak one.
Barely audible.
Master Ironbeard heard it first.
After that, a vote happened.
Caravan Master lost.
Apparently this occurs more often than he likes.
So they entered.
The deeper they went, the worse things became.
Bodies lay everywhere.
Women wearing armor.
Knights.
Warriors.
Protectors.
Dead.
Old Shard said the thing that frightened them most was not the number of bodies.
It was what the bodies implied.
Nobody there had died because they were weak.
Whoever attacked them had simply been stronger.
Much stronger.
They proceeded carefully after that.
Weapons drawn.
Eyes open.
Eventually they reached the center of the monastery.
And there they found her.
Grace.
A lone knight fighting against a dozen creatures.
Perhaps more.
Old Shard described her as a fortress pretending to be a woman.
Full plate armor.
Sword.
Shield.
Standing amidst fire and death.
Clearly exhausted.
Clearly losing.
And still refusing to retreat.
She asked for help.
Not elegantly.
Not heroically.
Simply honestly.
She said she would pay.
With anything.
Money.
Artifacts.
Her own life if necessary.
After that came a battle Old Shard spent suspiciously little time describing.
Which usually means it was horrible.
Eventually the creatures died.
The survivors lived.
And Grace introduced herself.
She belonged to an ancient order.
Or had belonged to one.
Because everyone else was gone.
Old Shard asked her a question afterward.
Why stay?
Why fight?
Why not run?
According to him, Grace looked genuinely confused by the question.
Then she answered.
Because her sisters deserved burial.
Because loyalty was the foundation of her order.
Because somebody had to stay.
The answer sounded simple.
Old Shard spoke it like it wasn't.
The caravan helped bury the dead.
Helped perform prayers.
Helped complete the final duties of the monastery.
And afterward Grace joined them.
Not because she wanted adventure.
Not because she needed work.
Because she had promised her life.
And Grace apparently treated promises very seriously.
At this point Old Shard became quiet for a moment.
Then smiled.
A small smile.
The kind people wear when remembering something they miss.
"Strongest woman I've ever met."
A pause.
"And the gentlest."
Nobody interrupted him.
Then something happened.
Master Ironbeard suddenly raised a finger.
Touching the side of his nose.
Everyone became silent immediately.
No questions.
No confusion.
Just silence.
Several seconds passed.
Then Ironbeard spoke.
"Thirty."
A pause.
"Maybe thirty-five."
Another pause.
"On foot."
He frowned.
"Bandits."
The atmosphere changed instantly.
I felt tension spread through camp.
Ryn straightened.
Spathian drew his saber.
I did not particularly enjoy any of this.
Then Old Shard sighed.
Stood up.
Licked a finger.
Held it into the air.
Checking wind direction.
Then he picked up his cauldron.
At first I thought he intended to continue cooking.
Instead he poured water inside.
Added several handfuls of spices.
Closed the lid.
And activated the artifact.
The Everboil Cauldron glowed red.
Brighter.
Brighter.
Brighter.
Until it looked like a piece of molten metal.
At that point I understood what he was doing.
Because I recognized the principle.
Latent Energy.
Heat.
Pressure.
Expansion.
An incredibly inefficient weapon.
An incredibly dangerous weapon.
And apparently—
an incredibly effective one.
The footsteps approached.
Voices became audible.
The bandits were not even trying to hide.
I suppose thirty-five people tends to inspire confidence.
Then Old Shard muttered:
"Go bother someone else."
And threw the cauldron.
The explosion nearly made me jump out of my skin.
A deafening crack echoed across the desert.
The lid launched into the night sky.
A cloud of white vapor erupted outward.
Not ordinary steam.
Superheated steam.
Mixed with enough spices to weaponize an entire kitchen.
The wind carried everything directly toward the approaching bandits.
The screaming started almost immediately.
Some fell.
Some rolled on the ground.
Some attempted to run while coughing violently.
Most accomplished both simultaneously.
Within moments the entire group was retreating.
Nobody pursued them.
Nobody needed to.
The desert became quiet again.
I slowly turned toward Old Shard.
He simply sat back down.
As though nothing unusual had happened.
Meanwhile Spathian stared into the darkness.
Then quietly murmured:
"Latent Energy..."
I blinked.
Because that was exactly what I had been thinking.
Ryn looked equally stunned.
Which honestly made me feel better.
At least I was not the only one confused.
Old Shard ignored all of us.
Then calmly asked whether anyone wanted more stew.
I finally understand something.
When I first met Old Shard, I thought he was an appraiser.
Then I learned he was an Artifact Master.
After the Infinity Bag incident, I began believing it.
Tonight—
I believe it even more.
In fact, I am beginning to suspect something deeply concerning.
I do not think Old Shard has been serious yet.
Not even once.
And somehow—
that possibility feels much more frightening than the bandits.
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