And so the Smith was taken from his home,

and heated in the flames of the camp of slaves,

and pounded and forged in the depths of the Dungeon,

quenched in healing waters of Elixir,

and taken into the service of the Aspirant Knight,

to be honed and his skill perfected.

-The Legend of the Smith, banned from publication and performance throughout the world by order of His Holy Majesty, Imperator Supreme Immanuel III of the Holy Rhingian Empire; returned to publication in the second year of the Carolite Republic before being once again banned in the twenty-third year of the Republic, following an increase in death and a resurgence of slavery in the population of young men.

—

James awoke screaming, disoriented.

He couldn't feel his wards.

He wasn't wearing his armor.

None of his hammers were nearby.

He jerked his head back and forth, looking for his magic bag, but it was nowhere to be found. He tried to leap to his feet, but his feet caught on something soft, tangled in a blanket, and he fell out of bed onto a wooden floor covered in a thin, but soft, rug covered in geometric patterns.

James pushed himself up with his hands and mastered his voice, falling once again silent. For another long moment, tangled up in blankets, with the lower half of his body above him still on the bed and his upper body below on the floor, he had eyes for nothing but his magic bag.

Where was it? Not under the bed, he could see. Not in the shadowy corners of this side of the room, glazed blue and white tiles on the wall rising from the floor several feet before a carved wooden runner marked the beginning of faded salmon-pink wallpaper.

The ceiling was utterly lacking in glowshrooms and fireshrooms, merely unadorned wooden planks.

James kicked and after a long, too long, terrifying moment, freed his legs and he skittered on all fours to the corner of the room, a more defensible position, and looked around.

He couldn't see any monsters.

But that didn't mean much: he knew that sometimes the monsters couldn't be seen.

To his left was a bed, with sheets hanging off to the side where he had pulled them. Across from him was a door, made of wood, which was odd because doors in the Dungeon were all made of metal, but the door was wood with a little barred window at the top, and beyond the bars was more wood.

There was no handle on the door.

To the right of the door was a desk, with a box of candles, lid open, and the light source of the room: a short candle holder containing a squat, lit candle, flame steady if a bit dim, providing enough illumination for the desk and to see about the room. From his lower position, James couldn't see what else might be on the desk, but there was a also a spindly chair with a slightly worn cushion.

James' breathing started to slow. He had never seen a cushioned chair like that before. That kind of luxury existed only for the upper classes, the wealthy…

What was a desk and chair doing in a Dungeon?

The rest of the room was empty.

Slowly, James stood, keeping his back to the walls in the corner. He ran his hands along the tiles and wooden runner and wallpaper to his sides, trailing his fingers over them, feeling the different textures—

He froze, realizing that he could feel with his hands.

His hands.

The smooth tile and slightly rough wood under the fingers of his numb right hand.

The wallpaper covering smooth wood under the fingers of his mangled left hand.

He looked down and brought his hands up to his face in the dim light.

They were whole again. Tears filled his eyes and he brought his hands up to his face, reveling in the feel of his face, his smooth skin, his eyes and nose, the stubble on his jaw—

He froze again.

Stubble on his jaw?

Clean, smooth skin? No greasy dirt and soot smeared everywhere?

He hadn't been this clean since he'd been abducted from his village.

There was a knock at the door and James flinched terribly, hands dashing for the opening of his magic bag, to draw his hammer and shield, but he only felt empty air at his hip.

"Good day to you, sir, are you ready to take your lunch?"

A young woman's voice came through the door, slightly muffled.

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James jaw opened and closed, and he coughed, choking slightly, as his throat tried to remember how to talk.

A hoarse croak was all that came out.

"Sir? Sir, are you alright?"

The shutter covering the barred window in the door was swung up and out of the way, and a young woman with tanned skin and black hair and dark brown, nearly black eyes peered in. Her gaze first swept the bed before quickly flicking to where James stood in the corner.

He flinched, hands again sweeping the air and knocking slightly into the walls, failing to find his magic bag.

The woman's expression lightened slightly, some of the concern but not all of it fading away at the sight of James standing.

"Oh good, it seems the Elixir is as miraculous as they say, if you're already out of bed." She frowned at James' lack of response, and her eyes darted to his trembling hands before rising again to his face. "Is anything wrong? Do you need me to fetch the doctor?"

There was one word that caught James' attention fully, and managed to draw forth human speech from his lips again after so long alone.

"...Elixir?" he said, voice cracking.

He looked down at his hands, his working hands, unblemished. He finally noticed the sleeves covering his arms, loose linen making up a shirt with a low v-cut, and holes for string to close the shirt, but the string was missing. He was also wearing loose pants of a slightly thicker fabric, tied at the waist with some string, but his feet were bare.

"Sir, do you want me to fetch the doctor?" the woman repeated from beyond the door.

James gulped, cleared his throat, and looked back up at her.

"Where am I?"

The woman brought in a tray with bread and soup, as well as a carafe of cool water and a glazed ceramic cup. She set his place at the desk, though this merely consisted of placing a cloth napkin and spoon next to the ceramic bowl of soup, and then stepped back, placed her hands in front of her waist, and bowed politely.

The young woman introduced herself as Clara, and as James' attendant for so long as he was a 'guest' of the Knight's Order in the city of Corto, in the Kingdom of Iberteria.

None of this meant anything to James at the time.

And though James struggled to remember, he couldn't recall the name of the kingdom of his birth, nor the name of his village.

"My parents are Farmer Stephen and Homemaker Helen," he explained, and as he did the young woman visibly relaxed.

"Oh, so you're not a noble, eh?"

"Er, no, I'm not," James admitted.

"Well, eat up then." She gestured at the bread and soup. James started eating, and tears sprung to his eyes.

It tasted so good!

It was the best thing he'd eaten in what felt like years.

The thought stayed in his head as he gobbled up the food, down to the last crumb, and he turned back to Clara.

"What season is it?" he asked.

Clara tilted her head at him and made a puzzled expression. "The season? Spring. The equinox just passed."

James was struck dumb. Spring? He had had his Choosing Day on his fifteenth birthday, in Spring. He had then been abducted and enslaved until nearly winter, when the slave camp had been attacked by monsters. And he had been in the Dungeon ever since.

And it had certainly been more than just a few months.

But had he really spent more than an entire year in the Dungeon?

He had lost track of time, especially at the end. He could barely remember his fight against the stone golem, or the creatures that had attacked him after.

"Do you need anything else, sir?" Clara had, at some point, cleared away the tray and wiped the desktop clean. "If not, I will return with supper, and if you need anything before then, you can just call through door to the posted guard. There is paper and ink in the desk if you wish to write a letter."

James remained sitting at the desk as she left, staring at his hands in the candlelight, and thought.

Eventually, he stood up, and called through the door. "H-hello?"

The shutter lifted, and a man's face peered through the bars. "Yeah, what is it?" he replied gruffly.

"Do you know what happened to my things? My armor, my hammers, and my bag?"

The man snorted. He had thick eyebrows and a bushy mustache that twitched as his expression changed. "Your bag, is it? Uh huh, sure. The Commander is holding them."

James breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, good. Well, I'd like to go get them, if that's alright."

"Hah! 'If that's alright' he says. No, it's not alright. You'll stay here in your cell until your trial tomorrow."

"Huh? Wait, trial?"

"Oh yes, your trial. Theft and assaulting the Knight Commander. Enjoy that cell while you can, because your next cell won't be nearly so nice, heheh…"

The shutter slammed down, and James could hear the man move about on the other side of the door.

Some time later, Clara returned, bringing more bread and a stew with chunks of beef in it. James' voice was working better as he got used to talking, and she stayed for quite some time after he finished eating, answering his questions.

Clara was a Maid working for the Knight's Order. Some dozen Knights were stationed here in this town, backing up the local town guard and keeping the peace out here on the Kingdom's border. There was no Baron here, like in James' home: instead, there was a Magistrate who governed the town and reported to a Count who lived somewhere else. None of the directions Clara gave, or other city names, meant anything to James, although he did remember the name of the town they were in: Corto.

She had said he was a guest before, but when asked explained that he was really in a prison, though in the nicest cell they had, for nobles, just in case since they didn't know if he was a noble before he woke up.

"I don't know about assaulting the Knight Commander," she explained, "but the theft charge is some Legendary Artifact." James could hear the capitalization in the way she said the words. "What was it, anyway? And where did you take it from?"

James shook his head. "I didn't steal anything." He explained about his abduction, and being trapped in the Dungeon, and how he didn't remember much after his fight with the golem.

Clara listened politely, but shook her head once he finished. "A Dungeon? With no traps? And alone? For over a year? Nobody will believe that, sir. You'll need to come up with a better story."

James frowned, almost pouting. "It's true, though."

"And what's your second Class, anyway? How did a Smith manage to fight his way through an entire Dungeon, forward and back?"

James flashed back to his Choosing Day, and his parents' distraught faces as they made him swear on their lives never to tell anyone that his second class was Enchanter.

"I… I can't say what my second Class is."

Clara's expression cooled. "I see." She cleared the desk again and left the room, but she peered back in through the barred window in the door.

"Your trial with the Magistrate and the Knight Commander is tomorrow morning. I hope you can come up with a better story by then, sir Smith."

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