At first, James had thought he was dead and in heaven. A bed? Good food? No monsters?

What else could it be?

He would have liked to just enjoy it, to just lay back on the bed and sleep and wake and continue to let life carry him by passively.

No. No. He had been through entirely too much to do that. Choosing his Class foolishly. Not taking his self-defense seriously. Not trying harder to run away from the slavers. Not trying to escape the Dungeon sooner. Wasting his time frivolously on being sad and depressed, until he was out of food and had to take bigger and bigger risks.

He sat at the desk with the paper and ink and quill in front of him, to help him better organize his thoughts. He would have liked to write to his parents, or the Baron, or Jared, or even Meridox, but his trial was tomorrow even if he knew where to have the letter sent.

The Smith didn't sleep that night. Instead, he faced his problems head on and thought about them.

His goal was clear: return home. But it was far, far out of his reach.

His situation was in some sense dire: he was imprisoned and surrounded by people. People with combat classes. He had feared nothing more since his Choosing Day, even when in the Dungeon, even facing starvation. His time in the slave camp had scarred him.

But this was different.

He was in some strange Kingdom, true, but these weren't criminals, bandits, outcasts. There was a law, and though he was imprisoned, he was being provided food and shelter.

And truth be told, that did count for a lot. Only those who have truly been deprived can appreciate the difference between imprisoned and sheltered, and how much worse one could be treated.

Still, he had no armor, no hammer, no forge, no materials, absolutely nothing to defend himself beyond his own body and the Skills in his Classes. And he was accused of crimes. Attacking a Knight, and theft.

The magic bag.

Technically… technically, it had been theft. If only by seconds, before the merchant Coin, one of the slavers who took the slave-mined iron and sold it and bought supplies for the camp, was slaughtered by monsters. James had not won the bag by right of conquest, nor taken it voluntarily. He had snatched it off the ground as he ran and a minute later, he was trapped in the Dungeon.

Fine. But most of what was in the bag was indisputably his: he had mined the materials himself, forged the items himself, and enchanted them himself. The monsters he had slain himself, and so their materials also belonged to him.

As for assaulting the Knight, he just couldn't remember. His memories were vague after finally killing that damn tentacle monster, hiding in its pool of water until his heating strips had boiled it to death. There had been some kind of stone golem…

He looked down at his left arm, now whole again. He remembered it mangled and broken.

And his right hand was restored, once again fully dexterous and sensitive.

Elixir. He had heard of it, but only in stories. Honestly, he hadn't thought it a real thing. A potion that could restore someone to perfect health, even from the brink of death?

And apparently, one had been used on him.

He had no choice but to believe it. The evidence was overwhelming.

In that sense, he owed a debt. His life had been saved, at the cost of a treasure.

After thinking, three things were clear to James: the magic bag was technically stolen, but the goods inside were his; he didn't recall assaulting a Knight; and he did owe his life to whoever had used an Elixir on him.

Now, how to get from here, in this situation, to where he wanted to be: home?

That… he didn't know.

The candle guttered, nearly fully spent. He replaced it with a new candle from the box before the flame went out and resumed thinking.

James knew very little of the law, in his own Kingdom and in this new place. But there was to be a trial: law and order were taken seriously here, rather than just the tyranny of strength. A large debt was owed, and finally, James was in fact a Smith and Enchanter.

Jared had said Smiths never went hungry.

Meridox had said that Enchanters were always in demand.

Even the slavers hadn't simply killed James, despite trying to run repeatedly. Instead, they had made use of him, first for his simple labor and strength; later, for his smithing.

Before his abduction, he had tried to hide his weakness, his lack of a combat class. That hadn't helped. Suppose, instead, he played to his strength? He had sworn an oath about his second class, but Smiths were still valuable.

A knock at the door startled James out of his thoughts.

"Sir, your breakfast," Clara said through the door.

James cleared his throat. "Yes, come in."

She entered, the door closing behind her as she carried a tray of some kind of porridge, more bread, and another carafe of water. James smiled at her, "Thank you, Clara."

Clara hesitated a moment, looking him up and down as he sat at the desk with most of the paper covered in scribbles, before she set the tray down and tidied up the papers.

Once she had them all in hand, she gave them a glance and turned back to James. "Er, did you write a letter to someone?"

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"No," James replied through a mouthful of bread. "I was organizing my thoughts."

Clara wondered what kind of mind would produce such chaotic and illegible notes, but knew better than to comment.

She waited as the prisoner ate vigorously, almost like the other wretches did in the regular prison cells. Yesterday, he had eaten as though savoring every bite.

Soon he was finished, gulping down every last bit of water in the carafe. He turned to her, remaining seated.

"The trial is this morning, right?"

"Yes… sir, it is," she replied.

"And I'm on trial for assaulting a Knight and theft of a…" he trailed off and flipped through the papers she had stacked up on the edge of the desk. "a Holding Bag?"

"Bag of Holding," she corrected. The young man with strangely light hair and piercing blue eyes scribbled a new note on a piece of paper. She hadn't noticed the light in his eyes before. She wondered why…

"A Bag of Holding, okay. And do you know who it belongs to?"

"Uh, no sir." He paused at that, and looked up, meeting her eyes.

"It wasn't a man who went by 'Coin,' was it?"

"Huh? I don't know."

"Hmm." He made another note on the paper.

"Okay," he continued, "you mentioned an Elixir yesterday."

"Yes, sir."

"And someone used that Elixir on me, clearly."

"Er, I believe so, sir, before you… arrived here."

His gaze met hers again, almost pinning her in place with its intensity. Hadn't he said he wasn't a noble yesterday?

"Whose was it?"

"Huh?"

"The Elixir, whose was it?"

"Uh…" Clara trailed off as she thought. "I don't know for certain, but I believe only Knights of the realm carry Elixirs."

"A Knight, then?"

"I think so…" The man flipped through his papers again, then froze.

He turned back to her, looking slightly pale.

"The Knight Commander…?" he asked.

But Clara merely shook her head. "I don't know, sir."

The man found a clean space on one of the pages and readied his quill. "Okay, now I'm accused of assaulting the Knight Commander. Did I hurt him?"

Clara shook her head. "I don't know."

He frowned. "Did I hurt anyone?"

"I don't know."

He made a short note.

Clara was relieved when a knock at the door interrupted the man's questions.

"Clara, is the guest ready for his meeting with the Lord Magistrate?" An older gentleman's polite, but firm, voice came through the door.

"Y-yes, Mr. Steward!" she replied, stuttering slightly.

The blonde man stood up, nearly a head taller than Clara. She was struck by how broad his shoulders were, even though he was rather thin. He nodded at her.

"Thank you, Clara."

The door opened, and two guards slipped into the room. The blonde man flinched, before standing up straight again.

He was escorted away, and Clara started cleaning the table, noting that papers, quill, and inkpot had all been taken.

James was taken, flanked by two guards and following the steward, clutching his papers and quill and ink, out the door, down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, past a desk manned by a young, dark-brown-haired man, out a door, and into the blinding sunlight.

James hesitated, marveling at the sun which he hadn't seen in over a year, before a guard prompted him to keep moving.

The walked across a dirt courtyard, surrounded by buildings, up to the fanciest if not largest building. The Steward turned around and faced James then.

He was an older gentleman, but he stood ramrod straight and his hazel eyes belied a sharp mind. His grey hair was impeccably styled, and he wore clean, tailored clothes, and shoes polished to a shine such that James could see the sky reflected in them.

He held out his hand.

"I will carry those for you, sir."

James hesitated, but the man's tone brooked no argument.

And yet…

"These are my notes for the meeting." James stressed the word the Steward had used, even though he knew he was going to a trial. He didn't hand over the paper, nor the inkpot or quill.

"Hey!" one of the guards raised his voice, but the gentleman's eyes flicked to the man, silencing him with a glance, before turning back to James.

His eyes narrowed.

Finally, after a few long seconds, he spoke.

"Very well, but you're on your honor. Attempting to cause harm with those will cost you your life."

James nearly snorted at the thought that he, with no combat classes, could harm anyone. Instead, he nodded, and they continued inside, the guards glaring daggers at him.

They came to a door and entered a room with a high ceiling. There were rows and rows of fancy, cushioned chairs along every wall, and there was a desk in an open space in the center, separated from the chairs by a low, wooden wall at roughly waist height. In the back of the room was an elevated platform, with more chairs, and a desk set higher than even those, with even fancier chairs. Though there were five seats, only two were occupied. In the center seat was a man wearing black robes, with long, white, curled hair past his shoulders. He had sharp eyes and a slightly large but perfectly straight nose. His cheeks were full, and his lips pressed together in a thin line. To his right sat a shorter man, with short, black hair styled neatly if simply. He had a strong jaw and a thick neck, and he wore some kind of red shirt with a golden… something on the front. It looked almost like some kind of animal? James wasn't sure. But he could tell even through the shirt that the man was well built, if not quite as large as Jared, the Smith from his village, was.

James was sat down at the table in the center, facing the two men sitting above him. The guards stood behind him. The Steward moved to stand off to the side by the strong-looking man. The man in the center narrowed his eyes at James, his gaze flicking to the papers and quill and inkpot, before glaring at James directly.

"This court is now in session. You stand accused of assault and grand theft. State your name and Classes."

The man's voice had a weight to it, promising judgment.

James looked up at him, and answered.

"I am James, son of Stephen and Helen. My Class is Smith."

The man narrowed his eyes further.

"State your second Class."

"No."

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