It was also where she found most of her work.
She preferred it this way. No paperwork, no waiting list, no status requirements. Just a name, a task, and a payout. She’d built a quiet reputation here—not heroic, but reliable. Fast. Discreet. The kind of courier who didn’t ask questions and didn’t come back late.
Her fingers brushed across the edge of one parchment, tilting it to read beneath a corner that had curled from rain. A few familiar job types dotted the board:
-
“Help needed: firewood split and stacked before first frost. Pay in coin and stew.”
-
“Seeking someone to run letters between two market stalls. Must be quick and not prone to gossip.”
-
“Short-term assistant wanted to help inventory magical wares. No touchy.”
She skimmed past the messier ones—requests to scare off rodents, track down missing cats, or deliver love letters to someone “not supposed to know where they came from.”
Then one caught her eye.
-
“Need runner to retrieve tailor’s order from East District and deliver to high-street client. Deadline strict. Payment upfront.”
Simple. Quick. Local. The sort of job that didn’t get her killed or dragged into things better left alone.
Tessa’s gaze flicked to a heavier post near the bottom: triple the pay, but the words “sewer access required” and “risk of magical residue” were underlined twice. She stepped away from that one immediately.
She’d made that mistake once.
Her fingers lingered on the parchment with the tailor’s job. Reliable pay. Steady work. A job that wouldn’t get her cursed, chased, or mugged by someone looking for a magical inheritance.
Exactly what she needed.
Tessa tugged the parchment free, folded it into quarters, and slipped it into her satchel.
Her fingers tapped against the strap as she did the math in her head.
Tailor’s order pickup: East District.
Client drop-off: High Street, probably the merchant quarter near the fountains.
Time: early-morning, sun’s a hand past the roofs.
Shift at the stables: Starts at third bell. No leeway.
She had—roughly—an hour and twenty, give or take five if she cut corners.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. Just enough, if she ran smart.
She closed her eyes briefly and mapped the route in her head. Not the main roads—those would be packed, especially with market carts this time of day. She needed the side alleys. The crack behind the spice vendor’s stall. The back walk near the dye yards where the stone was slippery but shaves fifteen minutes off the climb to High Street if you hit it just right.
She exhaled through her nose and started moving, boots thudding in the quiet rhythm of someone who didn’t need to guess where she was going.
A pair of mounted couriers passed her as she turned onto a side road—one on a lean, long-legged lizard, the other on a sleek mana-touched elk that shimmered faintly in the light.
She watched them disappear ahead, fast and effortless, and felt a familiar ache rise in her chest.
If she had a mount license, she could ride Larry on the roads. She wouldn’t have to sprint everywhere on foot, like she was always five steps behind the rest of the world. Larry was fast—dangerously fast when he wanted to be—but without the license, she'd risk fines or impound just stepping onto a main route with him at her side.
Her fingers twitched with the thought.
It wasn’t just the license. It was the paperwork. The training fees. The inspection bribes. It was more money than she made in a month of patchwork commissions and basic courier jobs. More than she could ever save when half her earnings disappeared into basic food and bird feed the minute she got paid.
She toyed with the idea—just for a breath. Maybe she could start setting a little aside. A coin here. A coin there.
Then reality grounded her again like cold stone underfoot.
She was already skipping meals twice a week just to keep Larry properly fed. There was no margin left. Not unless she started cutting from things that already barely held together.
She shook her head once, sharply, like she could knock the fantasy loose.
Run first. Think later.
The city blurred past her as she ran—stone underfoot, sun on her back, breath tight in her chest. The air was thick with the scents of baked bread, animal dung, and a dozen kinds of smoke. Her feet slapped the cobbles with practiced rhythm, each stride clean, measured, and just shy of punishing.
[Stat Growth: Vitality - Increased by 1]
This was the one benefit of running everywhere.
She couldn’t afford gear enchantments or a fancy training regimen like the Adventuring Guild types, but the system didn’t care about prestige. It rewarded effort—eventually.
She didn’t know what the exact threshold was. But she felt it every time she pushed through the ache and got that faint little ping in her vision—the tiniest nod from the world that all her effort wasn’t wasted.
Just enough to matter. Just enough to keep going.
She turned sharply into a narrow alley, dodging an overturned crate and leaping a puddle that stank of dye runoff and rot. Her breath burned in her throat, but she didn’t slow.
Halfway through, she flicked her fingers in the air and pulled up her status menu.
Name: Tessa Goljen
First Class: Patchwork Crafter [Level: 14]
Second Class: none
[Strenght: 14]
[Vitality: 30]
[Dexterity: 19]
[Wisdom: 10]
[Intelligence: 8]
[Luck: 42]
Health: 290/300
Mana: 50/50
Stamina: 125/128
[Class Skills:] Quick Mend (L10), Threadbind (L8), Tinker Touch (L6), Emergency Pin (L4)
Tessa exhaled through her teeth and dismissed the menu with a twitch of her fingers. Fourteen.
Still fourteen.
It had been years since she’d leveled. Literal years.
She hated to admit it, but sometimes—quietly—she regretted choosing an Artisan class. Everyone else her age had chosen a combat class, flashy and with a quick way to level. She had fabric, needles, and a specialization in not dying poor.
The thought lingered at the edge of her mind, sticky and bitter.
She shoved it away.
There was no point dwelling on it. She couldn’t change her class, couldn’t reset the system, couldn’t start over. So why waste the energy?
She leaned into the next turn and kept running.
The street narrowed into a tight bend between two buildings. Laundry flapped above her head, ghostly shirts and dresses twisting in the breeze. Her boots splashed through a shallow puddle of something that smelled faintly of fish and ink, but she didn’t slow.
Two more turns. One stair climb. Then the tailor’s shop.
She glanced at a city time-marker embedded in the stone wall as she passed it. The enchantment glowed faintly.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
[06:51]
Still on schedule.
Her breath rasped in her chest, but the rhythm felt good—familiar. She'd been running these streets long enough for the pain to dull into background noise. Besides, every delivery kept her moving. Every job meant another coin, another meal, another piece of thread. She couldn’t afford to stop.
Her satchel bounced at her side, the buckle clicking with each stride. She'd reinforced the strap herself two weeks ago. The stitchwork was uneven, but strong.
As she cleared the stairs and emerged onto the narrow street where the tailor’s shop perched like a button on the edge of a jacket, she slowed to a jog, then a walk. Her legs ached. Her breath caught on the back of her tongue.
She took a moment to catch it.
The shop was marked by a faded blue awning and a row of mannequins in various states of repair behind the window. One of them wore a full formal uniform with a black velvet collar and gold trim—definitely not for anyone Tessa knew.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. The bell above the frame let out a weak, tired chime.
The tailor barely looked up from his counter. He was bent over a bolt of fabric, pale light from a rune-lamp catching the edges of his spectacles.
“You the runner?” he asked without looking.
“Yep,” Tessa said, brushing loose hair from her face.
He gestured to a wrapped package already tied and labeled. “That goes to Merchant Viressi. High Street. She’s expecting it before seven.”
Tessa blinked. “It’s almost seven now.”
“Then I suggest you run faster than you did getting here.”
She bit her tongue before a sharp retort could slip out. Instead, she took the payment, took the package, checked the name twice, and tucked it both into her satchel.
“I’ll make it,” she said, already turning.
“Hope so. She doesn’t tip late couriers.”
The door shut behind her before he finished the sentence.
Back on the street, she glanced up the slope toward High Street. The crowds were heavier here, and the incline would slow her down.
Still… she could make it.
If she sprinted.
Tessa adjusted her satchel strap, squared her shoulders, and took off again—boots slamming the stone, lungs tightening, mind already mapping the fastest route to the merchant’s villa.
Her breath came hard as she pushed up the slope toward High Street, the weight of the package pulling slightly at her shoulder. Her boots hit the edge of the paving stones, then the smoother inlay of the merchant quarter. The change in road texture meant she was close.
Closer.
She veered off the main path, slipping through a narrower alley between a florist and a closed-up lamp shop. She could avoid the bulk of the early crowd that way. Her knees protested the incline, but she ignored it.
As she emerged into a side square just below High Street, she nearly collided with a group coming out of a potion shop. She stepped back fast, ducking behind a pillar, just enough to not get run into—or noticed.
An adventuring party.
Three of them, all young, maybe a few years older than her. The kind of people who chose Warrior or Rogue or Mage and could show it off. One had a sword half his height strapped across his back. Another wore reinforced leather with sigil-laced bracers. The last was in chainmail that gleamed under sunlight, though it had obvious dents along the arms.
She lingered, catching her breath as they talked loudly, laughing about something from their last run—something that had apparently ended with a “splatter so big it hit the healer.”
Tessa’s eyes didn’t go to the people.
They went to the gear.
The armor. The weapons. The spell-slinging rings and sharpened knives. Tools of survival—and more importantly, Experinece point machines, if they’d been crafted or modified by someone like her.
If she’d made that leather guard? Repaired that chainmail? Reinforced that sword grip?
Her mind filled with experince gain notifications, unbidden. The kind she hadn’t seen in years.
That kind of party would pull in dozens of fights in a week. Monsters. Bandits. Maybe even dungeon creatures. The right piece of gear could gain her more experinece point in an afternoon than she scraped together in a month of patching saddles and hoping they get into a fight.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
They probably had a Maker’s Guild-certified outfitter. Someone with a dedicated workshop and better tools. Someone who didn’t use hand-me-down needles and bargain-bin thread.
Still…
She eyed the chipped edge of one of the swords. The loosened strap on the mage’s gear.
They could use her work.
They just didn’t know it.
And she didn’t have time to convince them.
Tessa took a breath, looked away, and kept running. Her time wasn’t hers—not yet. It belonged to the package bouncing in her satchel and the merchant who wouldn’t tip if she was late.
One day, she thought. One day, they’ll wear my gear. And I’ll level for it.
She turned up the last stair set toward the villa, lungs burning, sweat slicking her back. The crowd thickened, but she slipped through them.
High Street loomed ahead, polished and gleaming like a part of the city that had never seen a cracked stone in its life.
Almost there.
And still on time.
The merchant’s villa sat quiet and immaculate at the top of the slope, its pale stone walls catching the soft blush of sunrise. Vines coiled neatly up the outer columns, more decorative than wild, like everything in this part of the city—trimmed, deliberate, expensive.
Tessa climbed the final step to the landing, shifting her satchel to pull the package free. Her legs still burned from the run, but her breath had steadied, and the morning air was cool on her skin.
A servant stood near the door, arms folded behind his back, watching passersby with the disinterested expression of someone who’d long since stopped seeing them. When Tessa approached, his eyes flicked toward her—not curious, not dismissive, just registering her presence like he would a delivery cart or street lamp.
“Courier?” he asked.
Tessa nodded. “For Merchant Viressi. From the tailor on West Linen Row.”
He glanced at the small time crystal set into the stone frame of the door. It glowed faintly.
[06:57]
“You’re early,” he said, with a hint of surprise. “Delivery was scheduled by seven sharp.”
Tessa held out the package. “I aim to be early.”
He accepted it, checking the label with a glance before retreating briefly into the villa. When he returned, he held out a silver coin between two fingers.
“The merchant appreciates punctuality.”
Tessa blinked, then took it, the coin cold and satisfyingly solid in her palm.
Her chest lifted just a bit. One silver. Just for being early. That was more than what the job had paid outright.
It was enough to feed Larry properly for the day and maybe buy herself something more than stale bread and bean paste. The could use the rest to buy more material.
She tucked the coin into her satchel with care, like it might vanish if she wasn’t gentle.
As she stepped back onto the street and the villa door shut quietly behind her, a thought took root—small, stubborn, and sharp-edged.
Wealthy people tipped.
She’d always gone for the quick jobs, the ones that paid fast and didn’t ask questions. But maybe it was worth rerouting her focus. If she could land more runs to high-end clients—merchants, minor nobles, estate staff—then maybe she could stitch together a better future with tips alone.
Courier work was supposed to be just a means to an end. But if it could get her closer to material, gear … she’d take it seriously.
Tessa turned down a quieter street, letting the morning rush drift behind her. The silver coin in her satchel felt heavier than it should—not just because of its worth, but what it meant.
A little breathing room.
Not much. But enough for breakfast.
She took a detour toward the lower market, where the cobbles were chipped and the food stalls set up early to catch laborers before their shifts. The smells were already thick in the air—fried dough, boiling grain, roasting roots.
Tessa bypassed the sweet stuff and went straight to a familiar stall tucked between a cart repair shack and a cloth vendor’s awning. A woman with rolled sleeves and soot-streaked arms was flipping flatbread on a dented iron pan.
“Morning,” Tessa said.
The woman grunted in greeting. “Usual?”
“Extra spoon of beans please.”
The woman looked her up and down, then gave a single nod and scooped a ladleful of spiced beans onto a thick piece of flatbread. A second scoop followed, unspoken.
Tessa handed over a copper and two tin, and took the hot, folded meal with both hands.
She moved off to the side and sat on the edge of a wide, dry fountain, legs stretched in front of her as the bread warmed her palms. She took the first bite slowly, letting the heat and salt hit her all at once.
It wasn’t fancy. But it was warm. Hearty. Earned.
She ate in big, quiet bites, wiping her fingers on a corner of her shirt. The city was waking now, voices rising, carts rattling over stone, birds screeching above.
As she stood and brushed crumbs from her shirt, she patted the side of her satchel and headed toward the east side—where the butchers worked early and sold cheap.
The air turned heavier as she walked, thick with iron and smoke and the low, wet scent of fresh meat. She ducked under a slatted awning and found a familiar stall half-shaded from the morning sun. Behind the counter, a broad man in a bloodstained apron was sorting piles of offcut.
“Morning, girl,” he said without looking. “Larry still alive?”
“Thinks he’s a guard dog,” Tessa replied. “And a noble’s pet. Got anything chewy?”
“For him or you?”
“Unfortunately, him.”
He chuckled and jerked his chin toward a basket behind the stall. “Fresh today. Liver, kidney, scrap fat, bit of tendon. No rot.”
She stepped closer and inspected the lot—still glistening, nothing crawling. Good enough.
“How much?”
“For you?” He scratched his neck. “Three copper.”
She didn’t haggle. She handed it over.
He wrapped the meat in heavy wax paper and handed it to her. “Feed that bird well and he’ll outgrow your bad luck.”
“I’m counting on it,” she said, tucking the bundle carefully into the bottom of her satchel.
As she turned to go, the words lingered.
Bad luck.
Her lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
Luck was, technically, her highest stat—not by much, but still. The system had given her a flat [Luck: 42] at birth and it had never changed. She couldn’t train it. Couldn’t shift points into it. Couldn’t do anything with it.
Everyone said high Luck was a blessing.
She wasn’t sure what part of her life they were looking at when they said that.
It had never caught her a windfall. Never helped her dodge a blow. Never landed her a rare item or one of those strange random skill scrolls that people in tavern stories always stumbled across behind waterfalls or in monster dens.
Vitality helped her run. Dexterity let her stitch. Her endurance is what carried her through twelve-hour days on her feet.
Luck?
Luck just sat there. Offering nothing.
She shook her head and rolled her eyes at herself.
Nevermind. Not worth thinking about.
She adjusted the strap on her satchel and headed out of the market square, boots hitting the cobbles with a bit more weight now with meat pressed against her side.
As she walked, her thoughts drifted briefly back to the butcher.
He was a retired adventurer. Used to wield a war axe, or so the story went—split open a dire bear once, or maybe it was a forest drake. The details shifted depending on who was telling it, and he never confirmed anything himself.
And now?
He ran a stall chopping bones and scraping fat in the blood-slick corner of the lower market.
Tessa found that… strange.
Not bad. Just strange.
Adventurers usually retired into the Guild system, became instructors, opened up enchanted gear shops or taverns. Something with polish and a signboard, not a rack of organs and fly swatters.
But then again, maybe he liked it.
Or maybe it was all he could afford.
Either way, who was she to judge?
She had a crafting class and spent most of her time running letters between people too rich to carry them themselves. At least his knife stayed sharp.
Her own knife, tucked into the side pocket of her satchel, was dull enough to be insulting. Not useless, not yet, but barely serviceable. It was one of those cheap fold-open utility things meant for slicing cord and cutting meat, not surviving anything with teeth.
She didn’t even carry it for defense anymore. Just utility.
If something came at her, she'd be more likely to throw something at them and run.
She did own one weapon, though. A hand crossbow, small enough to tuck under her arm, light enough for someone like her to actually hold steady. Her mother had insisted she learn to use it, just in case.
[Skill: Crossbow Handling — Level 3]
She hadn’t leveled it in years.
Not since her mother had taken her outside the walls, just once, to train. They’d set up bottles and old boots in the grass. Tessa had hit two out of five targets, cried from the kickback, and then insisted she could do better. Her mom had laughed and said she’d make a hunter out of her yet.
That was before everything changed.
Since then, the crossbow had stayed under her cot, wrapped in oil cloth. The bolts she had left weren’t even fletched right anymore. She hadn’t dared take it on a run. Not inside the city. Not where it might make someone nervous.
She thought about leveling the skill again sometimes. Crafting her own bolts. Making a light harness for Larry to carry it. But outside the walls?
There was no reason to go.