Chapter 5: Pots, Questions, First Spark
Morning light slanted through the small window in sharp, dusty bars. Ellie woke exactly at 5:47 a.m.—body clock, not alarm. The mattress had left a faint grid pattern on her back; she noted it, filed it, and ignored it.
She laced the new boots. They creaked once, then settled. Better grip on wood floors. Progress.
Downstairs, the kitchen was already alive. Mara shoved a wooden bucket and brush into her hands without preamble.
"Same as yesterday. Double pots today—supply run tomorrow, need everything spotless."
Ellie nodded. No negotiation needed.
She worked the sink for three hours straight. Steam rose. Soap suds popped against calluses she hadn't had twenty-four hours ago. The dampener kept blisters at bay; she scrubbed anyway, testing limits. Repetition built muscle memory. Muscle memory might save her life later.
Ryn appeared around the ninth pot, carrying a tray of dirty trenchers from the common room.
"Still alive," he observed.
"Still scrubbing," she replied.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Heard Garrick's crew talking last night. They say you're quiet as death and twice as stubborn."
Ellie rinsed a cauldron. Water sluiced black. "Accurate."
"You really kill a wolf with that pitcher?"
She lifted it from the sideboard where she'd left it overnight—dent still visible, blood long since flaked off.
"Yes."
Ryn whistled low. "Show me how."
Ellie set the cauldron down. Picked up the pitcher. Demonstrated the upward thrust she'd used under the wolf's jaw—slow, precise, no wasted motion.
Ryn's eyes widened. "That's… nasty efficient."
"Physics," she said. "Leverage. Momentum."
He laughed. "You talk like a maester, fight like a back-alley thug. Where'd you learn?"
"Nowhere. Instinct."
"Bullshit."
Ellie shrugged. Returned to scrubbing.
Mid-morning a new notification blinked in her periphery.
[Repetitive Labor detected. Minor skill unlocked: Basic Endurance (Passive)]+5% stamina regeneration while performing manual tasks.+1 VIT (permanent)
She paused long enough to read it fully. Then resumed.
Useful.
By noon her arms burned in a distant, academic way. Mara tossed her another silver and a heel of rye bread.
"Eat. You're no good to me fainting."
Ellie tore into the bread. Chewed. Swallowed. Fuel.
Ryn lingered again. "Got questions?"
"Yes."
"Shoot."
She wiped her hands on her trousers—borrowed from the inn's lost-and-found bin, too big, cinched with twine.
"Magic. How common?"
Ryn blinked. "Common enough you don't gawk at every spark. Rare enough most folk never cast a proper spell. Academy in the upper quarter trains the rich ones. Hedge mages in the alleys do small tricks for coin. Healers. Fire-starters. Illusion weavers for taverns."
"System users?"
He frowned. "System?"
Ellie realized the slip. Adjusted. "People with… floating instructions. Blue boxes. Quests."
Ryn laughed. "You mean blessed by the gods? Or cursed? Some call it the Mark. Happens once every few years—someone wakes up different. Stronger. Faster. Sees things others don't. Most go mad. Few become heroes. Fewer become monsters."
Ellie filed it. "Examples?"
"Old stories mostly. The Iron Saint, three hundred years back—built a fortress in a week. Lady Veyra still teaches at the academy; they say she leveled an entire hill in her youth. And then there's the Black Duke…" He trailed off, glanced around. "Better not say his name in public."
"Noted."
Ryn studied her. "Why ask?"
"Curiosity."
"You're not normal, are you?"
"No."
He grinned. "Thought so."
Afternoon brought more pots. Ellie's mind wandered while her hands moved. She tested mental commands.
Menu.
Nothing new except a faint Shop tab—still grayed out, locked behind the side quest.
Basic Analysis.
She focused on the pitcher.
[Stainless-Steel Milk Pitcher – Modern Alloy – Origin: Earth Dimension]
Durability: 39/100
Special: Anomalous item. Cannot be repaired by standard means. Potential conduit for mana infusion (unlocked at INT 20).
Earth Dimension.
The System knew.
She filed that too.
Near dusk Mara called time. Another silver. Ellie's total: 2 silver, 8 copper.
She stepped into the alley behind the inn for air. The sky had gone bruise-purple. Lanterns flickered to life along the street.
A small commotion drew her eye—three street urchins circling a skinny boy half their size, shoving him between them. The boy clutched a cloth bundle like it was life.
Ellie watched. Clinical.
One urchin snatched the bundle. Ripped it open. A small loaf tumbled out, rolling into the gutter.
The boy lunged. Got a fist to the stomach for it.
Ellie exhaled once.
She walked over.
The urchins noticed her—boots now, pitcher in hand, expression blank.
"Leave him," she said.
The leader—taller, scarred lip—sneered. "Or what, kitchen girl?"
Ellie considered options. Talking. Leaving. Fighting.
She chose efficiency.
She stepped inside the circle. The leader swung—lazy, telegraphed.
Ellie ducked. Brought the pitcher up in a short arc. Rim connected with his elbow.
Crack.
He howled. Dropped.
The other two froze.
Ellie pointed the pitcher at them. "Next."
They ran.
The skinny boy stared up from the ground, clutching his bruised stomach.
Ellie offered a hand. He took it. She pulled him up.
He was maybe twelve. Huge eyes. Dirt-streaked cheeks.
"Thanks," he whispered.
She nodded. Picked up the fallen loaf—bruised but edible—handed it back.
He clutched it tighter.
"You… you're not from here."
"No."
"You fight weird."
"Yes."
He hesitated. "I'm Tov."
"Ellie."
Tov glanced at the retreating urchins. "They'll come back."
"Probably."
He swallowed. "Can I… follow you? Just till dark?"
Ellie calculated. Liability. Possible information source. Low risk.
"Yes."
They walked back toward the Flagon in silence. Tov kept pace, glancing at her every few steps.
At the inn door she stopped.
"Safe here," she said.
He nodded. Then—small, quick—"You got magic?"
Ellie thought of the blue text. The level-ups. The pitcher that should not exist here.
"Not yet."
Tov's face fell a fraction. Then brightened. "You will. I can tell."
He darted off into the alleys before she could respond.
Ellie watched him go.
Inside, the common room was filling with the dinner crowd. Garrick sat at a corner table, nursing an ale, eyes scanning the room like habit.
He caught her gaze. Lifted his tankard in silent question.
Ellie crossed to him.
"Tomorrow," he said. "Supply run to the outer market. Bandits been sniffing the roads. You in?"
"Yes."
"Good. Dawn. Bring the pitcher. Might need it."
She nodded.
Upstairs, in room six, she sat on the bed and opened her status again.
Level: 3
VIT: 16(new)
New skill: Basic Endurance (Passive)
A final notification blinked.
[Side Quest Progress: First Impressions – 40%]
Earned: 2/5 silver
Acquired basic gear: complete
Learn one local custom: pending
Ellie lay back.
Tomorrow: market. Bandits. Possible combat.
Possible magic.
She closed her eyes.
The blue text dimmed to a soft glow, like a nightlight she hadn't asked for.
She slept.