📖 The Mountain Wizard

Alvenheim had always prided himself on three things: his impeccably pointed ears, his ability to talk his way into—or out of—any situation, and his keen eye for a profitable opportunity. On this particular morning, the middle-aged elf found himself in the bustling marketplace of Thornwick, counting the coins in his purse and frowning at how few remained. His last venture, selling enchanted mirrors that only showed people their good side, had flopped spectacularly when customers realized the mirrors simply didn't work on Tuesdays. He needed a new scheme, and he needed it fast.

That's when he spotted the gnome. The elderly fellow was standing in the middle of the square, scratching his white beard and spinning in slow circles, muttering to himself. His pointed hat sat slightly askew on his head, and he carried a leather satchel that looked far too heavy for his small frame. Alvenheim's merchant instincts tingled. Anyone carrying that much gear had to be on some kind of quest, and quests meant gold.

Alvenheim approached with his most charming smile. 'Good morning, friend! You look like a fellow of great wisdom and purpose. Might I offer my assistance?' The gnome looked up, squinting through a pair of spectacles that magnified his eyes to comical proportions. 'Assistance? Oh, yes! I'm looking for... for...' He paused, his face scrunching in concentration. 'Now what was I looking for? I had it written down somewhere.' He began patting his many pockets frantically.

After watching the gnome search for a full minute, Alvenheim gently asked, 'Perhaps you could tell me your name first?' The gnome's face brightened. 'Fickler! I'm Fickler, master inventor and scholar of... of...' He trailed off again, then snapped his fingers. 'Ah! I was looking for the Adventurers' Guild! I have a brilliant invention that needs field testing, but I can't seem to remember which street it's on. Or which town, actually. This is Thornwick, isn't it?'

Alvenheim's grin widened. An inventor meant patents, prototypes, and most importantly, potential profit. 'My dear Fickler, it seems fate has brought us together! I'm Alvenheim, entrepreneur and navigator extraordinaire. The Adventurers' Guild is just three streets over, but tell me—why waste your talents working for them when we could work for ourselves?' He gestured grandly, as if painting a picture in the air. 'Imagine: Fickler and Alvenheim's Quest Fulfillment Company! We take the jobs, we keep all the profits, no middlemen!'

Fickler's eyes lit up behind his enormous spectacles. 'A partnership! What a splendid idea! I have seventeen different inventions that could revolutionize the questing industry. There's my self-stirring cauldron, my compass that points to whatever you've lost, my boots that remember where you've been—oh! That's what I need right now, those boots! If only I could remember where I put them.' He began rummaging through his satchel, pulling out random items: a rubber chicken, three spoons, a small plant in a pot, and what appeared to be a tiny dragon made of clockwork.

As Fickler continued his search, Alvenheim was already calculating. The gnome was clearly brilliant but scattered—perfect for someone like himself to manage. He'd handle the business side, the negotiations, the money, while Fickler provided the genius. It was foolproof! 'Tell you what, friend,' Alvenheim said smoothly, 'why don't we seal this partnership over lunch? My treat. Then we'll find a proper office, maybe a nice shop front where clients can find us. Something with a view, but not too expensive. Well, maybe very inexpensive. Actually, do you know anyone renting a shed?'

Fickler finally gave up his search and beamed at the elf. 'I like you, Alvenheim! You have vision! And yes, I'm absolutely famished, though I can't remember if I've already eaten lunch today. I might have. Was it Tuesday? What day is it?' As they walked toward the nearest tavern, Fickler suddenly stopped. 'Oh! I just remembered—I do have a workshop! It's in... in...' He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his hat. 'Ah yes, Bramble Lane, number seven. Or was it seventeen? The handwriting is smudged. I think that's my handwriting.'

Over bowls of hearty stew and fresh bread, the unlikely pair hammered out the details of their new enterprise. Alvenheim insisted on a 60-40 split in his favor, claiming his business expertise was worth the extra percentage. Fickler agreed immediately, then forgot what they were discussing and suggested a 50-50 split instead, which Alvenheim graciously accepted with a barely hidden smirk. They shook hands, and Alvenheim noticed the gnome's grip was surprisingly strong for someone so forgetful. Perhaps there was more to Fickler than met the eye.

As the sun began to set over Thornwick, Alvenheim and Fickler stood outside what they hoped was number seven Bramble Lane, looking at a crooked building that leaned slightly to the left. 'This is it!' Fickler announced proudly. 'Our headquarters! Well, my workshop, but now our headquarters! Inside you'll find everything we need: tools, materials, my collection of useful oddities, and—oh dear, I hope I remembered to feed Gerald.' Alvenheim raised an eyebrow. 'Gerald?' Fickler was already unlocking the door. 'My pet gelatinous cube. Lovely fellow, very tidy, eats all the scraps. You'll love him!' As Alvenheim followed the gnome inside, he wondered what exactly he'd gotten himself into. Then again, he thought with a sly smile, boring had never made anyone rich. This partnership was going to be interesting indeed.

Alvenheim's pointed ears perked up the moment Fickler mentioned his workshop. The middle-aged elf had initially thought their partnership would involve the usual fare—escort missions, monster hunting, perhaps a treasure map or two—but the gleam in the old gnome's eyes suggested something far more interesting. As they approached the cluttered workshop behind Fickler's cottage, Alvenheim could already hear the whirring and clicking of mysterious mechanisms within. His greedy heart began to race with possibilities that had nothing to do with dangerous quests and everything to do with comfortable profits. Fickler fumbled with an enormous ring of keys, trying each one in the lock before finally finding the right one, muttering something about organizing them by color next time.

The workshop was a marvel of chaos. Contraptions of every shape and size filled every available surface, some spinning lazily on their own, others producing small puffs of colorful smoke at irregular intervals. Fickler beamed with pride as he gestured around the room, launching into enthusiastic explanations of each invention. There was a self-stirring teapot that never spilled a drop, a pair of boots that cleaned themselves with every step, and a remarkable device that could peel potatoes in three different artistic patterns. Alvenheim's eyes grew wider with each demonstration, his mind already calculating profit margins and market demand. However, his enthusiasm dimmed slightly when he asked about production costs and Fickler scratched his white beard thoughtfully, admitting he couldn't quite remember if the self-stirring mechanism required copper springs or silver ones, or was it bronze?

As they examined invention after invention, a pattern emerged that both delighted and frustrated Alvenheim. Each contraption was genuinely useful and impressively crafted, but Fickler's explanations became increasingly vague when it came to the specifics. The gnome would hold up a magnificent automatic page-turner for books and describe its function perfectly, then pause mid-sentence when asked about the materials, wondering aloud whether he'd purchased the gears from the blacksmith in town or from that traveling merchant last spring, or had he perhaps found them in his cousin's old trunk? Alvenheim, despite his growing exasperation, couldn't help but laugh at his new partner's endearing forgetfulness. More importantly, he couldn't shake the feeling that they were sitting on a goldmine—they just needed to figure out how to actually mine it.

By the time they'd examined the twentieth invention—a truly ingenious device that could fold laundry into perfect squares—Alvenheim had completely forgotten about their original plan to form a questing company. His sly mind had already pivoted to a far more lucrative and significantly less dangerous venture. He grabbed Fickler by the shoulders, his eyes sparkling with entrepreneurial fervor, and declared that they should forget about chasing dragons and delving into dungeons. Why risk life and limb when they could sell these marvelous inventions and make a fortune? Fickler's face lit up at the prospect of his creations being appreciated by the masses, though he did wonder aloud if they should write down the materials list first, or was it recipes, no, formulas, or perhaps blueprints?

The next morning, Alvenheim and Fickler set out into town with a carefully selected array of inventions packed into a large cart. Their first stop was Gertrude's General Goods, where the shrewd shopkeeper eyed them suspiciously until Fickler demonstrated the self-cleaning boots. Her skepticism melted into amazement, and soon they were making their way from vendor to vendor, leaving a trail of impressed merchants in their wake. At the hardware store, the blacksmith's jaw dropped at the automatic hammer that could tap nails at three different strengths. The bookshop owner nearly wept with joy over the page-turner. By afternoon, they had secured agreements with five different vendors to sell their products on commission. As they walked back toward Fickler's workshop to begin production, Alvenheim was already counting coins in his head, while Fickler cheerfully tried to remember whether they'd need to visit the timber yard or the fabric merchant first—or was it the glassblower?

Alvenheim drummed his fingers on the worn wooden counter of his shop, watching through the window as yet another potential customer walked away shaking their head. For three days now, he had followed up with every vendor in town, and the answer was always the same: Fickler's inventions were brilliant, yes, but far too expensive. The self-stirring spoon cost more than a month's worth of regular spoons. The automatic door-opener required such intricate gears that only the wealthiest merchants could afford it. That evening, Alvenheim trudged to Fickler's workshop in the basement, where the gnome was already tinkering with a new contraption that appeared to be a hat with tiny mechanical wings. The merchant sighed and sat down on a stool that wobbled alarmingly. "Fickler, my friend, we need to talk about practicality."

The gnome looked up from his work, goggles magnifying his eyes to comical proportions. "What's wrong with practicality? This hat will fan you on hot days!" Alvenheim explained the situation as gently as he could, watching Fickler's enthusiasm deflate like a punctured balloon. But then the merchant had an idea. "What if you invented something everyone truly needs? Something that would change how people live? Like... a flying carpet, or better yet, a flying chair that could transport people across great distances!" Fickler's eyes lit up again, and he immediately began sketching. For hours they discussed designs and possibilities, until the gnome finally set down his pencil with a troubled expression. "There's just one problem," Fickler admitted. "Flying contraptions require as much magic as they do materials and engineering. And neither of us is a wizard."

The solution came from an unexpected source. Old Hemmel, the baker who sometimes bought Alvenheim's imported spices, mentioned that a wizard lived atop Mount Craggle, about three days' walk from the village. "Name's Flakey," Hemmel said, kneading his dough vigorously. "Goblin fellow. Bit strange, keeps to himself mostly. Haven't seen him come down in years, but he's supposed to be quite powerful." Alvenheim and Fickler exchanged glances. By the next morning, they had packed supplies and begun their journey, their determination fueled by visions of flying chairs soaring over the countryside. If the trek up the mountain was difficult, they reasoned, it would only prove how desperately the world needed their invention.

They had vastly underestimated how rough and frightening the mountain path would be. By the second day, they were clinging to rocky outcroppings, with sheer drops yawning beside them that made Alvenheim's stomach lurch. Fickler, being smaller, had an easier time of it, but even he looked pale as they navigated a particularly narrow ledge where loose stones skittered down into the misty abyss below. "If we don't convince this wizard," Alvenheim panted, pressing himself against the cold stone face, "I might just learn magic myself out of sheer spite. We need those flying chairs, Fickler. We NEED them." The gnome nodded vigorously, too breathless to speak. When they finally reached the summit on the afternoon of the third day, exhausted and scraped, they found a crooked tower that looked like it had been assembled from spare parts of other buildings, held together by determination and possibly magic.

The door opened before they could knock, revealing a goblin barely taller than Fickler, with wild silver hair sticking out in all directions and robes that might have once been blue but were now a patchwork of stains and hasty repairs. "Visitors!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking with disuse. "Real visitors! Not imaginary ones! You ARE real, aren't you?" He poked Alvenheim in the stomach to check. "I'm Flakey. Wizard Flakey. Grand Wizard Flakey? No, that sounds presumptuous. Just Flakey. Come in, come in! Watch the step, it's been meaning to fix itself for years but it's quite lazy." He ushered them into a tower filled with floating books, bubbling cauldrons, and what appeared to be a small thundercloud raining into a bucket in the corner. Flakey talked rapidly, barely pausing for breath, asking questions and answering them himself before his guests could respond. He hadn't spoken to another soul in seven years, he explained, unless you counted the argumentative teapot, which he didn't because it always disagreed with him. As Alvenheim and Fickler exchanged uncertain glances, they realized that convincing this eccentric goblin wizard to join their venture might be even more challenging than climbing the mountain had been.

Alvenheim, ever the salesman, launched into his pitch with practiced enthusiasm despite his exhaustion. He described the flying chair concept in vivid detail, painting pictures of elderly folk soaring to visit grandchildren, merchants transporting goods across mountains in minutes rather than days, and adventurers bypassing dangerous roads entirely. Fickler chimed in with technical specifications, pulling crumpled sketches from his satchel and spreading them across Flakey's cluttered table, pushing aside jars of pickled things that neither elf nor gnome wanted to identify. The goblin wizard listened intently, his pointed ears twitching with interest, occasionally interrupting to ask surprisingly sharp questions about weight distribution and magical energy requirements. When they finally finished their presentation, Flakey was silent for a long moment, staring at the sketches with an unreadable expression. Then he shuffled to his small kitchen area and returned with three bowls of cabbage soup. Just cabbage soup. Nothing else. He served it apologetically, explaining it was all he had since cabbage was the only thing that grew reliably in his mountain garden, along with some turnips, but he'd gotten rather tired of turnips last year.

As they ate the bland soup—Alvenheim trying not to grimace, Fickler being polite, and Flakey seeming not to notice the lack of flavor—the goblin wizard began to speak more slowly, more thoughtfully than before. He admitted that the idea intrigued him greatly, not just for its magical challenge but for reasons he hadn't expected to voice. Seven years of solitude had seemed like a good idea at first, a chance to study without interruption, but lately he'd noticed himself having full conversations with his possessions and forgetting which thoughts he'd spoken aloud versus which had stayed in his head. The cabbage soup, he confessed with a self-deprecating laugh, had become a metaphor for his existence—sustaining but joyless, the same thing day after day until he could barely remember what pepper tasted like. And money, he mused, stirring his soup absently, that was something he'd never really had, having lived as a hermit for so long. His goblin heritage whispered to him sometimes about the appeal of gold coins clinking together, of having wealth to count and admire. Perhaps, he said slowly, meeting their eyes with a mixture of hope and uncertainty, he could come down from the mountain with them. Just for a few weeks, mind you, to see if this flying chair was possible. He could stay in their workshop, help with the prototype, and if it worked—well, if it worked, maybe he wouldn't return to the mountain at all. The teapot could manage without him. Alvenheim's face broke into a genuine smile, not his usual merchant's grin but something warmer, and Fickler clapped his hands together with delight. They shook on it, all three of them, sealing a partnership that felt less like a business arrangement and more like the beginning of something none of them had quite expected to find.

The journey down the mountain proved far easier than the climb up, though Flakey insisted on bringing seventeen jars of pickled vegetables, his argumentative teapot (which complained the entire way), and a small trunk that rattled ominously whenever anyone asked what was inside. Alvenheim found himself surprisingly pleased with their new addition to the partnership, despite the goblin's eccentricities. Flakey walked with a spring in his step that grew more pronounced the farther they descended, occasionally stopping to marvel at things like butterflies and wildflowers with the wonder of someone seeing them for the first time in years. By the time they reached Thornwick three days later, the wizard was practically vibrating with excitement, his silver hair somehow even wilder than before, his eyes taking in every detail of the bustling town as if it were made of pure magic.

Fickler's workshop quickly transformed into organized chaos once Flakey moved in. The goblin wizard claimed a corner near the largest window, arranging his magical implements with surprising care while muttering incantations under his breath. Within hours, floating orbs of light bobbed near the ceiling, providing illumination that never flickered or dimmed. A self-heating kettle appeared on the workbench, and the argumentative teapot finally fell silent after Flakey threatened to turn it into a flowerpot. Alvenheim watched from the doorway as his two partners began collaborating on the flying chair prototype, Fickler's mechanical genius blending seamlessly with Flakey's magical knowledge. The gnome would suggest a gear configuration, and the wizard would enhance it with levitation charms. When Fickler forgot which type of wood they needed, Flakey would consult a floating book that turned its own pages. For the first time since forming their partnership, Alvenheim felt genuine optimism about their prospects.

The first prototype was, to put it kindly, a disaster. The chair did fly—briefly—before spinning wildly and depositing its test dummy (a sack of flour dressed in Alvenheim's spare coat) into Fickler's collection of spare parts. The crash sent gears and springs flying in every direction, and the argumentative teapot, which had been watching from a shelf, declared loudly that it had seen better flying from a drunken pigeon. Flakey looked devastated, his pointed ears drooping, until Fickler patted his shoulder and cheerfully announced that first attempts were always learning experiences. He'd once invented a self-washing dish that had flooded his entire kitchen, and look how well his inventions worked now! Well, most of them. Some of them. The boots that remembered where you'd been still occasionally tried to walk back to places their wearer didn't want to revisit. Alvenheim, despite his disappointment, found himself laughing at the absurdity of it all. They cleaned up the mess together, and by evening they were already sketching improvements for prototype number two.

Word of their flying chair project spread through Thornwick faster than Alvenheim had anticipated. Apparently, the sound of a chair crashing through a workshop wall was quite memorable to the neighbors. Soon, curious townsfolk began stopping by, peering through the windows and offering unsolicited advice. Old Hemmel the baker suggested they add a cup holder. The blacksmith's daughter wondered if it could carry two people. A young boy asked if it could do loop-de-loops, which made Flakey's eyes light up with dangerous enthusiasm until Alvenheim quickly said absolutely not, at least not in the first model. The attention was both helpful and hindering—helpful because it proved there was genuine interest in their invention, hindering because Fickler kept getting distracted explaining his other contraptions to visitors and forgetting what he'd been working on. By the end of the week, Alvenheim had instituted 'workshop hours' and hung a sign on the door that read: 'Genius at Work. Please Disturb Only in Case of Fire or Investment Opportunities.'

Prototype number two flew beautifully for exactly twelve seconds before the magical enchantments wore off and it dropped like a stone, fortunately only from a height of three feet. Flakey explained apologetically that sustaining levitation magic required either constant concentration from a wizard or a power source that could feed the spell continuously. Neither option was practical for a commercial product—they couldn't expect customers to hire a wizard for every flight, and magical power sources were rare and expensive. The three partners sat in dejected silence until Fickler suddenly jumped up, knocking over his tea (the argumentative teapot made a snide comment about clumsiness), and began rummaging through his collection of oddities. He emerged triumphant, holding a small crystal that pulsed with a faint blue light. He'd found it years ago, he explained, and had never quite figured out what to do with it, but it seemed to generate its own energy somehow. Flakey examined the crystal with growing excitement, recognizing it as a fragment of a mana stone—rare indeed, but not impossibly so. If they could figure out how to harness its power, they might have their solution.

The next two weeks were a blur of experimentation, failure, and gradual progress. Flakey developed a way to channel the mana stone's energy into the chair's enchantments, while Fickler designed a mechanical regulator that controlled the flow of magic, preventing the chair from either dropping suddenly or shooting into the clouds. Alvenheim, feeling somewhat useless in the technical aspects, took charge of documenting everything, creating detailed notes about materials, costs, and processes. His merchant's mind was already planning the next steps—they'd need to source more mana stones, find reliable craftsmen to build chairs to Fickler's specifications, and develop a pricing structure that balanced affordability with profit. He also began drafting advertisements in his spare time, though he kept crossing out phrases like 'probably won't crash' and 'mostly safe' in favor of more confident language. Late one evening, as all three of them worked by the light of Flakey's floating orbs, the goblin wizard paused and said quietly that he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this alive, this purposeful. Fickler nodded in agreement, and even Alvenheim, who'd started this venture purely for profit, found himself agreeing.

Prototype number seven was the charm. The chair rose smoothly into the air, hovered at a steady height of ten feet, and responded perfectly to the control mechanisms Fickler had installed in the armrests. When Alvenheim volunteered to be the first living test pilot (a decision he immediately regretted but was too proud to back out of), he found himself floating above the workshop, his stomach lurching but his heart racing with exhilaration. The chair moved forward at his command, turned left and right, and even ascended another five feet when he pushed the lever. When he finally descended and stepped off on shaky legs, Flakey was grinning so wide his face seemed in danger of splitting, Fickler was jumping up and down with joy, and the argumentative teapot grudgingly admitted it was 'not entirely terrible.' They'd done it. They'd actually done it. Alvenheim suggested they celebrate with something better than cabbage soup, and for the first time in weeks, they closed the workshop early and headed to the tavern, where Alvenheim bought the most expensive meal on the menu for all three of them.

The celebration was short-lived. The next morning, as they prepared to begin planning production, a well-dressed human arrived at their workshop accompanied by two guards in polished armor. He introduced himself as Lord Pemberton's representative and informed them that flying contraptions fell under the jurisdiction of the Noble Council's Transportation Committee. Any device capable of sustained flight required extensive testing, certification, and licensing before it could be sold to the public. The fees for such certification, he continued in a bored tone, started at five hundred gold pieces, with additional costs for each test flight and safety inspection. Alvenheim felt his dreams crumbling as the man droned on about regulations and procedures. Five hundred gold pieces? They barely had fifty between them, and most of that had gone into materials for the prototypes. Fickler looked confused, Flakey looked angry, and the argumentative teapot was muttering something about bureaucratic nonsense that Alvenheim wholeheartedly agreed with.

After the representative left, the three partners sat in stunned silence. All their work, all their progress, and they couldn't even legally sell their invention without a fortune they didn't have. Alvenheim's mind raced through possibilities—loans, investors, selling other inventions to raise capital—but each option seemed to lead to dead ends or years of delay. Flakey suggested simply ignoring the regulations and selling the chairs anyway, but Alvenheim explained that would likely result in their arrest and confiscation of all their work. Fickler wondered aloud if they could make the chairs smaller, perhaps classifying them as 'hovering stools' instead of flying chairs, but even he admitted that seemed like a technicality that wouldn't hold up. As afternoon turned to evening, their mood grew increasingly grim. They'd come so far, overcome so many obstacles, only to be stopped by something as mundane as paperwork and fees. It seemed deeply unfair, though Alvenheim had been in business long enough to know that life rarely cared about fairness.

It was Flakey who finally broke the despondent silence with an unexpected question: what if they didn't sell the chairs at all? What if, instead, they used them? His suggestion was simple but radical—they could start an actual adventuring company, using the flying chairs to take jobs that others couldn't. They could reach places no one else could reach, travel faster than any horse, and charge premium prices for their unique services. The certification requirements, according to the representative's tedious explanation, only applied to commercial sales of flying devices, not to personal use. Alvenheim's eyes widened as he realized the brilliance of the loophole. They could build a few chairs for themselves, take on high-paying quests and contracts, and earn the money they needed for certification through their adventures rather than through loans or investors. Fickler loved the idea immediately, already imagining the places they could explore. And so, in a twist that brought them full circle to their original plan, the three unlikely partners decided to become adventurers after all—just with significantly better transportation than most. As they shook hands on this new direction, Alvenheim couldn't help but laugh at the irony. He'd spent his whole life avoiding danger and risk, and now here he was, about to fly into both quite literally. But looking at his partners—the forgetful genius and the eccentric wizard who'd become something like friends—he found he didn't mind nearly as much as he'd expected.

The transformation of Fickler's workshop into an adventuring headquarters took less than a week, though it felt like a month given the sheer chaos involved. Alvenheim commissioned a sign-maker to create a proper placard reading 'Skybound Solutions: No Quest Too High' which he hung above the door with great ceremony. Fickler spent his days building two additional flying chairs, muttering to himself about weight distribution and magical conductivity while occasionally forgetting which chair he was working on and accidentally installing the same component twice. Flakey, meanwhile, had taken to studying maps of the surrounding regions with an intensity that surprised his partners, marking locations of reported monster sightings, lost artifacts, and wealthy nobles known to pay well for unusual services. The argumentative teapot complained constantly about all the activity, claiming it preferred the quiet solitude of the mountain, until Flakey threatened to leave it behind on their first adventure.

Their first client arrived on a rainy Tuesday morning, soaked to the bone and desperate. She was a merchant named Cordelia who'd lost an entire caravan of goods when her wagons had been swept away crossing a swollen river three days prior. The cargo—expensive silks and spices—was now scattered across a rocky gorge that was impossible to reach on foot and too dangerous for conventional rescue attempts. She'd heard rumors of their flying chairs and was willing to pay fifty gold pieces if they could recover even half her merchandise. Alvenheim negotiated her up to seventy-five, plus expenses, while Fickler assured her they could definitely reach the gorge, probably, assuming the weather cleared and the chairs didn't malfunction, which they almost certainly wouldn't. Cordelia looked uncertain but signed the contract anyway, desperation overriding her doubts. By noon, the rain had stopped, and the three partners were preparing for their first official mission.

Flying turned out to be significantly more terrifying than any of them had anticipated. Alvenheim gripped his armrests so tightly his knuckles turned white, trying not to look down at the ground that seemed impossibly far below. Fickler kept adjusting his goggles and consulting a small notebook he'd strapped to his wrist, occasionally shouting observations about wind resistance that were lost in the rushing air. Flakey, however, was having the time of his life, whooping with joy and making his chair do unnecessary swoops and dips until Alvenheim threatened to fire him despite the fact that they desperately needed his magical expertise. The gorge appeared below them after an hour of flight, a jagged scar in the landscape with a churning river at its bottom. Scattered along the rocky outcroppings were bundles of silk, crates of spices, and various other goods, some intact and some thoroughly ruined by water and impact.

The recovery operation was part treasure hunt, part aerial ballet, and part exercise in not panicking. They descended carefully, hovering beside each outcropping while Fickler used a mechanical grabbing device he'd invented specifically for this purpose. Some items were easy to retrieve, sitting on wide ledges or caught in scraggly bushes. Others required Flakey to use levitation magic to lift them from precarious perches while Alvenheim maneuvered his chair underneath to catch them. The gnome's grabber malfunctioned twice, once dropping a crate of cinnamon that exploded on impact and filled the gorge with fragrant brown clouds, and once clamping onto Alvenheim's coat instead of a bundle of silk, nearly pulling the elf from his chair entirely. By the time they'd recovered what they could—roughly sixty percent of the original cargo—all three were exhausted, bruised, and covered in various spices that made them sneeze constantly.

Cordelia was overjoyed when they returned with her goods, so much so that she added an extra twenty gold pieces to their payment and promised to recommend their services to every merchant in her guild. Word spread quickly after that. Within a month, Skybound Solutions had completed seven more jobs: rescuing a nobleman's cat from a tower (the cat was ungrateful), retrieving a weather vane from a church steeple (Fickler accidentally knocked it off while trying to fix it), surveying a dangerous mountain pass for a mining company (they found three perfect sites), delivering urgent medical supplies to a snowbound village (Alvenheim complained about the cold for days afterward), investigating strange lights reported above a forest (turned out to be fireflies, but they were paid anyway), recovering a family heirloom from a cliff-side cave (also home to very angry bats), and providing aerial security for a festival (mostly they just flew in circles looking impressive).

The money was good, better than Alvenheim had made in years of various schemes and ventures, but more surprising was how much he'd begun to enjoy the work itself. There was something satisfying about solving problems, about using their unique capabilities to help people in ways no one else could. He'd never admit it aloud, but flying had become less terrifying and more exhilarating with each mission. Fickler had started keeping a detailed journal of their adventures, though he frequently forgot to write in it and had to reconstruct events from memory days later, resulting in entries that were probably only sixty percent accurate. Flakey had begun experimenting with new spells specifically designed for aerial work—wind shields to protect against storms, detection magic to find lost items from above, and a particularly useful enchantment that prevented motion sickness, which all three of them desperately needed.

Their growing reputation attracted attention from unexpected quarters. A representative from the Adventurers' Guild—the same organization Fickler had been searching for when he first met Alvenheim—arrived one afternoon with a proposition. The Guild wanted to contract Skybound Solutions for specialized missions that required aerial capabilities: mapping expeditions into uncharted territories, rescue operations in treacherous locations, and reconnaissance work for larger adventuring parties. The pay would be substantial, and they'd receive official Guild backing, which would lend legitimacy to their operation. Alvenheim saw the advantages immediately, but he also saw the trap—accepting would mean following Guild rules, splitting profits with the organization, and potentially losing their independence. He asked for time to discuss it with his partners, and the representative agreed to return in three days for their answer.

That evening, the three partners sat in their workshop—which had become as much a home as a place of business—and debated their options. Fickler was inclined to accept, pointing out that Guild membership would give them access to better resources and more interesting jobs. Flakey was hesitant, worried that bureaucracy would stifle their creativity and freedom. Alvenheim found himself torn between his merchant's instinct for security and profit, and a newfound appreciation for their independence. They talked late into the night, the argumentative teapot occasionally chiming in with sarcastic commentary that somehow helped clarify their thoughts. By dawn, they'd reached a decision: they would accept the Guild's offer, but only as independent contractors, not full members. They'd take the jobs they wanted, maintain control over their methods and pricing, and reserve the right to refuse any mission that didn't suit them. It was a compromise that might not satisfy the Guild, but it was the only arrangement they could all agree on.

The Guild representative was surprised by their counter-offer but, after some negotiation and several pointed demonstrations of what their flying chairs could do, agreed to their terms. Skybound Solutions became the first independent contractor in the Guild's two-hundred-year history to maintain complete operational autonomy while still receiving official backing. Alvenheim celebrated by buying a proper office space in town—nothing fancy, just two rooms above a bakery, but it had windows that actually closed and floors that didn't creak ominously. Fickler celebrated by inventing a self-organizing filing system for their contracts and paperwork, which worked perfectly except that it occasionally filed things in alphabetical order by color rather than by name. Flakey celebrated by finally admitting he had no intention of ever returning to his mountain tower, and asked if perhaps they might consider making their partnership permanent, not just for business but for friendship as well.

Six months after their first mission, Skybound Solutions had become one of the most sought-after adventuring companies in three provinces. They'd earned enough gold to not only pay for the flying chair certification but to expand their operation, hiring two apprentices and commissioning three more chairs. Alvenheim had developed a reputation as a shrewd but fair negotiator, Fickler's inventions were being requested by name, and Flakey had published a paper on aerial magic that was causing quite a stir in wizarding circles. They still took regular jobs—the bread and butter of their business—but they'd also begun accepting more ambitious contracts, the kind that would have terrified Alvenheim a year ago. As he sat in their office one evening, reviewing their accounts and listening to Fickler and Flakey argue cheerfully about the design for a four-person flying platform, Alvenheim realized something unexpected: he was happy. Not the fleeting satisfaction of a successful con or a profitable deal, but genuine, lasting contentment. He'd set out to make money and had found something far more valuable—purpose, friendship, and a life that was anything but boring. And if the argumentative teapot occasionally reminded him that he'd once been a middling merchant with failing schemes and empty pockets, well, even that couldn't diminish his satisfaction. After all, everyone had to start somewhere, and where they'd ended up was better than anything he could have planned.

The competition arrived on a Thursday morning in the form of two enormous orcs named Grunk and Thudda, parking a wagon full of flying chairs right in the town square. Their chairs were undeniably impressive—plush cushions in rich burgundy fabric, ornately carved armrests, and brass fittings that gleamed in the sunlight. A crowd gathered immediately as Grunk demonstrated one chair's capabilities, floating smoothly through the air while Thudda shouted about their superior comfort and competitive pricing. Alvenheim watched from their office window, his stomach sinking as he noticed several of their regular clients in the crowd, nodding with interest. The orcs' chairs looked remarkably similar to their own design, too similar to be coincidence. Fickler joined him at the window, squinting through his enormous spectacles, and muttered something about the magical configuration being almost identical to his own specifications. Flakey appeared behind them, his face pale, and that's when Alvenheim knew something was terribly wrong.

The confrontation happened that afternoon in their workshop. Alvenheim had noticed Flakey becoming increasingly nervous, jumping at sounds and avoiding eye contact. Finally, the elf closed the door and asked directly if the goblin wizard knew anything about how the orcs had obtained their designs. The silence that followed was damning. Flakey's pointed ears drooped, and he confessed in a voice barely above a whisper that the orcs had approached him two months ago at a tavern. They'd been friendly, bought him drinks, complained about how hard it was for non-humans to succeed in business. They'd asked innocent questions about his work, admired his magical expertise, made him feel valued and important. By the time he realized they were pumping him for information, he'd already told them far too much about the chair's construction, the magical enchantments, even where to source mana stones. He'd been lonely, he admitted miserably, and foolish, and he was so, so sorry. The argumentative teapot, for once, said nothing at all.

Fickler's reaction surprised everyone. Instead of anger, the old gnome simply looked sad and tired. He sat down heavily on his work stool and removed his spectacles, cleaning them slowly while he collected his thoughts. He explained quietly that trust was the foundation of any partnership, and while he understood loneliness—goodness knows he understood loneliness—what Flakey had done put everything they'd built at risk. Their designs, their secrets, their livelihood, all compromised because the wizard had needed friends and found the wrong ones. Alvenheim was less forgiving, pacing the workshop with barely contained fury, calculating the financial damage, the lost clients, the competitive advantage now gone. He'd been conned enough times in his life to recognize when someone had been played, but that didn't make the betrayal sting less. They couldn't continue like this, he declared. They couldn't work with someone they couldn't trust. Flakey needed to leave.

The goblin wizard packed his belongings that evening, moving with mechanical precision as if his emotions had shut down entirely. He carefully dismantled his corner of the workshop, floating his books and magical implements into a trunk with trembling hands. The argumentative teapot tried to comfort him, speaking in an uncharacteristically gentle tone, but Flakey just shook his head. He wrote out detailed notes about the enchantments he'd developed, leaving them on the workbench for whoever would replace him. Before he left, he placed a small pouch of gold coins on Alvenheim's desk—his entire share of their profits from the past month—and said it wasn't enough to make up for what he'd cost them, but it was all he had. He apologized one final time, his voice breaking, and walked out into the night. Fickler watched him go from the window, and Alvenheim pretended not to notice the old gnome wiping his eyes. Neither of them slept well that night, and the workshop felt emptier than it had any right to be.

Finding a replacement wizard proved impossible. Over the next three weeks, Alvenheim and Fickler interviewed every magic user they could find. The first was a young human wizard fresh from academy who took one look at their flying chairs and declared the enchantments primitive and beneath his talents. The second was an elderly witch who seemed promising until she revealed her specialty was curses, not levitation magic, and suggested they might have better luck cursing their competitors' chairs to malfunction. The third was a halfling sorcerer who was genuinely interested but already committed to a five-year contract with a noble house. They tried the Adventurers' Guild, posted notices in every tavern and magic shop, even sent inquiries to three different wizarding academies. Every capable wizard they found was already employed, and the unemployed ones were unemployed for very good reasons that became apparent within minutes of conversation.

The competition from Grunk and Thudda intensified daily. Their chairs were indeed more comfortable, and they'd undercut Skybound Solutions' prices by twenty percent. Worse, they'd begun offering services that directly competed with the company's most profitable contracts—aerial surveys, rescue operations, even the mapping expeditions that had been their specialty. Alvenheim watched helplessly as their client list dwindled. The two apprentices they'd hired had to be let go, apologetic but unable to work without pay. The office above the bakery suddenly seemed like an extravagance they couldn't afford. One particularly bitter evening, Fickler suggested that perhaps they should just give up on the flying chair business entirely, and Alvenheim didn't immediately argue. The gnome looked older somehow, the weight of their failure pressing down on his shoulders. They sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the town outside, both thinking about how quickly success could turn to failure.

It was Fickler who first suggested they pivot back to other inventions, ones that didn't require wizardry. He still had dozens of designs that had nothing to do with magic—purely mechanical contraptions that relied on gears, springs, and clever engineering. They couldn't compete with the orcs in the flying chair market, at least not without a wizard, but they could find a different market entirely. Alvenheim was skeptical at first, remembering how expensive Fickler's inventions had been to produce, but the gnome had been thinking about that problem. What if they focused on smaller, simpler items? Things that were useful but not elaborate, affordable but still profitable. He pulled out his old sketches, spreading them across the workbench, pointing out designs he'd never fully developed because he'd gotten distracted by the flying chairs. A mechanical pepper grinder that never jammed. A door lock that could be opened from the inside even if you'd lost the key. A candle holder that caught all the wax drips. Simple things. Practical things. Things people actually needed.

They started small, almost experimentally, building a dozen mechanical pepper grinders in their workshop and selling them at the market. The response was immediate and enthusiastic. People loved the smooth grinding action, the durability of the construction, the fact that it actually worked better than traditional grinders and cost only slightly more. By the end of the first day, they'd sold out completely and taken orders for twenty more. Encouraged, Fickler designed a collapsible step stool that could fit in a narrow closet but supported even heavy adults safely. Alvenheim marketed it to shopkeepers who needed to reach high shelves, and within a week they'd sold forty units. The profits weren't as dramatic as their flying chair business had been at its peak, but they were steady, reliable, and growing. More importantly, they didn't require magic, which meant they weren't dependent on finding a wizard they could trust.

Over the next two months, Skybound Solutions quietly transformed into something new. They kept the name—Alvenheim had grown fond of it, and besides, the sign had been expensive—but shifted their focus entirely to practical mechanical inventions. Fickler's creativity flourished without the pressure of competing with the orcs. He designed a revolutionary new type of hinge that never squeaked, a window latch that children couldn't open but adults could operate with one hand, and a truly ingenious device for hanging pictures that adjusted level automatically. Each invention was simple enough to produce in quantity but clever enough that people were willing to pay a fair price. Alvenheim discovered he had a talent for identifying which inventions would sell best, and he developed relationships with craftsmen throughout town who could help with production. They hired back one of their former apprentices, a sharp young woman named Petra who had a gift for assembly work and quality control.

The irony wasn't lost on either of them that they'd come full circle, back to selling inventions instead of adventuring, but this time it felt different. They weren't chasing a get-rich-quick scheme or trying to avoid danger. They were building something sustainable, something honest. Their products carried a reputation for quality, and customers began seeking them out specifically. The flying chairs gathered dust in the corner of the workshop, beautiful but useless without a wizard to maintain their enchantments. Sometimes Alvenheim looked at them and felt a pang of regret for what might have been. Other times, usually late at night when he was reviewing their steadily growing accounts, he wondered if perhaps this quieter success was actually better. They were making a decent living, helping people with genuinely useful products, and doing it without putting themselves in danger or depending on magic they couldn't control. Fickler seemed happier too, more focused, less scattered. The old gnome had even started organizing his workshop properly, though he still occasionally forgot where he'd put things. As autumn arrived and their order book filled with requests from merchants preparing for winter, Alvenheim allowed himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, they'd found their true calling after all. And if a small part of him still missed the thrill of flying, well, some things were better left in the past, gathering dust alongside the chairs that represented both their greatest achievement and their most painful lesson about trust.