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  Saturday, October 8th, 2253 – 1:03 pm

  The Crossroads, Market Street.

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  Jeremiah’s boots scuffed against the cobblestones as he made his tenth circuit in front of the bakery. He muttered under his breath, the same phrases looping in his head like a broken record.

  Just ask. It’s a question. He’ll probably laugh. Or maybe glare. Or maybe—

  He cut the thought short, dragging a hand down his face.

  The scent of fresh bread and butter drifted out through the open upper windows, warm and heavy. It would have been pleasant, even comforting, if his stomach wasn’t a twisted bundle of nerves. He glanced toward the carved sign swinging above the door — the painted lettering bold and clean despite years of weather — and swallowed.

  Ulrick had already done so much for him. More than anyone else since he’d arrived in the Crossroads. The Maddock lot, the introductions, advice when Jeremiah had been too green to even understand what he was asking for. Ulrick didn’t owe him anything. Asking him for more felt… greedy. Wrong, somehow. Like he was taking advantage of the affable giant’s kindness.

  And besides, Jeremiah had no idea if the man even took students. From what he’d seen, Ulrick didn’t even hire any workers for his bakery, the large man able to do the heavy lifting himself, while his magic took care of anything he couldn’t.

  Still… he wouldn’t know unless he asked.

  He clenched his fists at his sides, jaw tight. “Just walk in,” he told himself. “Say it quick, get it over with. If it blows up in your face, ask Sam if she knows someone else. Easy.”

  He planted himself facing the door. His hands balled into fists, unclenched, then balled again. He drew in a deep breath, chest tight. Alright. This time. Just walk in and—

  He’d only managed half a step when something heavy clamped down on his shoulder.

  Jeremiah nearly lifted out of his boots.

  He spun so fast his coat flared, eyes wide, only to find himself staring at a wall of chest, apron, and solid muscle. Ulrick loomed over him with the same unshakable calm he seemed to bring to everything — a man carved from oak, flour dusting the creases of his apron and streaking his beard, his forearms thick as fence posts. His brow dipped slightly.

  When Ulrick spoke, his voice came low and even, a faint burr of accent wrapped around the words.

  “Jeremiah, lad. While I’m always glad for a visit… is there a reason you’ve been pacing in front of my shop for the past twenty minutes?”

  Jeremiah’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He flicked a glance at the bakery door, then at the massive hand still resting on his shoulder, before forcing his gaze upward again. Heat climbed the back of his neck.

  “I—uh—wasn’t—” He cleared his throat, scraping together words that didn’t want to come. “I didn’t mean to block your door or anything.”

  The corners of Ulrick’s mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile.

  “Bah. It’s Saturday. Not like I’ve got hordes of the dead clamorin’ for week-old bagels. Unless you count Sally, that is.”

  A booming laugh spilled out of him, shaking flour from his apron. He waved the thought away, eyes still glinting with amusement.

  His hand finally left Jeremiah’s shoulder, leaving a smudge of flour on his sleeve as he drew it back. “Now. What’s on your mind, lad?”

  He arched a brow, waiting.

  Jeremiah shifted, fingers twitching against his thigh. A breeze curled past, carrying the warm smell of bread and sugar, heavy enough to knot his stomach tighter.

  After a moment, he took a deep breath and stood a little straighter, before running a hand through his hair.

  “Mind if we talk inside?” Jeremiah asked finally, his voice lower than he meant. “It’s… not exactly the kind of thing I want to shout in the street.”

  For a long moment, Ulrick just looked at him, unreadable. Then the corner of his mouth tugged upward, not quite a smile but close.

  “Alright then,” Ulrick said, giving Jeremiah’s shoulder a pat that nearly staggered him. “Come on. Let’s see what’s got you pacing holes in the cobblestones.”

  He turned and ducked through the door, the bell above it jingling. Jeremiah lingered half a second, sucking in another breath, before forcing his feet to follow.

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  The bakery looked exactly as Jeremiah remembered it from the few times he’d been inside. Warm light pooled across the floorboards and ran up the walls, catching on the grain of wood rubbed soft by years of hands. Everything wore the same palette of browns and greens, like a forest pulled indoors. The furniture was old and mismatched — chairs whose paint had worn thin to bare wood, a table that wobbled slightly on crooked legs, small knickknacks from who knew where scattered around the shelves. On either side of the main counter, two pillars of raw, barked wood sat embedded in the walls like living trunks holding the ceiling steady. The air carried a warm heat and the scent of fresh bread. It loosened the muscles at the back of Jeremiah’s neck even as it reminded him why he was here.

  They sat at a round table with a tiny wobbly leg, a clay pot of tea steaming between them. Two pastries — one glazed, one sugared — sat on a plate, halves taken, crumbs scattered like a little drift of snow.

  Jeremiah had talked. He wasn’t sure how long. Probably longer than was polite. But Ulrick had a talent for drawing the words from him, with a well-placed comment or a thoughtful question. He talked about the rumor of being Ulrick’s apprentice, the way people treated him in the street now, the knot in his stomach at using another person’s name like a shield. Jeremiah even found himself venting about the stresses of the running his shop to his fellow shopkeeper, though always careful to not let slip anything truly important about the System. He still wasn’t sure what exactly Mero had told the baker, but Jeremiah kept the fairy’s warnings to heart.

  In time, he finished and fell quiet, hands wrapped around his cup for something to do. The steam fogged his glasses for a heartbeat, then cleared.

  Ulrick leaned back in his chair, the wood complaining under his weight. He rubbed his beard, eyes narrowed. Not in anger, Jeremiah thought, but in the kind of focus he imagined the baker used when judging if his recipe was right or not. Surprise flickered there, and then a hint of amusement. He blew out a long breath through his nose, like a bellows letting go.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Only now hearin’ of it, are you?” Ulrick said, his hard stare softening with a smirk.

  Jeremiah blinked. “You… already knew?”

  Ulrick barked a laugh, quick and bright. “Aye, lad. This isn’t my first summer. Outskirts hasn’t had a proper ‘boss’ since Big Red, but there are always a few who’d be much obliged if I filled the role. And a few more who can’t fathom a man can put his head down an’ bake without wantin’ half the district under his thumb. So I keep my ears open when my name starts bouncin’ round. Easier to head trouble off at the door than scrape it off my boots later.”

  The laugh settled into a grin that crinkled his eyes. He lifted his cup, took a sip, and set it down with care. “As for these stories — don’t let ‘em gnaw at you. Few will take ‘em seriously without my say-so. If it frets you that much, I’ll put out word proper, say there’s naught to it, and that’ll be that. But I should warn you that might embolden some of the more… foolish elements of the Crossroads.”

  Jeremiah sagged in his chair, a groan escaping before he could snatch it back. He pressed his palm to his forehead. “Mero said the same thing,” he muttered. “That letting people think I’m your student might keep the idiots away.”

  Ulrick’s laugh rumbled out again, deep enough to make the pastry plate tremble against the tabletop. “Aye. The little pot-bellied goblin’s not wrong often, much as it pains me to say it.” His mirth lingered in his eyes, but the weight of his tone sobered a fraction. “So, do you want me to stamp it out? Or let it be?”

  Jeremiah watched the steam curl from his cup, tendrils unraveling into the air before fading. The knot under his sternum tightened, then slowly unwound. “Maybe you and Mero are right, and this is just me overthinking. Still… I don’t like the idea of hiding behind your name.” He shifted in his chair, voice roughening. “It feels wrong. Like borrowing something I never earned.”

  “Mm.” Ulrick rolled his wrist, a silent prompt to go on.

  Jeremiah exhaled, cheeks coloring. “That said…” His lips tugged sideways, as if the words resisted leaving. “I can’t deny things have been calmer than I expected. Back in Central, you always hear stories about the Outskirts.” He grimaced, heat rising in his ears. “I know most of it is just rumor and hearsay, but I was still bracing myself for more people to… test me. Stir things up because I’m the new face on the street. But instead…” He glanced around the bakery, remembering the grins, the cautious but genuine welcomes. “People have been polite. Welcoming, even. I can’t help wondering how much of that is because of you.”

  “You’re not wrong to wonder, lad,” Ulrick said. His voice carried the weight of certainty, but not judgment. “The Outskirts — and the Crossroads especially — can be a rough place. And the right names can sometimes carry further than a sharp blade.” His mouth tilted into a faint smile as he leaned back. “But you’ve seen it with your own eyes. For every hard hand or sharp tongue, there’s someone willing to lend a little kindness. Don’t forget that.”

  Silence sat with them for a breath or two. The bakery hummed. Somewhere in the back, a tray slid, tin against stone. The pillar to their left creaked softly, not from wind but from something like settling. Jeremiah’s gaze wandered to the bark, the way light slicked along the whorls.

  “Is that all that’s been gnawin’ you, then?” Ulrick asked, tearing his sugared half into neat bites without looking away.

  Jeremiah’s mouth went dry. He swallowed, tried to decide if the lump in his throat was nerves or pastry. “Not… exactly.”

  Ulrick’s brow climbed. “No?”

  Jeremiah felt stupid for pacing outside, stupider for what he was about to say. But Mero had been right: sometimes you just needed to rip the bandage off. He set the cup down before the wobble could betray him. “With the rumors in mind,” he said, forcing the words into the open, “I was curious if you… were looking for an apprentice.”

  The word hung there, small and fragile in the warm, buttery air.

  Ulrick froze. The smile fell off him like flour dusted from an apron. His eyes narrowed, not to slits but to something keen. The frown that followed landed hard enough to make Jeremiah’s shoulders twitch. There wasn’t anger there, but there was something… dangerous, there.

  Jeremiah flinched anyway. “I mean,” he chuckled nervously, “not that I expect you to or anything. I just thought…”

  “Stop.” Ulrick held out a hand.

  He leaned forward, forearms braced on wood, his posture that of a craftsman about to explain a thing that mattered. “Listen close, Jeremiah Bridge. Taking on an apprentice isn’t—” he tilted a hand, searching, “—a casual thing. It’s not hire on help or teach a trick an’ send ‘em on their way. For a mage, an apprentice is a legacy. Yer not only passing on spells and rituals. Yer passing understanding. The way you think about the craft, the way you look at the world, and decide what’s possible. You raise ‘em at your side from near the time their legs stop wobblin’. You feed ‘em, scold ‘em, scrape the soot off their fingers, and teach ‘em not to put ‘em in the fire again. For many, it’s not unlike adoption.”

  Jeremiah’s eyes widened. The heat in his ears turned to something like embarrassment. He glanced down at his hands, a crumb stuck to one knuckle. “I… didn’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ask something that—”

  Ulrick’s palm came up, forestalling. “Think nothing of it. I wouldn’t expect you to know. Not like my lot puts out pamphlets. Most folk only see the magic and the shiny bits and think that’s all there is. The rumors prove as much.”

  Jeremiah let breath out through his nose, shame loosening its bite. He scrubbed his thumb across the crumb, flicked it aside. “Right. Well.” He pushed his chair back a few inches and stood, the legs scraping. He smiled, quick and polite. “Thank you for your time. And for listening. I’ll— I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Hold.” Ulrick lifted his hand again. The command sat gently in the air, but it rooted Jeremiah where he stood. “Sit a tick.”

  Jeremiah eased back into the chair, heart tapping a faster rhythm than the bakery warranted.

  Ulrick nodded, as if confirming a private decision. “While I’ve no plans to take an apprentice proper,” he said, a smirk crossing his lips, “there’s nothing stoppin’ me from teachin’ you a few things. I’ve had the odd student over the years. Nothing formal, of course. Just… a bit of guidance.”

  Jeremiah slid forward until his knees touched the table’s underside. “You’re serious?”

  “Aye.” The corner of Ulrick’s mouth tugged upward. “Folks are safer by half when someone shows them how to wield a blade before they go pokin’ things with it. Those who dabble without a steady hand on their shoulder usually end up singed. Or worse.” His gaze locked onto Jeremiah, steady and firm. “Don’t mistake me. You’d still be doing most of the learning yourself — through sweat, study, and mistakes. But plenty of mages are willing to offer advice and lessons to those with the spark for it.”

  His eyes darkened as he glanced toward the window. The warmth slipped from his voice. “Maybe too many…”

  The moment hung heavy, then passed. When Ulrick looked back, the easy calm had returned, like clouds parting after a shadow. “That said, before I let your hopes run off, I should remind you there’s no guarantee you’ll have any affinity for the craft. Truth is, it’s more likely you’ve got none at all.”

  His gaze dropped to Jeremiah’s hands, then lifted again, sharp and measuring. “Humans born under Law take to magic like oil takes to water. Some manage a bit of shine on the surface, but it never sinks deep. There are exceptions — there always are — but you’d be a fool to build your house on the chance you’re one. Have you ever been tested?”

  Jeremiah scratched at his cheek, color rising in his face. “Ah… yes, actually. When I was younger. And… like you said, I didn’t have any talent.”

  Ulrick nodded slowly, then fixed Jeremiah with a level stare. “I see. Yet here you are, asking me to train you. I take it something’s changed?” He paused, beard bristling as he thought, then tilted his head. “Something to do with this project Sarah set you on?”

  Jeremiah gave a small nod.

  Ulrick leaned back in his chair, rubbing his beard, eyes narrowing in thought. “Aye. And that’s why you need a teacher — even if you’re not my apprentice proper. If you’re workin’ with another’s scaffolding, you’d best learn where the knots are before the whole thing gives way.”

  He pushed to his feet, the chair groaning in relief. “Wait here a moment.”

  He turned toward the counter, then veered left, toward the nearest pillar. Jeremiah had always assumed they were decorative, or some kind of brace. Up close, the bark looked less like bark and more like… bark. Not a carving, not paint. The smell here was wetter, cooler, as if the trunk had just been rained on. Jeremiah’s mind tripped over the words before it caught up.

  “Ulrick?” he said, uncertain.

  “Mm?” Ulrick set his palm against the trunk. His fingers pressed into the grooves like a man testing dough for spring. He looked back over his shoulder at Jeremiah’s expression and grinned.

  Then he stepped forward.

  Jeremiah’s eyes widened as the wood enveloped the large man. Not passing through like a ghost would, or suddenly vanishing like Mero was fond of doing. Instead, the bark seemed to pull him in, inch by inch, swallowing him like dark water takes a stone — first the hand, then the arm to the elbow, the shoulder, the bulk of him giving way. The bark rippled around him without cracking. There was no sound of snapping wood or twisting branches. Only a rush of sap-scent and something older, green and weighty, rolling out across the bakery in a wave.

  Jeremiah half rose out of his chair, one palm flat on the table for balance. His mouth hung open. Tea tipped inside his cup and touched the rim.

  Ulrick’s head and beard were the last things to go. “Back in a blink,” he said, as if he were just ducking into the pantry for more sugar.

  Then he was gone.