'Steelthorn Armory.'
No wonder the name of the commission requester had seemed familiar.
Harven Ferrum.
Velren's gaze lingered on the worn metal sign above the entrance. The letters, though dulled with time, still held a firm presence—just like the man who owned the place. It belonged to the weaponsmith who had forged his katana, a blade given to him by Gramps when he was younger.
Velren exhaled softly, his fingers briefly brushing against the hilt at his waist. He hadn't expected to find himself back here after all these years. Would that man even remember him?
Shaking the thought aside, he pushed open the door.
***
A deep scent of metal and oil filled the air, accompanied by the lingering heat of the forge, even though the main workspace was likely deeper inside the shop.
