"Sir," the man said quietly, "these wounds... they're not healing right. They're affecting my ability to work."
Noah studied him without expression. "What can you trade?"
The blacksmith reached into a small pouch and pulled out a single iron nail. It was rough, simple, but well-forged.
"It's just practice work," he said, offering it with both hands. "But it's made with honest skill."
Noah's brows lowered. His voice turned sharp.
"You're telling me you're a blacksmith and you're offering a nail? Unless you have a very good reason for why that's the best you can provide, I won't just reject your offer, I'll make sure you never buy from me again."
He folded his arms, his frown deepening.
"I help those who need it, not those who try to take advantage. A previously working blacksmith should have more than this. You've likely crafted dozens of weapons. Where are they?"
The blacksmith's eyes widened in alarm.
"Sir, please. Let me explain. This is a misunderstanding."
