The smell of burnt oak hit my nose the moment I passed through the city gates. Mixed with it, the steady, rhythmic sound of hammers echoed — like a metallic heartbeat pulsing between the stone and wood buildings.
Although Kazan was considered a young village — at least compared to others — its streets were full of life. People coming and going, talking, trading, merchants praising the virtues of their goods.
I walked through the center, past stalls lined up like soldiers in formation. Fruits, furs, tools... I greeted familiar faces with brief nods.
And there it was, at the end of the main lane: Ironhand's Forge. A rustic sign, as crooked as the jammed door I pushed open with effort.
"How's he supposed to attract customers with a door like this?" I grumbled, forcing my way in.
Inside, everything was just as I remembered: weapons hanging proudly, polished armor gleaming in the firelight, everything neatly arranged. But empty. Not a soul in sight.
The noise, however, came from the back — loud, steady hammer strikes, like thunder focused on a single anvil.
Without hesitation, I jumped over the counter as if I owned the place and headed through the back door. A wave of heat hit my face, mixed with the scent of molten iron and burning coal.
At the forge, a short, dark-skinned figure was hunched over his work. Lanús, as always, with a sweaty face and the focus of a monk, hammering glowing steel with surgical precision.
I crept closer, step by step... until:
"Aah!" I shouted, grabbing his shoulders.
"GAAH!" He nearly jumped out of his skin, dropping the hammer. His wide eyes turned toward me — and then burst into laughter.
"Who are you running from, Lanús?" I asked, laughing, clutching my belly. "Thought you were gonna die of a heart attack."
"You bastard!" he panted, trying to catch his breath. "I nearly pissed myself."
Still laughing, we moved to the side room — a small resting area with a round table and worn chairs. I sat while he fetched something to drink. He returned with a steaming clay mug, filled with a green, suspicious-looking liquid.
"So..." he began, pouring a mug for me too. "Thought you said you'd never set foot here again."
Without answering, I pulled the sword from my belt and dropped it onto the table with a thud.
"I came to return it. Didn't work for me."
He stared at me, frowning as he brought the mug to his lips.
"You know I don't take returns, right?" he said after a sip. "And besides... that sword was your style. I thought you'd used that type forever. What happened?"
"That's the problem," I replied, sniffing the suspicious drink. "The sword's not for me. It's for Samo."
"Oh, young Samo!" Lanús perked up. "Been a while since I saw him. How's he doing?"
"He's fine," I answered curtly. "I've decided to teach him swordsmanship... but I think a longsword would suit him better."
Lanús looked at me for a moment. I knew getting another sword wouldn't be easy — not with him.
He picked up the weapon from the table and unsheathed it, examining the blade with expert eyes.
"Well, look at that..." he murmured. "It's been just over a month since I sold you this sword... and it's already this worn? What've you been doing, chopping wood with it?"
I responded with a fake smile.
He's some kind of oracle... I thought to myself.
"Hm...?" He frowned, inspecting the hilt. "What happened here?"
"What do you mean?"
I leaned over to look where he pointed. The hilt, once wrapped with neatly fastened leather, was visibly crushed — as if squeezed by brute force, deforming the grip.
Lanús sheathed the blade with a heavy sigh.
"This is why I hate when you show up here," he muttered. "Everything you touch ends up ruined."
I tried to mask my discomfort by lifting the mug and taking a sip...
"Pft..." I immediately spat it out. "What the hell is this? Rat piss?"
Lanús burst out laughing, nearly choking.
"Don't be such a baby," he replied. "You used to eat bat stew on the battlefield!"
I rolled my eyes.
"Right. So... refund for the sword?"
"Yeah, but..." he crossed his arms. "If you want a longsword, you'll have to pay the difference."
I sighed, reached into my coat, pulled out a coin pouch, and handed it over.
"Will this do?"
He grinned greedily as he weighed the contents.
"Come with me."
Counting the coins, he walked toward the shop's basement — a darker area filled with shelves and dust-covered crates. He stopped in front of a long wooden box.
"Let's see..."
He crouched down to open it. The sound of the wood creaking wasn't normal. There was something... strange about it. Almost like a muffled scream.
"Here it is," he said, carefully pulling out a sword wrapped in a black cloth.
He unwrapped the fabric with reverence, revealing the weapon.
The blade was black, forged in a pattern reminiscent of Damascus steel, but with an unusual sheen that defied the dust around it. The most peculiar detail, however, was the complete lack of a guard — no traditional crosspiece between blade and grip.
"Fäste," Lanús said, breaking the silence. "That's her name. A one-of-a-kind piece, forged from a mysterious metal found in the Blood Peaks, far to the north. Costs more... but consider it a gift for young Samo."
I held the sword, feeling its unusual weight and balance. I thanked him with a sincere nod.
Now there was only one question left:
How will Samo wield a weapon like this?
I said goodbye to Lanús, only to hear a "Please, never come back."
It's going to be a long road home.