The world was still swallowed by gray.
Velza stood outside the candle shop, ear tilted subtly toward the door, catching fragments of the conversation.
"Grave… eclipse… burn it fast?"
She ran the words over in her head like stones in her palm, trying to fit them together into something sharp.
The creak of the door snapped her back. Vaelen's voice followed a heartbeat later.
"Let's go to the blacksmith."
That quiet spell in her head broke instantly.
She straightened. "Yes. Let's go, sir."
The street they walked down was wide and gleaming. Velvet-silent beneath the boots of nobles. Every step pulled up memories from older, rougher roads — the ones she grew up on, where the dirt stuck to your ankles and broken glass taught you to bleed quietly.
She had shoes now.
Back then, she used to steal food.
Now, she earned it.
Vaelen walked ahead — the same man who had once stopped her execution.
And now?
He didn't even remember her.
✦✦✦
They approached the blacksmith's shop nestled within the noble ring — an odd sight in a district known for gold-trimmed balconies and silent carriages.
The air shifted as they neared — no longer perfumed or pristine, but thick with the scent of scorched metal and burnt coal. The rhythm of labor filled the street: the clang of hammers on anvils, the hiss of steam as molten metal met water, and the low, guttural hum of the forge's fire breathing.
Across from the blacksmith's door stood a jewelry store, its windows trimmed in silver filigree, shining clean and cold. Velvet-lined displays gleamed behind glass.
Velza glanced at it.
"What an odd place for a jewelry shop," she thought. "Right beside a forge."
They stepped inside the blacksmith's shop — and the world narrowed.
Heat wrapped around her like a second skin, thick and alive. The room smelled of iron and ash, with a hint of oil and something faintly sweet — beeswax, maybe, used for tempering.
Inside, racks of half-finished blades hung like sleeping beasts. Chains dangled from hooks. Armors stood in the corners like silent sentinels. Every surface was covered in tools — tongs, files, hammers — laid out in precise chaos.
At the far end of the workshop, sparks flew as a figure bent over the forge — sleeves rolled, arms corded with muscle, eyes focused like he was trying to bend time itself.
Velza exhaled slowly.
This place... it wasn't elegant. It wasn't noble.
But it felt real.
The blacksmith didn't look up right away. His voice came rough and warm, like coal crackling under pressure.
"Oh? We got customers. Give me a moment — just need to finish this stroke."
Vaelen gave a casual nod. "Take your time."
Velza watched in silence as the man turned back to the forge. Sparks hissed and flew as he drove the hammer down — once, twice, then again — striking a red-hot blade that pulsed like a living thing. The sound echoed through the room, each hit timed like the ticking of some ancient, metal heart.
He rotated the blade with practiced ease, dipped it into the quenching vat — sharp hissing sound hissssssss, followed by a sudden movement — then set it aside on a rack lined with straw.
Only then did he wipe his hands on a thick cloth and walk over to the counter, forearms still steaming faintly from the forge heat.
"So," he said, voice leveling into a friendly drawl. "What can I help you with?"
Velza stepped forward and placed the broken blade on the counter.
"Can you fix it?"
Vaelen cut in without hesitation. "Let's just buy a new one."
The blacksmith raised an eyebrow. His gaze dropped to the blade — and something in his expression shifted. He didn't speak at first. Just stared at the weapon like it had confessed a sin.
Then, finally, he muttered, "Whoa…"
He picked it up carefully, turning it over in his thick, scarred hands.
"This thing's garbage," he said bluntly. "Poorly made. Blade's too thin — probably because the user wanted extra sharpness, at the cost of stability."
He looked directly at Velza. She nodded once, tight.
He continued, now with a craftsman's eye:
"See this bend at the center? Someone stepped on it. During a fight, no less. And these melted edges — someone threw fire magic at it. Real close range."
Velza gave a half-smile. "Not exactly, but… close enough."
He grunted. "I can't repair this. It's done. And we don't carry anything like this in stock."
She blinked. "So…?"
"I'll make you a new one," he said, already scribbling something on a scrap of parchment. "But it'll take a few days."
Velza glanced at the paper. Then at Vaelen.
Her face twisted.
"Do I look like I'm qualified for this?" He shrugged.
She rolled her eyes. "Yes."
Then, suddenly — she hit him with the look. Wide eyes. Soft lips. A deadly weapon in her own right.
Puppy dog mode: activated.
Vaelen groaned. "Fine. Just don't blame me if it turns out terrible."
Let's give her a bad blade…
No. I'm not that cruel, he thought.
He reached for the parchment.
"You know what — give me that."
The blacksmith, wordless now, slid it across.
Vaelen took the quill and leaned over the counter.
His strokes came quick but precise — sketching a slim, curved blade like a miniature katana, its edge honed for speed and finesse. Next to it, he drew another — a Yeman-style sword, slightly broader, with a distinct wave along the spine meant for counterweight balance.
On both hilts, he added subtle embellishments — woven grip patterns, gem-like insets near the guard, and at the pommel, a cord-wrapped loop, like a tassel or charm anchor.
Something graceful. Something deadly.
Something hers.
He slid it back toward the blacksmith.
"Can you make either of these?"
The man looked down, studying the page for a long beat.
Still, the blacksmith didn't speak. But his brow twitched upward—just slightly.
A silent way of saying: That's better than I expected.
Then, casually:
"Ever thought about working with me?"
He smirked. "I'd pay you handsomely."
Vaelen ran a finger along the edge of the parchment.
"I like craftsmanship. One day, maybe."
They both chuckled. Velza gave Vaelen a long side-eye like he'd just betrayed her in cold blood.
"But," the blacksmith said, leaning in, "I've got a condition. I'll make both blades. I'll even use the best material I've got."
His tone dropped. "But I want to enjoy crafting these. No shortcuts."
"I don't have that kind of coin," Velza replied, eyes narrowing.
"I do."
Vaelen's voice was cool. Controlled. Then he added,
"But on one condition—resign as my guard."
Velza stiffened. No hesitation.
"No can do."
Her voice softened, almost sad.
"Can you make your original design instead?"
"Aww, I really got excited there." The blacksmith slumped dramatically, then turned to Vaelen like a puppy begging for scraps.
"Buddy. Please. Let me make this dream blade just once."
Vaelen sighed, fingers drumming the counter.
"Fine. But I'm keeping track of the cost of this chaos."
He looked sideways at Velza.
"I wanna see these puppies in action too."
"I'm not leaving you."
She said it quietly, like it was a vow.
"Alright," Vaelen turned back to the blacksmith, his smirk returning.
"What will you use to build these puppies?"