Thick black smoke billowed from the forge's front door. Diomede pulled his bearskin cloak up over his face to block the worst of it, while Clayton and Lily fanned the smoke out, trying to clear the room. A low, gruff voice called out from inside the haze, "Quick! Grab that bag hanging on the wall!"
Diomede whipped his head around and spotted it—a brown bag embroidered with the image of an old man blowing air. He lunged for it, gripping it tight and undoing the thin rope holding it shut. As he opened the bag, a sudden gust burst out, whipping the smoke into a twisting spiral that rushed out the door. Diomede snapped the bag closed and tied it tight again.
Clayton and Lily exchanged confused glances as they stared at the mysterious sack. From the smoky depths stepped a medium-built man with a weathered hand waving off the last wisps of smoke. His nose was thick and round, cheeks and forehead flushed deep red from the forge's heat. His beard was short and singed at the tips.
"Thanks for the help, stranger," the blacksmith said, voice rough but grateful.
Diomede simply nodded, clutching the bag to his chest like a prized possession. The blacksmith turned back to the now dim forge. "Sorry about that smoke," he grunted, "I dropped a bottle of Dyken red sand."
Lily's brow lifted sharply. "How'd you get Dyken red sand this far north? Especially past the border?"
The blacksmith chuckled but didn't answer, instead turning his back to the group as he reignited the forge. A heavy silence settled between them.
Finally, Diomede cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Look, we're looking for gear for our travels. I'm Sir Eithen Murkwood," he said firmly, "and this is my squire, Eric Murk, and his wife."
Still no word from the blacksmith.
"So, you don't talk to customers much?" Diomede pressed.
The blacksmith stopped what he was doing and wheeled around. "Will, sir," he said sharply, "I'm just waiting to hear what it is you want. You think I'm here to wait on you hand and foot?"
Diomede let out a chuckle and put his hands on his hips. "Fair enough. I need some armor. These two can speak for themselves."
Lily crossed her arms and added, "I only need my axe sharpened."
Clayton stayed quiet, still figuring out what he needed.
"Fine," the blacksmith grunted. "I'll take care of that. Put your axe by the wall there. Once the forge heats back up, I'll start on it."
He raised a thick arm and pointed to a door on the far side of the room. "Through there you'll find the armor. Pick what you want and I'll add it to your bill."
Diomede nodded and strode toward the door, with Clayton close behind. Lily leaned against the wall, arms crossed, waiting patiently.
Through the door lay a room lined with rows of armor—styles and sizes for every kind of warrior. The suits closest to the entrance were the standard types, none without thick plates or overlapping metal pieces tied or riveted tight. Diomede's stride was steady and determined as he moved down the aisles, his eyes scanning each set. Clayton trailed behind, but his gaze lingered on the details of each piece. The armor wasn't just different in protection; the metals reflected a range of colors, as if forged in the fire of some enchanted forge.
Diomede stopped at the end of the rows, his eyes locking on a dark suit. It was a blend of scalemail and brigandine, forged in deep, shadowy tones. Clayton finally caught up.
"You thinking about this one?" Clayton asked, his voice tinged with confusion.
Diomede turned, meeting Clayton's puzzled look. "Yes, I am."
"But isn't it heavy?" Clayton questioned, reaching out to lift a pauldron.
Diomede shrugged as he lifted the armor from the mannequin. "No. Why do you think that?"
Clayton tested the weight himself. "It's not light, but with how you fight, wouldn't something lighter suit you better?"
A half-smile crossed Diomede's lips. "It's not too heavy to slow me down. Besides, I prefer the extra protection."
Suddenly, Clayton's eyes widened with a thought. "Wait, you heal fast, don't you? So why bother with armor at all?"
Diomede's smile faded, replaced by a more serious expression. "Healing fast doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. And I don't want to be patching up my clothes every time I finish a fight."
Clayton shifted, nervous now. "Since we're on the subject—Diomede, what exactly are you?"
Diomede turned fully to face him, noticing the defensive set of Clayton's stance.
"What, you think I'm going to attack you just for asking?" Diomede asked, voice low but steady.
Clayton shook his head. "No, but… I don't really know you well. Not yet."
Diomede nodded slowly, a glimmer of respect in his eyes. "That was brave of you to ask. Since you're traveling with me—and the others—on the way to my home, I owe you some answers."
Clayton's throat tightened. His heart quickened, muscles tensed like he was ready for anything. He stood rigid, waiting for a strike that didn't come.
Diomede reached out, placing a firm, steady hand on Clayton's shoulder.
"To be honest, I'm not sure I'm ready to tell you everything yet," Diomede admitted. His grip tightened—not in threat, but reassurance.
"But I promise this—I'll do no harm to you, to our companions, or to your village."
Their eyes locked, Clayton feeling the truth in Diomede's words deep in his gut. Still, a flicker of doubt nagged at the edge of his mind. Was it true? Or was it the hope he wanted to hear?
Clayton nodded slowly.
Diomede pulled back his hand. "Go on. Head back to the front and wait with Lily. I need to change into my new armor."
Clayton turned and left through the door, his thoughts heavy but his trust, for now, earned.
To his surprise, Lily stood behind the blacksmith, her sharp eyes following every stroke as he worked the great axe's edge. She wasn't watching out of idle curiosity—no, she was making sure the blacksmith didn't slip up and damage the weapon she trusted with her life. Clayton closed the door behind him and made his way over to a worn chair beside a small, rough-hewn table.
"Lad, you want somethin' or are you just flat broke?" the blacksmith grunted, not looking up from his work.
Clayton shook his head, muttering a simple, "No."
Moments later, the blade gleamed sharp, catching the light as Lily inspected it carefully. The blacksmith grunted again, shaking his head. "Not many wives carry a weapon like that, especially when they're married to a squire."
Lily and Clayton exchanged a brief, worried glance. Tension thickened the air between them, broken only by the steady snapping and popping from the forge's fire.
"Well, hell, it was just a question. Don't go gettin' your britches all twisted," the blacksmith chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow.
He shifted his gaze to Clayton, sizing him up from head to toe. "Lad, you ain't got no armor, and you're carryin' a broken sword that's bent and chipped to hell. You're breakin' my heart not takin' care of yourself."
Clayton straightened and pulled the battered blade from its sheath—the very sword that had slain the Gultonk. "If you could sharpen the edges and straighten it out, I'd be grateful."
The blacksmith barked a laugh. "Lad, I'd rather melt it down into a fork than fix that broken heap."
"That broken sword was used to kill a Gultonk," Lily said, voice steady and proud, "after it soaked in the blood of his fallen brothers."
The blacksmith glanced between the two with a softened, almost regretful expression. "Well, if it means that much, I suppose I can put some effort into fixin' it for you, lad."
Clayton handed over the sword, and with a look that said everything without words, he silently thanked Lily.
Diomede stood silently in the room, waiting until he sensed the others beyond the door were settled and unaware. Then his demeanor shifted—his eyes flared with a fierce orange glow, casting an eerie light across the shadows.
"Why are you here… Diego?" His voice was low, edged with both suspicion and challenge.
From the deepest corner of the room, a figure stepped forward—a man draped in a red trench coat, his presence as bold as his smile. "As perceptive as always, young Diomede."