The forge sat at the edge of Bridgedon, where stone buildings thinned and the road began to fracture back into dirt.
Gabriel reached it shortly after dawn.
Smoke rolled from the chimney in steady bursts, dark against the pale sky. The ring of iron carried down the street in measured strikes, unhurried and consistent. The sound didn't change when he passed beneath the hanging sign or pushed the door open. Work done the same way every day.
Heat pressed in immediately.
The forge was narrow and practical. Walls blackened by soot. Racks of blades lined one side. Unfinished work, repairs, commissions waiting their turn. Some were wrapped in cloth, others left bare, dull edges catching the light.
Tools lay within arm's reach of the anvil, each one worn smooth by years of use. A grindstone sat near the back, its surface scarred and uneven.
No decoration. No sigils. No excess.
The blacksmith didn't look up.
