The fourth floor opened up like a disciplined anthill on the brink of war. Leather stalls stretched in rows, glass display cases showcased amber liquids where runes floated like embers, hooks held straps and chainmail hanging like freshly shed snake skins. The air had a metallic taste: iron oil, brazier grease, and the bittersweet scent of rune inks that bit the nose. Hammers beat in the forges at the back with the cadence of marching drums; somewhere, someone tuned a horn as if summoning troops; two apprentices argued the fair price of a Simargl, spitting numbers like exchanging blows in a ring.
Nikolai took a deep breath. The wooden leg touched the stone floor — toc — and the sound was lost in the symphony of iron. Ashen walked beside him, snout held high, sniffing the world with the urgency of one late to the hunting grounds.
"First the mail, then protection for Ashen,"
he listed, without raising his voice.
"Secondary weapon and potions, if there's anything left. No heroics."
He already knew the basics about iron chainmail — there was no secret there. The concern was something else: finding protection for Ashen that was mountable, adjustable, and capable of growing with him. Ashen had already grown at least ten centimeters since the last measurement — and didn't seem to be stopping anytime soon. He now stood over seventy centimeters tall, larger than an adult black bear. Investing in a single-piece armor would be like throwing money into the forge.
"I need something mountable and adjustable,"
he murmured, more to himself than to the stalls that ignored him.
Ideally, a modular set: articulated plates, straps with extra holes, waxed leather to prevent cracking, clamps that could be replaced. Strong and durable, but… cheap. And cheap, here, was a word that got beaten until it bled.
Kuzma hadn't exaggerated: the prices were a bad joke. And Nikolai's simple clothing, the way he weighed each coin before spending it, gave him away as a newcomer. You could feel the looks measuring his budget before they even measured his chest.
"They know I'm new…"
he whispered.
"And what can I do about it?"
Half the day crumbled into comings and goings. The merchants showed him pieces that "would last a lifetime" — as if that helped someone who might not live through the week — and nothing came close to what his wallet could handle. That's when something small and fast bumped into his leg.
"Sir… good afternoon…"
A child, timid, big eyes blinking under soot. Immediately, laughter erupted around them: adults feeding on their own self-importance like pigs at the trough. Nikolai, who had always been a lonely child, didn't get angry. He crouched to the boy's level.
"Don't worry,"
he said, softening his tone.
"Do you need help?"
"If… if you're looking for something, my mom… my mom's the best blacksmith here."
The laughter grew a little louder — steel against steel. The boy swallowed his tears out of pride. The sound struck Nikolai's ribs like a misdelivered blow. He simply nodded, serious.
"All right. Nice to meet you, my name's Nikolai. If you can, take me to your mother."
The boy's face lit up like a coal catching wind. He grabbed Nikolai's wrist firmly and pulled him, while Ashen followed with the elegance of the curious.
They cut through the rows, passed stands offering "gold in the shape of steel," dodged a training circle where two warriors were testing each other: clack! clack! — blades touching like teeth. The smell of hot iron intensified; sparks leapt from the forges and turned into constellations for a second before dying. On the way, a chain fell with a crash and someone cursed; hammers resumed like heavy rain on a roof.
At last, they arrived at a small, nearly lifeless tent. No signs, no shouted promises. Here, the steel spoke for itself.
A woman was hammering, focused, on what seemed to be a helmet — the exact rhythm, no wasted force. Her face bore the gravity of someone telling their own story with every strike. Beside her, a black bear — small, but with eyes like glowing coals — watched, focused on the same task, as if learning to hammer and breathe at the same time.
"Mom, I brought a customer!"
the boy announced like someone calling in reinforcements.
The woman raised her gaze. She stopped the hammer mid-air, measured Nikolai, then measured Ashen.
"Good afternoon,"
said Nikolai, slightly inclined.
"I must be speaking to the best blacksmith here. Pleasure to meet you, my name is Nikolai."
She blinked, confused for a moment, nervousness crossing her face like the shadow of a cloud.
"Sorry. I'm Svetlana…"
she wiped her hands on her apron and carefully set down the hammer.
"I mean… do you need something?"
Nikolai felt that nervousness, but beneath it there was a solidity that reminded him of anvils. He could trust her. Still, the sounds of the floor didn't let him forget: this was a pre-battlefield.
"I need a chainmail for myself and protection for him,"
he said, indicating Ashen with a nod.
"Modular. Adjustable. He's growing. And I…"
A short, humorless smile.
"Am not growing in coins."
Svetlana gave a low whistle. She approached Ashen like someone approaching a drawn bow.
"May I?"
she asked the animal.
Ashen stepped half aside, sniffed her hand, accepted. Svetlana passed a measuring tape, checked curvatures, took mental notes. From under the counter, she pulled out a disassembled piece: overlapping plates like scales, straps with reinforced buckles, rivets ready for extra holes.
"Free-axis scale system,"
she explained, no frills.
"It'll wrap around the chest and shoulders, and you can loosen it by two fingers on each side with every adjustment. Waxed leather, prevents cracking. The plates are tempered iron with a light rune coating — not for show; withstands short arrows and strong bites."
She tapped it lightly; the sound was dry, promising.
"If you want, I can add a protective collar for the neck once he grows more."
"And the price?"
Nikolai went straight, like someone striking when the guard is down.
"Lower than what the shouters charge, higher than you'd like. Unfortunately, I'd need to buy materials and would need the whole day."
Nikolai scanned the tent with his eyes. The workbench too clean, the forge barely lit, the unfinished helmet waiting for the next blow — and no customers. The emptiness said more than any advertisement. Svetlana noticed the silent observation and took a deep breath, like someone choosing to open a wound.
"My husband was once a great blacksmith…"
she began, but let the sentence die.
Nikolai didn't need to hear the rest. The reasons could be many, but the result was the same: a young woman with a black bear and a small son, with no real option. She could become a servant in Medved, but being pretty and a servant of the nobility was almost always an invitation to disaster. The only path left was to follow her husband's footsteps, even if those footsteps had led to the edge of ruin.
"This is what I have left."
She touched the hammer's handle, like someone holding a weapon for the last time.
"I learned everything I needed and have as much experience as he did, but…"
"You haven't proven yourself yet,"
Nikolai cut in, bluntly.
The words hit her hard. She widened her eyes, surprised, like someone had guessed a scar she was hiding. The silence that followed was heavy, like half-extinguished embers.
"Very well,"
he continued, forcing steadiness.
"What's the price?"
Nikolai already knew the competitors' prices: 100 strips, always. Ten whole hunts turned into steel. And they all inflated it by at least twenty percent. A fair value wouldn't go above eighty. He already expected to hear the same spiel, but Svetlana said, without hesitation:
"Fifty strips."
The number fell into the air like a suddenly sheathed blade. Too cheap. Too honest. Almost dangerous. She hadn't just ignored the "newcomer tax" — she was charging the real price, maybe even without a margin. The need seeped from her voice.
"But…"
Svetlana continued, locking eyes with him like someone who had decided not to back down.
"I'd need you to do me a favor. If not, I'd have to charge sixty."
Nikolai raised an eyebrow. She was a terrible negotiator, and that made him smile inwardly. If she was as skilled at her craft as she was honest in her speech, he had found gold — or tempered iron, which was just as good.
"Very well,"
he said, placing his hands on the bench.
"What's the favor?"
Svetlana explained with a firm voice, though her eyes still carried weariness. The problem wasn't the hammer, nor the anvil, nor the forge's flame. It was the supply. Raw ore, mineral blends, magic stones. Everything came from the caves on levels 1 and 2, torn by force from the living rock. Buying from middlemen was expensive — far too expensive. And if it depended on them, she'd be bankrupt before she ever got recognized. The big competitors went after what they needed themselves, or paid groups like Kuzma's. She had neither the strength to go alone nor the resources to hire anyone.
"So that's it,"
Nikolai said, his fingers tapping on the bench like a drumbeat.
"I'm new, which means I'm cheap. If we make a deal, you keep the discount."
Svetlana stared at him. For a moment, the crackle of coal in the forge was the only sound in the tent. Then, Nikolai added:
"But how do you know I can help you?"
The question came out almost like a challenge, thrown like the tip of a spear.
Svetlana opened her mouth and, instead of hesitating, let out a sincerity that cut through Nikolai like a blade without a sheath:
"Either you're strong, or you're smart."
She crossed her arms, and a thread of ash fell from her fingers, like battlefield dust.
"You don't dress like a noble, nor like a bourgeois. And even if you were fast in the incursion after the ritual, I doubt you've gone more than three times — and you certainly wouldn't have made it here with enough to buy armor for your bear… and for yourself."
She fell silent for a moment, her eyes still assessing.
"That makes me think that, even as a rookie, either you have strength of your own… or you were smart enough to join a team that does. To me, that doesn't matter. What matters is that you can get what I need."
She took a deep breath, her chest rising like someone preparing to carry the weight of armor. When she continued, her voice was no longer just firm — it was sharp:
"You need something too. I want to do business with you. I know from my husband that, usually, the first person to strike a deal with a rookie ends up being their go-to later. I don't have a track record to show. I don't have prestigious clients, or crests on the walls. But I have my hands… and I swear by the man I loved that I can deliver what I promise."
There was desperation in those words. There was struggle. But there was also something more dangerous: hope. Raw, cutting hope that forced Nikolai to acknowledge it. It was as if Svetlana, exposed and fragile in her situation, was still betting on him with the same boldness that he was considering betting on her. Two players before an invisible board, measuring each other's courage before the first move.
Ashen let out a low, rumbling sound that broke the silence like muffled thunder. The animal's gaze fixed on Svetlana, and for a moment, it seemed the pact had already been sealed before Nikolai could even respond.
"Then I guess we have a deal."