The silver locket swayed gently against his chest with each step.
It was small, intricately crafted, its surface etched with a sealed crest—the symbol of House Valkrest. The design was elegant, almost understated, but there was a weight to it that went beyond the metal itself. It rested just below his collarbone, visible through the slight opening of his shirt.
His skin was still damp, not from the morning air but from sweat.
Arin let out a quiet breath, dragging a hand briefly through his still-wet hair before letting it fall back into place. The fabric of his shirt clung faintly to his back, uncomfortable in a way that made itself known with every movement.
I should have bathed.
The thought came naturally—and a little too late to matter.
He had meant to.
After the run. After the drills. After pushing his body to the point where even standing upright had felt like a task worth reconsidering.
But plans had a way of collapsing the moment reality stepped in.
Miss Helgarth had called for him.
And when she called—
Arin didn't keep her waiting.
Arin exhaled slowly, his steps steady despite the lingering heaviness in his limbs.
If I hadn't used the dagger…
His fingers twitched faintly at the thought.
Just a little.
That was all it had taken—a small amount of holy healing water drawn from Sanctis Aquilia. Enough to take the edge off the strain, to quiet the screaming protest of his muscles, to bring him back from the brink of uselessness.
But not enough to make him comfortable.
And maybe that was for the best.
Comfort made people careless.
He rolled his shoulder once, feeling the dull resistance still lingering beneath the surface.
That kind of training…
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips.
Without it, I wouldn't even be walking right now.
The street stretched ahead of them, bathed in the soft gold of early morning light. The sun had only just begun its climb, its rays still gentle, painting the stone paths and wooden structures in warm hues. The city felt different at this hour—quieter, but not asleep. Awake in a slower, steadier way.
Arin walked beside Helgarth, matching her pace.
For a few moments, neither of them spoke.
Then—
"Miss Helgarth," he said, glancing slightly toward her, "this blacksmith you mentioned…"
"What kind of person is he?"
Helgarth didn't answer immediately.
Her boots struck the stone path with measured rhythm, her gaze fixed ahead as if the question needed to settle before it deserved a response.
"You'll see soon enough," she said at last.
Her tone was calm, but there was something underneath it—something that suggested experience rather than avoidance.
Then, after a moment, she added,
"One thing you should know…"
Her eyes shifted slightly, just enough to acknowledge him.
"He's short-tempered. Greedy. And not the kind to entertain nonsense."
"But—"
Her voice hardened just a fraction.
"He respects skill."
That was it.
No embellishment. No reassurance.
Just the truth.
Arin gave a small nod, his gaze drifting forward again.
Short-tempered. Greedy. Skilled.
That combination wasn't rare.
But it was dangerous in its own way.
And useful—if handled correctly.
They walked on.
The streets gradually thinned as they moved further from the tavern's immediate surroundings, giving way to a quieter section of the district. The buildings here stood a little more spaced apart, the noise of early trade replaced by the distant rhythm of work already underway somewhere unseen.
They had arrived.
The building stood apart without trying to.
Two stories tall, solidly built, its structure carried a quiet confidence that didn't need decoration to prove its worth. A polished wooden sign hung near the entrance, its surface smooth and well-kept, the engraved name catching the morning light.
Ironheart Anvil.
A boundary wall enclosed the property, low but deliberate, marking the space as something defined rather than open. Inside, a small garden lined the approach—simple, maintained, practical. Not for beauty alone, but not neglected either.
It felt… lived in.
Helgarth didn't slow down.
She stepped forward and pushed the door open.
It didn't creak.
It slammed.
The sound cut through the interior like a declaration.
The sharp, metallic scent of worked iron filled the air, layered over the steady roar of a forge burning at full strength.
Clang.
A hammer struck metal.
Clang.
Each impact carried weight—measured, controlled, precise.
Arin's gaze shifted toward the source.
A figure stood near the forge, back turned, one arm raised as the hammer came down again in a clean, practiced motion. The muscles beneath his skin tightened with each strike, dense and powerful, built not for show but for repetition.
The hammer stopped.
The man turned.
A single eye met theirs. Protective glasses rested over his face, slightly smudged from use. For a moment, he simply looked.
Then he pushed the glasses up, resting them against his braided hair.
Dark.
Thick.
Streaked with white.
A beard to match, rough and untrimmed in a way that spoke more of indifference than neglect.
His gaze shifted fully to Helgarth.
And just like that—
His expression broke.
A wide, unrestrained grin spread across his face.
"Well now—" his voice carried easily, rough but alive with amusement, "what's this? My little pumpkin decided to visit me?"
Helgarth stopped.
Her expression didn't change immediately.
Which somehow made it worse.
"…Stop."
The word came flat.
Controlled.
She stepped forward, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"I'm not a child," she said, her tone sharpening. "And I am definitely not a pumpkin."
The man's grin faltered.
Only slightly.
He tilted his head, considering her for a moment.
Then shrugged.
"But you'll always be my pumpkin."
Helgarth's eye twitched.
Not visibly enough for most people to notice.
But it was there.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, turning her head just enough to break eye contact.
"…Unbelievable."
The word left her under her breath, more irritation than anger—but not by much.
Arin, standing just behind her, said nothing.
——————-
Helgarth didn't waste time.
"This is the one I told you about," she said, jerking her thumb slightly toward Arin. "The one who wants something made."
Then, almost as an afterthought—
"…And he's my tenant. Lives at the Steel Belly."
The old dwarf blacksmith's gaze shifted.
Slow and measured.
It moved from Arin's face… to his stance… to the damp shirt still clinging slightly to his frame.
Assessing him and weighing as well.
Helgarth folded her arms, her gaze shifting briefly toward Arin before settling with quiet finality.
"He's my father," she said, as if stating something that needed no elaboration, yet carried more weight than it appeared to. "Durnak… Forgefather."
There was a faint pause before she continued, her tone steady, almost matter-of-fact.
"'Forgefather' isn't a family name. We dwarfs do not use a surname from where we come from. It's a title he earned—one given to him for his work at the forge."
Arin's expression didn't change much.
But there was a slight shift—subtle enough that most would miss it.
Not surprising.
Not disbelief.
Just… recalibration.
Helgarth caught it anyway.
"I know," she said dryly, glancing at him. "Doesn't look like it."
A faint beat passed.
"I'm a dwarf too."
Her tone didn't change.
"I'm just… what they call an abnormal one."
The word hung for a fraction too long.
Arin noticed a flicker of distaste across Durnak's expression at that word.
It wasn't loud or dramatic.
Just a slight tightening in his jaw.
A flicker in his eye.
Gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
But not invisible.
Helgarth continued as if nothing had happened.
"You know I don't bring just anyone here," she said, her gaze returning to Durnak. "He has something he wants made."
Durnak let out a low breath, rolling his shoulder once before stepping closer.
His steps were heavy and grounded.
"You also know," he said, voice rough but steady, "I don't take work just because you ask."
His single eye shifted back to Arin.
Sharp eyes that were unwelcoming.
"If it's a waste of time, I'll throw him out myself."
Helgarth didn't argue.
Didn't defend.
She simply shrugged.
"That's your decision."
Then she turned slightly, already stepping back.
"I've done my part."
Giving a brief glance toward Arin.
"You're on your own now."
And just like that—
She left.
The door closed behind her with a dull, final thud.
—————
Silence settled into the forge.
It wasn't empty nor was it quiet but still awkwardly different.
The rhythm of the hammer resumed somewhere behind them. The low roar of the forge continued, steady and constant.
Arin stood where he was.
For a moment—
He didn't move.
Then he let out a small, dry breath.
Not quite a laugh.
But close enough to ease the edge of the moment.
"…Right," he muttered under his breath.
Durnak didn't respond immediately.
He stepped forward instead.
Stopping just close enough to look—not from a distance, but properly.
Up close.
His gaze lingered.
Not just on Arin's face—
But on everything.
Posture.
Breathing.
Balance.
Even the way he stood after strain.
"You look like you've already been worked over this morning," Durnak said casually.
It wasn't a question.
Arin met his gaze.
"I have."
Durnak grunted.
Then, without turning—
"Bardin. Brokk."
The two figures in the background glanced up briefly.
One stood near the forge, hammer still in hand, broad-shouldered and solid, the heat of the metal casting a red glow across his arms.
The other worked near a stack of materials, shifting crates and sorting through metal with practiced efficiency.
"Don't break anything while I'm busy," Durnak added.
A snort came from one of them.
"Can't promise that."
Durnak ignored it.
He tilted his head slightly toward the older man standing further back.
"And that's Vingolf."
The man didn't move forward. He was an old dwarf in a true sense with all the braided hair and beard turned white. Gold-rimmed glasses rested on his face.
His presence was quieter—but heavier in a different way.
The kind of gaze that didn't miss things.
"Our rune expert," Durnak added.
That word lingered for a brief moment.
Then—
Durnak stepped closer again.
Close enough now that the difference in height didn't matter.
"You've got five minutes," he said flatly.
"I don't waste time on children who want toys made."
A slight tilt of his head.
"If it's another knife… sword… or something equally useless—"
His gaze hardened just a fraction.
"—you can walk out the same door she did."
Silence.
The forge crackled behind them.
The heat pressed in.
Durnak's voice dropped slightly.
"And I charge well."
A deliberate pause with a smirk."Very well."
Arin did not respond at once.
He stood where he was, letting the heat of the forge settle against his skin, letting the rhythm of the place sink in—the weight of metal, the sound of work, the presence of men who had spent their lives shaping things that lasted.
There was no point rushing words in a place like this.
When he finally spoke, his tone was even, measured—not loud, not hesitant.
"Mr. Durnak,"
His gaze held steady.
"Allow me to introduce myself properly."
He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect that did not bend into submission.
"My name is Arin Valcrest and it's a pleasure to meet you."
The introduction came naturally, without embellishment, as if it needed no decoration beyond its own clarity.
"I was told by Miss Helgarth that you're the best person to speak to if something needs to be made properly."
Only then did he move his hand, reaching into the inner fold of his coat, fingers brushing briefly against the papers he had prepared.
"I want to have a weapon made."
A small pause followed—not forced, not drawn out, simply the space between one thought and the next.
"A Gun," he said.