The word left him without weight or performance, as though he were naming something ordinary.
The moment it landed, it broke the rhythm of the forge.
Bardin's hammer slowed mid-swing, the metal ringing out once before the sound dulled into silence. Brokk paused where he stood, a piece of iron still in his grip as he glanced over.
Even Vingolf's gaze shifted.
Sharpened.
For a brief, absurd moment, Arin had the distinct impression that the old dwarf's ear had tilted—no, stretched—ever so slightly forward, as if trying to catch the word more clearly.
…That can't be right.
He didn't look away to confirm it.
Durnak, however, didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He simply stood there, his single eye fixed on Arin, the weight of that stare pressing heavier than the heat of the forge itself.
Then his brow slowly drew together.
"A… what?"
The word came out flat, edged more with confusion than irritation.
A beat passed.
"…What the hell is a 'gun'?"
Arin did not rush to explain.
Instead, he slipped a hand into his pocket and drew out a folded stack of papers, worn slightly at the edges from repeated handling. He stepped forward and held them out.
"Here," he said simply.
Durnak took them without a word.
The first sheet showed the finished form.
A compact weapon, clean in its structure. The grip shaped to fit the hand, the body streamlined, every part placed with purpose rather than excess. It did not resemble any bow, crossbow, or launcher he had seen before. There was no wasted space. No ornamental nonsense. Just intent.
His expression didn't change at first.
Then he turned the page.
And another.
The silence in the forge deepened.
Each sheet broke the design apart—components separated, angles measured, internal sections laid open with a precision that did not belong to guesswork. Lines intersected with clarity. Mechanisms aligned with logic. Nothing overlapped where it shouldn't. Nothing was left undefined.
By the third page, Bardin had stopped pretending to work.
By the fourth, Brokk had taken a step closer without realizing it.
And Vingolf—
Vingolf moved.
Not quickly. Not dramatically. But enough.
He came to stand just behind Durnak's shoulder, his old eyes narrowing as they traced the markings on the page. One hand rose unconsciously to his beard, fingers tightening slightly as he leaned in.
Durnak reached the final sheets.
The ones marked differently.
The diagrams weren't mechanical but runic—structured to produce specific effects.
His grip on the papers tightened ever so slightly.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze.
This time, when he looked at Arin, it wasn't with dismissal.
It was with focus.
"…This," Durnak said, his voice lower now, more deliberate, "is not something someone sketches on a whim."
He glanced back down at the pages, then up again.
"I've been working iron longer than you've been alive, boy," he continued. "I know what I'm looking at."
Durnak paused before saying. "You're building a projectile weapon. That much is clear."
His brow furrowed slightly.
"But this design…"
He exhaled once through his nose.
"…this is something else entirely."
The words weren't praise.
But it wasn't rejection either.
They carried weight.
His eyes narrowed.
"Where did you get this?"
The question landed clean and direct without leaving room to dodge.
Arin held his gaze for a moment.
Then, inwardly—
He sighed.
Right. Can't exactly say I brought it from another world.
A faint, almost dry amusement surfaced.
Then he spoke.
"I didn't get it from anywhere," he said, his tone shifting just enough to feel… different.
More casual.
Almost thoughtful.
"I saw it in a dream."
Durnak didn't react.
So Arin continued.
"The Almighty All-Father descended from the heavens," he said, lifting one hand slightly, as if illustrating the scene with unnecessary sincerity. "Angels at his side. Light breaking through the clouds. Very dramatic."
A brief pause.
"They showed me the design."
Another small motion of his hand, as if presenting something sacred.
"And told me to build it."
Silence.
For exactly one second.
Then—
Durnak's expression darkened.
"…You witty little rascal."
The words came out flat, edged with irritation.
Behind him, Bardin let out a short, choked laugh before immediately pretending to cough.
Vingolf didn't laugh.
But the corner of his mouth twitched.
Just slightly.
Durnak looked back down at the pages.
This time, slower.
More carefully.
"…Dreams, he says."
But he didn't throw the papers away and that meant everything.
Arin did not immediately reach for the papers.
Instead, he looked at Durnak and said, calmly,
"I have one more request."
Durnak didn't look up from the designs in his hand.
"Ask."
Arin took a breath, choosing his words with care.
"I want this to remain confidential," he said. "The design. The structure. Everything you've seen here."
There was no hesitation in his voice.
"I don't want it replicated. I don't want it discussed. And I don't want it leaving this forge."
The forge did not quiet—but something in the air shifted.
Vingolf's eyes lifted from the page.
Durnak's fingers stopped turning it.
For the first time since Arin had entered, the two older dwarves exchanged a brief glance—not long, not obvious, but enough to be noticed.
Arin held his ground.
Inside, his thoughts moved faster.
I've only just stepped into this world.
The only edge I have is what I know—what I've seen before.
If that spreads…
A faint exhale.
Then I lose it.
And worse—
I won't enjoy being on the other end of the thing.
Durnak lowered the papers slightly, his gaze returning to Arin with a different kind of weight now.
"…You're asking for more than a weapon," he said.
There was no irritation in his voice this time.
Only calculation.
"You're asking for silence."
Arin didn't deny it.
"Yes."
A moment passed.
Then Durnak gave a small, rough huff.
"Fine."
He shifted his stance, folding one arm as the other still held the designs.
"But that comes at a price."
Vingolf's eyes narrowed slightly.
Durnak didn't look at him.
"I'll take one gold coin."
The number landed plainly.
No buildup.
No negotiation.
Just stated.
For a brief second, even Bardin looked over again.
Vingolf turned his head slightly, giving Durnak a sideways glance that said more than words—you expect the boy to afford that ?
Arin didn't react the way they expected.
He didn't hesitate.
"Deal."
The answer came clean.
Immediate.
Durnak's brow twitched.
Just slightly.
This time, he did look at Arin more carefully.
Not as a boy.
Not as a customer.
But as someone who had just made a decision without flinching.
"…You've got the coin?" he asked.
Arin met his gaze evenly.
"I will."
And that was all he said.
But in his mind—
The numbers were already settled.
Ten vials a week.
At ninety silvers each.
A quiet certainty formed beneath the surface.
More than enough.
The forge burned steadily around them.
But something had shifted.
The conversation was no longer about whether this would be made, but how.