The morning light filtered through the Conjurer's Crane, painting the streets in shades of rust and amber.
Goburo woke to the sound of metal striking metal. It was a steady, rhythmic beat—*clang, hiss, clang*—that vibrated through the floorboards of the round bedroom.
He sat up. The blanket slid off his shoulder. He felt the bandage on his face. It was tight, but clean.
He looked out the glass wall. The canyon was waking up. The red mist had lifted slightly, revealing the intricate network of bridges and pipes below.
He walked to the doorway of the forge. Craven was already there, shirtless, sweating over a glowing bar of steel. The man didn't turn.
"Hungry?" Craven grunted, nodding towards a crate near the door.
On the crate sat a bowl of porridge, thick and grey, with a chunk of dried meat on the side. It wasn't gourmet. But it was hot.
"Thank you," Goburo said.
He ate in silence, sitting on the steps of the forge. The heat washed over him, comfortable and grounding. He watched Craven work. The sparks flew like tiny red birds. There was no conversation, but it didn't feel empty. It felt like a truce.
Meanwhile, at The Rusty Spigot, Watabei was waking up to a very different kind of heat.
She had barely slept. The bedsheets were damp with the city's humidity and her own nervous sweat. Her mind kept drifting to Goburo. *Is he safe? Is he cold? Did he find a corner to hide in?*
She got up, dressed, and went downstairs.
The common room was already bustling. The smell of stale beer and roasting meat filled the air.
Watabei sat at a corner table, nursing a cup of water. She watched the room.
Her eyes caught movement near the bar.
A girl was moving through the tables.
She was slight, with pale, luminous skin and hair like spun silver. She wore a dress that was cut a little too low, a little too tight. She moved with a fluid, predatory grace.
She approached a table of mercenaries. She laughed, a sound like chiming bells. She placed a hand on one man's shoulder, her fingers tracing the line of his neck. The man's eyes glazed over. He smiled, a dopey, slack-jawed expression, and reached for his coin purse.
Watabei narrowed her eyes.
She watched the girl move to the next table. She hopped up onto a bench, her thigh brushing against a merchant's arm. She whispered something in his ear. He blushed crimson and handed her a silver coin, his wife none the wiser.
*Charm.*
It was a specific skill. An innate ability of the High Elves to cloud the minds of lesser species, primarily men. It was subtle, insidious, and incredibly effective in a place like this.
Most people here wouldn't know an elf if they tripped over one. They just saw a pretty girl.
But Watabei knew.
She had history with the Fair Folk. She knew the difference between genuine allure and magical manipulation.
She watched the elf girl work the room. The girl was desperate. Her smile was too bright. Her movements were too quick. She needed money, and she needed it fast.
*They all have only one way to have money,* Watabei thought, a pang of cynicism hitting her. *They are so desperate.*
She felt a wave of exhaustion. The manipulation, the greed, the constant transaction of the city—it was tiring.
She drained her cup and stood up. She didn't want to watch the elf fleece the drunks. She had her own problems.
She headed for the door.
Goburo stepped out of the forge.
He felt clean. Warm. Fed.
He stretched his arms, looking up at the sign hanging above the blacksmith's entrance. It was a slab of iron, painted with flaking red letters:
*Craven's Crimson.*
*Fitting,* Goburo thought.
He took a few steps into the street, intending to find a place to wash his face properly, when he saw her.
Watabei was walking up the path, looking tired and worried. She was scanning the alleyways, peering into shadows.
She spotted him.
Her face froze. Then, relief washed over her features.
"Goburo!"
She hurried over.
"I looked for you," she said, breathless. "At the inn. I mean, not *in* the inn, but outside. I thought you might be... I don't know."
"I'm fine," Goburo said. He gestured to the building behind him. "I found a place."
Watabei looked up at the sign. *Craven's Crimson.* She looked at the sturdy iron door, the heat radiating from within.
"Where exactly did you stay?" she asked, confused. "This is a smithy."
"Inside," Goburo said. "I met a nice person. He sheltered me."
Watabei blinked. "A person? Just... let you in?"
"Yes. His name is Craven."
"Craven?" Watabei repeated. "The Smith? He has a reputation for being... well, solitary."
"He was kind," Goburo said simply.
Watabei stared at him. She wanted to ask more. She wanted to know why a blacksmith would take in a goblin in a city that hated them. But looking at Goburo's calm face, the way his shoulders were relaxed, she stopped herself.
*He's okay,* she told herself. *That's what matters.*
She decided she didn't want to go into the details. It was too early for complications.
"Okay," she said. "Good. That's good."
She shifted her weight.
"So," Goburo said, changing the subject. "The man you were looking for. Your contact. Did you find him?"
Watabei's expression dropped slightly.
"No," she admitted. "I asked around. Sent a message. It looks like he will be a little late."
"How late?"
"A few hours. Maybe until evening. He travels a specific route through the canyon."
Goburo nodded.
"So... we wait?" he asked.
"Yeah," Watabei sighed. "We wait."
She rubbed her stomach. It gave a low, embarrassing rumble.
"Actually," she said, blushing slightly. "I haven't eaten yet. The inn's food is... well, let's just say I lost my appetite watching the clientele. Let's go eat something."
Goburo looked at her.
He tilted his head.
"You want to go eat?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Inside the inn?"
Watabei paused.
"No," she said. "Not inside."
She looked at Goburo. At the single eye, the green skin. She thought about the innkeeper's glare. She thought about the insults.
"I'll get the food," she said firmly. "And we can eat... outside. There's a ledge near the aqueduct. It has a view."
Goburo looked at her like she had said something unvariable. Like the equation didn't balance.
"You will bring the food out? To me?"
"Yes," Watabei said, her blush deepening under his gaze. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"You... you don't have to," Goburo said. "I can eat scraps."
"Shut up," Watabei muttered. "Wait here."
She turned and marched back into *The Rusty Spigot*.
Five minutes later, she came out carrying two wooden bowls. They were piled high with stew—chunks of meat, root vegetables, and thick gravy. She also had a loaf of hard bread tucked under her arm.
She walked past the sneering innkeeper, ignoring his look of distaste as she took the food "to go."
She found Goburo waiting by the wall of the smithy.
"Come on," she said.
They walked a short distance to the aqueduct railing. It was a stone barrier that overlooked the lower tiers of the city. The red water rushed past in channels below them, glowing faintly with geothermal heat.
They sat down on the cold stone.
Watabei handed Goburo a bowl and tore the bread in half.
"Here," she said.
"Thank you," Goburo said.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. The stew was hot and filling. The air was cool but not freezing.
"You know," Watabei said between bites, "this is probably the best meal in the city. Not because of the food. But because there are no idiots shouting in my ear."
Goburo chewed thoughtfully.
"It is quiet," he agreed.
He looked at the view. The steam rising from the canyon. The distant lights.
He thought about his family. He thought about the fire.
But for the first time, the memory didn't hurt. It was just a memory.
He looked at Watabei. She was slurping her stew, gravy on her chin, looking tired but content.
"Thank you, Watabei," Goburo said.
She paused, spoon halfway to her mouth.
"For what?"
"For eating outside."
Watabei blushed again. She looked away, wiping her chin with her sleeve.
"It's nothing," she mumbled. "I... I prefer the view out here anyway."
Goburo smiled. A small, genuine smile.
They finished their meal, sitting side by side on the stone railing of the aqueduct.
And for a brief moment, amidst the red mist and the iron city, they were just two friends having lunch. Not a goblin and a human. Not a survivor and a rogue.
Just Goburo and Watabei.
They laughed at a bird that slipped on the wet railing. They watched the steam rise. They chilled out.
It was a small moment.
But it was enough.
TO BE CONTINUED...