The squire blanched. “I thought-I thought it’d save you the trouble, sir. Your breastplate was cracked, and the gauntlets bent. Master Grukk’s the best smith in Brindlecross, my lord.” He bowed low.

  Armour was life, and a soldier did not part with it lightly. If he’s damaged it! William forced his voice to calm and rose with a groan. “Take me to him.” He imagined his armour being repaired with pig iron.

  The boy led him across the village green, past thatched cottages and the low stone wall that penned a few sheep. Smoke rose from a squat building of timber and brick, the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil echoing through the morning air.

  Inside, the heat struck at once. The forge glowed, sparks leaping as the half-orc blacksmith worked. He was a broad-shouldered figure with grey-green skin; his tusks were filed down, and his eyes looked wary. At the sight of William, he set aside his hammer with surprising haste.

  “Sir Knight,” the smith rumbled, bowing his head low. “Forgive me. I meant no insult, touching your holy armour. The boy brought it, and…” He gestured to the bench before fiddling with his leather apron.

  William stepped closer. His cuirass lay there, the seams were straightened, the dents hammered smooth, and the plates re-riveted. Even the hairline crack across the breastplate had been reforged, the join barely visible. Scratches marred the golden lacquer, but the metal beneath gleamed solid and true.

  Will breathed a sigh of relief. “You did this overnight?”

  The half-orc ducked his head. “I worked late, sir. It’s not… It’s not fit for court, the colour’s gone. The gold, sir, once it chips, I can’t restore it. I’ve no alchemist’s paints or guild supplies. I…” He swallowed, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I failed.”

  Grukk. The name jolted something loose in William’s memory. In the game, there had been whispers about a half-orc Master Blacksmith who’d once served in the capital, crafting blades for the Royal Guard. Something had happened; was it corruption or a scandal? Betrayal maybe? He couldn’t quite recall, only that the smith had left court in disgrace and buried himself in some backwater village. And if you were a blacksmith player, there was a whole chain of quests tied to him… one Will had never touched as a Holy Paladin with the professions, Holy Runesmithing and Alchemy.

  He studied the armour again. Every strike, every line was perfect. It’s better than the quick system-repair kit. The game never showed this kind of care before.

  William reached out and rested a gauntlet on the bench. “This is exceptional work, Master Grukk. The colour doesn’t matter. Armour is for battle, not for show. Good job.”

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  The half-orc looked up, startled. “But the golden…”

  “In the capital, maybe,” William cut in with a small smile. “Out here? It means nothing. I care that it holds up to battle, not how it shines.” He nodded like a wise man. That’s the sort of stuff a knight would say, right?

  In the game, colour was a trivial thing. He’d changed his armour aesthetics dozens of times, a couple of gold here or there to match whatever look he wanted, or he could even use his alchemy skills to whip up a colour-changing potion. But here, seeing the way the blacksmith’s hands trembled, he realised it was more than cosmetic; it was pride, reputation, and survival.

  Playing the role of a holy knight, William added, “I’d trust your repairs to stand against any blade, Master Grukk. Thank you.” He gave a small bow.

  Grukk bowed low, his voice thick. “You honour me, sir.”

  “How much do I owe you?” Will crossed his fingers. Damn. This would’ve cost 100 gold normally.

  Grukk shook his head. “I-I never considered payment, sir.” He looked to the boy who was trying not to get too close to the hot forge.

  William sighed; he’d always treated NPCs well to protect his reputation. “How much would you normally charge for armour repairs?”

  The half-orc bowed. “Erm, 20 silver, sir, but I couldn’t charge…”

  Will chuckled, interrupting the smith. That’s small change. Smiling, he retrieved 25 silver from his coin pouch and paid. “Excellent work deserves a fair price.” He couldn’t pay fast enough as he patted the half-orc on the side of the arm. “If it gets damaged again, I know where to come.”

  The blacksmith’s mouth dropped open. “Thank you, sir.” He bowed again.

  Forgetting he could store his armour in his spatial storage, William called to his new squire. “Help me with my armour.”

  Fredric almost fell over himself rushing to assist. The pair carried the repaired armour back to the elder’s home.

  This colour is too much. He squinted as the sunlight reflected off the golden armour. First chance I get, I’ll turn it to deep red or something. He imagined what he’d look like. Hell yeah. That’ll be cool and won’t blind me.

  William and his squire stored the repaired armour in his room, where his sword still leaned against the wall, its blade still caked with dried blood and gore.

  I really shouldn’t be wandering around unarmed. He shook his head at the mistake he’d made and pointed at his filthy clothing on the floor; it was ripped, blood-stained, and stinking of battle. “Fred. Get those cleaned and patched. Go to the best tailor in the village; cost isn’t an issue.” Having only been charged 20 silver for a Master Blacksmith to repair his armour, he figured paying a washerwoman and a tailor wouldn’t cost more than 5 silver. “And don’t come back with excuses.”

  Fredric gathered up the bloody mess. “Yes. Sir.”

  “By the way, how much should I pay you?” William ran his hand through his long white hair in thought. What is a fair wage for a squire?

  Fredric looked afraid.

  Will rolled his eyes. “How much are squires usually paid in these parts?”

  The boy looked down at his feet. “Erm… My pa paid my last master 5 silver a month, my lord.”

  “Oh.” He’d forgotten that becoming a knight’s squire was an honour, and sometimes a knight would be paid to take on a young squire. “Well, we can’t have that. How much would you earn a week as a farmer?”

  The boy looked confused. “When I work for other farmers, they pay me in food, my lord.”

  Will shook his head. How hard can it be to find out how much to pay the boy? He scratched the back of his neck. “We’ll talk about it later, Fred. And call me William.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Fredric ran off with the bloody items like he’d dodged an arrow.

  This is by design. I used to aim for an arbitrary minimum word count of 1,500, which often led to the temptation to add padding or split scenes at unsatisfactory points. Now I don't care about word count; if a chapter naturally ends at 725 words, I stop.

  If you don't like short chapters, go read something else. This is how I write, and I have no plans to change.

  You're getting 7 chapters a week, that's 8,400 words a week. Add in that I also post 7 chapters of a week, and Royal Road readers are receiving almost 17,000 words per week (over 800,000 edited words a year).

  If, for some reason, I switched to 2,000 word chapters, you'd get 4 a week, so you wouldn't get more story. In fact, you'd get less, since I'd move to 3 chapters a week to maximise conversion.

  Chapter 009 [The Cost of Healing]