I stood in the lobby of the crafting guild, watching the busy activity swirl around me. People moved in steady waves: miners dressed in dust-covered leathers, smiths still coated in soot, and a pair of mages loudly arguing over the price of projects. The entire place smelled of sweat, hot metal, and spiced bread drifting from somewhere deeper inside.

  Erica pointed toward a wall lined with rough-hewn boards. Each board was covered in slips of parchment, curling at the edges. “That over there is the request board for different classes,” she explained. “Blacksmithing, weaving, tanning, carpentry, you name it. Members can take on jobs as their skills permit.”

  I followed her hand, noticing how quickly adventurers and guild members grabbed requests, some leaving with smiles, others groaning. She pointed to the opposite side of the chamber. “And over there is the gathering area. Guild members can rest, eat, or trade notes. It’s neutral ground. Arguments from outside aren’t allowed to spill over here.”

  Benches crowded with men and women filled the space. Tankards clinked, and the smell of roasted meat rolled over from a serving counter where two harried cooks ladled stew into wooden bowls.

  “And that is the receptionists, I gather?” I asked, my gaze drawn to a raised desk at the back of the hall where three young women in neat uniforms were dealing with a long queue of apprentices.

  “Yes,” Erica confirmed with a nod. “They check qualifications, hand out requests that aren’t posted, and process exams. If you want recognition or advancement, you go through them.”

  A burly carpenter pushed past me, muttering under his breath while clutching a bundle of fresh commissions. I stepped aside, taking in the vastness of the space. The entire guild felt like Pen Station; everywhere you looked, people had a purpose.

  I pushed my way through the crowd until I stood before the smithing section of the request board. The wooden wall was plastered with curling slips of parchment, hinges, and nails by the crate, along with a few orders for simple swords or iron fittings. All of them were stamped journeyman level or lower. My eyes scanned the clutter until they snagged on something different. Higher up, tacked with a rusted spike as though daring anyone to take it, hung a single faded page.

  A request for an axe. Not just any axe, but a special one, written in neat, authoritative script. The paper was yellowed at the edges, the ink almost fading, like it had been there longer than most of the guild apprentices had been alive.

  “Now that’s interesting,” I murmured aloud.

  Next to me, an older man with a broad frame and hammer-calloused hands snorted, following my gaze. “Oh, that one.” His voice carried a gruff amusement. “Been there longer than I’ve had this beard. That’s Prince Theodore’s commission, lad. No one smart touches it. Too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” I asked, turning to him.

  “Not the axe. The job. A prince’s request means failure gets remembered. Some tried, once. They didn’t last here long. No one in this hall wants to risk his name being ground to dust because a royal thought the edge wasn’t sharp enough.”

  I smiled. “You’re new,” he added, narrowing his eyes. “Never seen your face around here. I’m Gebhard. Smith, thirty years running.”

  “David,” I said, offering a hand. “Also a smith. From Vaelthorn. Just visiting.”

  His eyes flicked to my grip, then back up. “Just visiting, and you walk straight into a guild hall?”

  “Well, I’m waiting for my wife,” I admitted, glancing back at the door where Seraphina and the others had disappeared into the city. “She went shopping.”

  Gebhard barked a laugh, loud enough to turn a few heads. “Ha! You’ve been caught in the oldest trap there is. Waiting while she empties your purse.”

  “I thought I’d make myself useful while I wait.”

  “Useful?” He raised a brow, amused.

  “Or at least not bored.” I grinned. “Say, are you thirsty? I’ll treat.”

  His brows rose, but the smile crept across his face. “A free tankard? I’d be a fool to say no.”

  We left the press at the board and found a table half-shadowed against the wall. The hum of the hall rolled around us, laughter, clattering tankards, the occasional thud of a smith’s gauntlet on the tabletop. I flagged down a serving girl, who darted over and took my order for two ales.

  That was when Gebhard’s gaze shifted, noticing Allyson behind me, her silver hair catching the light as she stood patiently.

  “Who’s she?” he asked, tilting his head.

  “Allyson. My assistant.”

  His brows shot up. “A blacksmith with an assistant? That’s unusual. You sure you’re a smith, lad?”

  “Yes,” I said evenly, smiling into my cup as the serving girl returned with two foaming mugs. “A blacksmith. A pretty good one, back in Vaelthorn.”

  Gebhard laughed deeply from his chest, shaking his head. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard someone say that.”

  “Probably won’t be the last,” I said, and raised my tankard.

  Halfway through my second tankard, Erica finally found me. She leaned in close, her blue dress catching the lamplight as she whispered, “My lord, Master Smith Kendrick is at the forges in the back of the guild. He’s waiting for you now.”

  I looked over at her and noticed the neckline of her dress dipping just enough to reveal a deep valley of cleavage. I forced my eyes back to her face before she caught me staring. She’s going to drive the young men of Vaelthorn absolutely mad when we return. Part of me wanted to laugh at the thought, and part of me realized it wasn’t a joke. She was blossoming into someone who would draw attention whether she liked it or not.

  Gebhard paused mid-drink. Ale dripped down his beard as his eyes fixed on me. “My… lord?”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah. There’s that.”

  His brows furrowed, like he was replaying every word I’d said earlier. “A smith and a lord. That’s a combination I’ve not heard before.”

  “You’ll find I don’t fit neatly into either box,” I said lightly, finishing the rest of my tankard.

  I turned to him. “You’ve met Kendrick before?”

  “A long time ago,” Gebhard said, his voice low with something like respect. “I was there when the Guild named him Master. That man… he’s a natural. Every strike of his hammer sings. No wasted motion. Even the way he breathes seems to fall into rhythm with the steel.” He rubbed his beard. “So what business does a lord-smith have with him?”

  “I just wanted to meet him.” I rose, slinging my cloak back over one shoulder. “Could I persuade you into showing me the way?”

  “Back forges,” Erica said quickly, but Gebhard gave a bark of laughter.

  “Tourists,” he muttered. “Fine, I’ll show you.”

  We started toward the reception hall, but I stopped before the request board. With deliberate calm, I reached up and pulled down the faded parchment bearing Prince Theodore’s commission.

  Gebhard froze, his eyes wide. Around us, two apprentices glanced over, whispering before hurrying away. “You really want that? It’s poisoned, lad. A Smith’s reputation killer. Touch it and the Prince will make sure you regret it.”

  “Maybe,” I said, folding the paper and tucking it into my coat. “But I think I can make the Prince happy.”

  Gebhard muttered under his breath as we continued down the long corridor. The air grew warmer and thicker with each step. The faint clang, clang, clang of steel on steel echoed through the stone halls. By the time we reached the great double doors, the heat had become a steady wave, carrying the smell of coal smoke, oil, and hot iron.

  Gebhard pushed the doors open wide. The sound hit me first a chorus of ringing anvils, hissing quenches, and shouted orders. The forge floor stretched out before us, with four stations blazing with open flames, smiths hammering glowing metal under the watchful eyes of apprentices scurrying with tongs and buckets. Sparks leapt and fell like fireflies across the stone floor.

  In the far corner, away from the rhythm and chaos, sat a man who didn’t need to wield a hammer to command the space. Older, with silvered hair and a neatly trimmed beard, he held a black pipe in his hand. He simply watched, the kind of watch that measured every strike, every decision, every flaw, and in that silent scrutiny, the others unconsciously straightened, sharpened, and cleaned their acts.

  “That’s him,” Gebhard said softly, pointing. “The Master Smith.”

  Kendrick didn’t look at us, but even from here, I could feel the weight of his presence. Not arrogance, just a sense of belonging. This was his hall. His world. I wondered if others ever saw me that way. Did I carry that same commanding air when I walked my ship or my forge? Or was I still a man pretending, waiting for someone to notice the seams? Kendrick didn’t need to prove himself; he simply was. I’ve always been told a craftsman is only as good as his last work. Do my actions truly prove the rank I’ve been given?

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  _____________________

  Cesan Kendrick watched the man walking toward him. There was something familiar in the way he moved confidently, as if being here was second nature. Broad shoulders, arms made from real work; yes, this was no idle man. A smith, maybe, or some other tradesman who survived by the hammer. But why come here, to me?

  The two women behind him stayed just a step back, shadows of loyalty, but Kendrick’s focus remained on the man himself. His eyes. Gods above, those were the eyes of a craftsman. Sharp, observant, absorbing everything around him without needing to stare. Kendrick remembered when his own eyes had burned like that, in his younger years before age and mastery softened them.

  He kept watching as the man drew closer, each step making it harder to resist the pull of familiarity. Was this visitor really another smith… or something even rarer?

  _____________________

  Mynia lingered near the shelves, partially hidden in shadow, her eyes fixed on the five women bustling around the shop. She had studied the reports carefully: Seraphina, the leader, sharp and commanding; Allira, the soldier, quick as a striking blade, someone to keep away from; Marlena, the mage, clever and dangerous at range; Erica, still raw from her awakening, hardly worth mentioning; and then there was Aria, the earth mage, older, softer in bearing but valued. She was the one her employer wanted.

  Yet the real prize wasn’t here. The husband was. The engineer. Kill him, seize the mage, and earn a double payday. Mynia flexed her fingers. It was a risky mission, but the reward was worth it. Enough to quiet any doubts. She was Mynia of the Shadows. This was her life.

  The women gabbed over silk and lace, sharing laughs about what their husbands would enjoy. Mynia nearly sneered. So blind. So comfortable. She casually moved closer, each step designed to seem insignificant.

  A tall blind was rolled in by her men, fitting smoothly into place. The shopkeeper, already paid, looked the other way. Mynia’s pulse slowed, steady and focused.

  Aria barely noticed as she approached. Mynia’s hand grasped her firmly, silencing her with ruthless efficiency. The sting of a needle, the collapse of her body, the muffled gasp as the slave band secured around her throat, no chance of spellcraft now.

  In seconds, Aria was stripped of her clothes and tied up. Mynia slipped into them, the fabric still warm, and cut her palm with her blade. A drop of blood, a whisper of power. The Dopligator skill rippled through her body. Bones shifted, skin reformed, and the reflection in the mirror was no longer her own.

  Aria lay hidden and restrained, carried out by her associates through the side door before a single person turned their head. Mynia, now Aria, stepped out from behind the blind with a faint smile. The women kept chatting about nightgowns, completely unaware. Too easy, Mynia thought, adjusting the borrowed sleeves. Almost disappointing.

  _____________________

  “Master Smith Kendrick?” I extended my hand. The man before me studied me for a moment, then slowly reached out. His grip was firm, rough with years of work. I released it after a shake. “It’s good to meet you,” I said. “I was told there was a master smith in Eldros, and I couldn’t pass up the chance to meet him.”

  The steady rhythm of hammers in the hall faltered. Other smiths had paused their work, and I felt their eyes on me, measuring the stranger who dared step forward to greet the master.

  “You’re welcome,” Kendrick said at last, though his brows knit. “But you have me at a loss, son.”

  “I’m David. David Robertson,” I offered.

  “And what brings you here… to Eldros?” His gaze flicked past me, lingering on the two women at my side before returning.

  “Dealings with the King, and a few other small tasks,” I said, scratching the back of my head. “Guildmaster Verran of Vaelthorn spoke highly of you. I had to come see for myself.”

  At the mention of the King, his tone shifted, tinged with doubt. “The King, is it? So, David, what do you do for a living?”

  “That’s an interesting question,” I said with a grin. “Mostly, I’m a blacksmith. I run the guild forges in Vaelthorn.”

  “A smith, you say.” His silvered beard twitched with a mix of skepticism and amusement. “Are you any good?”

  I chuckled. “I have my moments.” From my coat, I pulled out a weathered slip of parchment. “If you’ve got a free workstation, I’d like to take this one on.”

  He looked down, and a quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest. “That, sir, is a bad choice. I’ve seen more than a few try it and fail.”

  “Why haven’t you taken it yourself?” I asked.

  “There comes a time in a man’s life when he knows which fires are worth feeding, and which are not. That one,” he tapped the parchment, “I’ve no interest in.”

  “Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll take a crack at it. We can talk while I work,” I said, glancing around at the half-ring of smiths watching us, their eyes skeptical, almost daring me to fail.

  “Sure, why not,” the master smith said at last. “You can use this spot right here.” He pointed to the forge behind him, already glowing hot and ready.

  I shrugged off my jacket and handed it to Allyson, rolling my sleeves up to the elbows. A hammer rested on the rack. I lifted it to test the balance, feeling the heft of its weight through my arm, then put it back down. “Do you have any stock suitable for that request?”

  Kendrick laughed, stroking his silver beard. “Over there, in the racks. Use what you like. Let’s see if you know what you’re looking at.”

  “Fair enough.” I rummaged through my coat for some coins and handed them to Erica. “Could you get some refreshments for Master Kendrick and me? Might as well make it a proper afternoon.” She smiled, asked Kendrick what he preferred, and headed toward the hall.

  I walked over to the racks as the forge heat warmed my face. Dozens of bars, iron, steel, even silver alloys, stacked neatly. Then, tucked along the side, I saw it. Not gray. Not black. Not dull. Orange like sunlight caught in stone.

  That one.

  I hefted the bar and walked back, feeling the eyes on me. Around the forge, the smiths had stopped their work. They leaned on their hammers, whispering, with a few shaking their heads. I could almost hear what they were thinking: fool doesn’t know what he’s grabbed.

  “So, David,” Kendrick said with a low laugh, “do you know what you’re holding?”

  “This? Looks nice. I like the color. I think the Prince would love an orange axe.” I dropped it to the anvil, clang!, and the sound rang, bright and pure, like a struck bell.

  Murmurs rippled through the room.

  “Let’s see,” I said, sliding the billet into the fire. “The request was for a bearded axe. Is this for chopping trees or something bigger?”

  “Truth?” Kendrick chuckled. “He’s more the monster type.”

  “Then monsters it is.” I gave the bellows two steady pumps, the forge roaring hotter, shadows dancing across the walls.

  By the time Erica returned with food and three tankards, the orichalcum was glowing white, nearly too bright to look at. She handed out drinks while I took up the hammer again.

  “You won’t be able…” Kendrick began, but I was already swinging.

  CLANG. The forge hall echoed like a struck gong. Sparks flew out, showering the stones beneath my feet.

  CLANG. The vibration resonated through the anvil and my arms, as if the metal itself were alive and responding.

  I worked the billet with a steady rhythm, the shape of an axe head forming blow by blow. Each strike drew more silence. Men who’d been smirking were now staring with their mouths open. One crossed himself. Another muttered a curse, shaking his head.

  By the time the color faded to straw-yellow, sweat dripped down my temple. I put the hammer down, slid the billet back into the fire, and accepted the tankard Allyson offered. I took a long sip, foam sticking to my lip, then handed it back.

  Only then did I glance around. Every eye in the hall was fixed on me. No one spoke. Even the hammering at the other forges had gone still.

  Kendrick’s tankard hung forgotten halfway to his mouth. His lips moved, but for a moment, no sound came. Finally, he managed:

  “What are you?” he stammered.

  I smiled, wiping the back of my hand across my brow. “Me? I’m a blacksmith.”

  It didn’t take long to forge the axe head, shaping it truly and straight before adding the finishing touches. I quenched the heat from the edge, then held it up to the light, feeling satisfied. Only then did I pause, a question slipping out that I should have asked sooner.

  “Does the Prince have any magecraft?”

  Kendrick had been hovering nearby, still shaken from what he’d seen. He cleared his throat. “…He does. Some fire attributes, like a swordsman.”

  “Fire, hmm. Perfect.” I set the head back onto the anvil and began etching runes along each cheek. Ember lines flared under the chisel, binding themselves to the metal. “Who wouldn’t want a flaming axe? Nothing says intimidation like fire. Monsters or men, it’ll burn either way.”

  The others had drawn closer, their work forgotten. I felt their eyes, the whispers thick behind me, but I ignored them. This needed a name. Every ‘true’ weapon deserved one. I turned the piece in my hands, the orange sheen of orichalcum catching the firelight. Shadowrend. The name fit. Simple, sharp, brutal. I inscribed it along the side, the letters biting deep.

  When the work was finished, I sat on the anvil, polishing the head until it gleamed and fixing it to the new haft. Allyson appeared at my side, passing me my tankard. I drained it and handed it back, thanking her absently as Kendrick edged closer. He reached out as though the axe might vanish if he blinked. When I placed it in his hands, he held it like a holy relic, eyes wide, jaw set in disbelief.

  Allyson pressed a sandwich into my hand as the familiar chime echoed:

  [DING]

  [7500 Blacksmithing XP Gained]

  [Level Up – Blacksmithing: 33]

  10,230 XP Until Next Level

  “You’re not a blacksmith,” Kendrick said at last.

  I smirked. “That’s what I call myself. But truthfully? My class is an Engineer. As far as I know, the only one.”

  The word landed like a hammerblow. Several smiths gasped. Kendrick stared. “An Engineer… the stories said they were gone forever. That they left us. And now one stands in my forge.”

  “Stories always leave something out,” I said lightly.

  He studied me a moment longer, then chuckled. “You said Vaelthorn? I heard another master smith was named some time ago there.”

  “I heard that too.” I grinned. A ripple of laughter broke the tension.

  Kendrick stood, gripping my hand. “Then let the forges of Eldros welcome the Master Smith of Vaelthorn.”

  “If this axe doesn’t satisfy the Prince,” I added, “then he’s an idiot.” That drew real laughter from the smiths, the tension breaking like slag from iron.

  Movement stirred at the doorway. A trio of familiar figures approached my wives. Seraphina’s voice carried above the others.

  “David, are you showing off again?”

  Kendrick’s brows rose. “Your wife, I presume?”

  “Yes,” I said, gesturing. “Seraphina. The blonde is Marlena, and the dark-haired one is Allira.”

  “Three wives,” Kendrick muttered, half in admiration, half in disbelief. “What a life.”

  I handed him the request sheet. “Would you see that this reaches Prince Theodore. My future brother-in-law should be pleased.”

  “Brother-in-law?” His eyes narrowed in curiosity.

  “Long story.” I patted him on his back. “By the way, could I buy those ingots from you?”

  “Buy?” He barked a laugh. “They’re useless to us. Take them. They’re yours.”

  I thanked him, storing away eight bars of orichalcum and six of mithril. A fine haul. Leaving Shadowrend in his care, I turned to Seraphina and the others. Together, we walked out of the guild and back toward the tower.

  _____________________

  Master Smith Kendrick settled back onto the stool, the weight of the axe firm in his grip. He ran a calloused thumb over the side of the weapon, admiring the flawless surface. No hammer marks, no signs of struggle in the forging, only smooth, steel-like lines flowing into the etched runes that seemed to pulse with faint heat. It was craftsmanship of the highest level, the kind of finish that even he, with a lifetime at the forge, would find hard to match.

  He turned it slowly in the light, awe growing in his chest. This was no simple trick. The balance, the polish, even the subtle bite of the runes, he had only seen work like this in the forges of the southern dwarves. And even then, only from their masters. Gods above, he thought, what in the blazing hell is a human doing matching the craft of dwarves?

  If he hadn’t seen it himself, he’d have thought it was a lie. Yet he had watched David Robertson take orichalcum, a metal no man dared forge, and shape it as easily as mild iron. The whispers of the younger smiths followed behind him, some in awe, others frightened. Kendrick merely chuckled softly.

  “What heights will you reach, David Robertson?” he murmured.

  He leaned back, pipe smoke curling from his lips, and a decision took root in his bones. He would travel to Vaelthorn someday, not just to see this man in his element, but to witness what new marvels might come from his forge. History was changing, and Kendrick aimed to see it with his own eyes before his time ended.