Three days had passed since Eron’s failed attempt to uncover the old man’s secret. Three days of restless sleep, of imagining gears turning and locks clicking in the dark shadow of that heavy, iron-banded door.
The forge was warm again that morning, the familiar glow of molten tal filling the air with an orange haze. Sparks hissed and danced across the floor like restless fireflies.
Eron was bent over the anvil, sweat dripping down his forehead and nose, his hamr striking in a steady rhythm. The old man stood nearby, arms crossed, his gaze critical but... less hostile than before.
"Your grip is still sloppy," the old man barked. Eron grunted. "It’s better than yesterday."
"Better than yesterday still ans bad today," the old man said, walking over and adjusting Eron’s hands without asking. His grip was firm, calloused fingers pressing Eron’s knuckles into a new angle. "The hamr’s head must fall straight. You’re striking like a man trying to scare a rat, not shape steel."
Eron bit back a retort and focused on the swing. Straight. Even. Let the hamr do the work.
The clang rang true this ti, vibrating in the air.
The old man didn’t praise him — he never did — but a small grunt escaped his lips. That was as good as applause.
For the next hour, they worked on forming a cuirass (a piece of armour consisting of breastplate and backplate fastened together). They worked not just on the flat plates, but they also curved them, hamring them over rounded stakes so they would wrap around a body without gaps. The tal fought back, stubborn, cooling faster than Eron wanted.
"You’re letting it get cold," the old man said, pulling the piece from him and thrusting it into the furnace. "tal is like a mule, you have to work with it while it’s willing. Wait too long and it’ll kick you in the teeth."
"Feels more like it’s kicking my arms," Eron muttered under his breath.
The old man’s lip twitched. "Good. ans you’re not cheating yourself with easy work."
By midday, Eron’s shoulders burned. His hands ached from gripping the hamr and tongs, but he didn’t stop. The old man was working too , shaping smaller pieces, punching holes, filing edges with precision so fine that Eron sotis forgot to breathe just cause of him watching.
That skill... that control over every strike — it was beyond anything he had imagined.
The old man noticed him staring."What are you looking at?"
"You," Eron said before thinking. The old man raised an eyebrow.
"I an... the way you work. It’s like the tal listens to you."
The old man smirked faintly, returning his attention to the piece in his hand. "It listens because I’ve broken it enough tis to know how it screams."
That statent stuck in Eron’s mind. The old man spoke of tal the way others spoke of people — as if it had moods, tempers, secrets. Just like that door.
Later, when they took a break, Eron sat on a stool, gulping down water while the old man sorted tools. He , again, started thinking about the heavy door leading deeper into the house and how it was shut tight. Its fra was reinforced, far sturdier than the rest of the house’s wooden walls.
"Don’t even think about it," the old man said suddenly, without looking up.
"I wasn’t—"
"You were. You’ve been looking at the direction of my house."
Eron swallowed. "Why won’t you tell what’s behind it?"
"Because it’s mine. That’s reason enough."
The answer was blunt, final. Eron knew pressing further would only earn him a shouting match — and maybe losing his place at the forge. Still, his curiosity gnawed at him like a persistent itch.
For the next few days, the routine continued. Eron rose early, ate quickly, and hurried to the workshop. The old man drilled him on various armor parts — greaves, pauldrons, bracers.
Every day the work grew harder. More precise. The old man would scold him for mistakes, but there was a subtle shift now: the criticism was shaping him, not breaking him.
"You’ve got hands that want to work," the old man said one evening as they closed the forge. "That’s rare. Most people want the end product without the burns and blisters."
Eron simply nodded. Praise didn’t matter as much as learning — but the words ant more than he’d admit.
Still... every ti he saw the door, his mind wandered. Why guard it so fiercely? What could possibly be inside?
..........................................
anwhile, elsewhere in Velondar...
Rai and Alex strolled down a busy market street, both carrying heavy pouches of coin. The sun caught the edges of Velondar’s marble towers, bathing the city in gold. rchants shouted over each other, buyers haggled, and the air was thick with the sll of spice and hot bread.
"You’re smiling like a clown" Rai said, giving Alex a sidelong glance.
"We just turned scraps from the alchemist’s vault into enough money to feed my family for a year Of course I’m smiling."
Alex laughed, shaking his head. "I still can’t believe those shopkeepers bought them without asking too many questions."
"Half the art of selling," Rai replied, flipping a coin into the air, "is knowing when to shut up."
"So when will we able to exchange this for real money."
"Soon. And it seems other players have started entering the cities too."
"Yeah. Mostly they are all pros from famous guilds from other gas."
The two slipped into a side street, avoiding the main crowd, their next destination already in mind — another shop, another quiet deal. Their pouches clinked softly, a private music of profit.
................................
Back at the forge, Eron wiped the sweat from his brow, returning to his work. The old man had given him a new challenge: shaping overlapping plates for a segnted pauldron. Each plate had to fit perfectly with the next, no sharp edges, no gaps.
"Too wide," the old man said when Eron handed over the first plate. "Start again."
"Again? But it’s just a milliter—"
"Milliters are the difference between armor that saves a life and armor that leaves a corpse. Again."
Eron sighed, took the plate back, and set to work. Over and over, he failed, adjusted, and tried again. His arms felt like lead, but he refused to stop.
When he finally got it right, the old man gave a single nod. "Acceptable."
Coming from him, that was practically a dal.
That night, lying in bed, Eron found himself smiling faintly despite his exhaustion. He was learning, improving — and slowly, the old man was opening up to him.
But behind that smile, another thought lingered. The door. Always the door.
Whatever was behind it... he would find out. Just not yet.
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