The forge sat at the edge of Bridgedon, where stone buildings thinned and the road began to fracture back into dirt.
Gabriel reached it shortly after dawn.
Smoke rolled from the chimney in steady bursts, dark against the pale sky. The ring of iron carried down the street in asured strikes, unhurried and consistent. The sound didn’t change when he passed beneath the hanging sign or pushed the door open. Work done the sa way every day.
Heat pressed in imdiately.
The forge was narrow and practical. Walls blackened by soot. Racks of blades lined one side. Unfinished work, repairs, commissions waiting their turn. So were wrapped in cloth, others left bare, dull edges catching the light.
Tools lay within arm’s reach of the anvil, each one worn smooth by years of use. A grindstone sat near the back, its surface scarred and uneven.
No decoration. No sigils. No excess.
The blacksmith didn’t look up.
He was broad through the shoulders, sleeves rolled high, forearms corded with muscle and old burns. The hamr fell again, sparks jumping as steel t steel. The rhythm was steady, controlled. No flourish. No wasted motion.
Gabriel stopped a few paces from the anvil and waited.
Three strikes later, the hamr stopped. The smith plunged the blade into a trough beside him. Steam hissed and blood, rolling up past his face before thinning into the rafters. Only then did he turn.
His eyes moved over Gabriel once. Cloak. Boots. The worn sword at his side. The empty space where a second blade should have been.
"You’re back," the smith said.
"Yes."
The smith wiped his palms on a rag and reached to the bench. He set a finished blade down between them. Long. Straight. Unmarked. Practical steel shaped for use, not display.
"Ten silver," the smith said. "Like I told you."
Gabriel picked it up.
The weight settled cleanly into his hand. He tipped the point once, then steadied it. No pull. No drag. The balance was close enough that his wrist didn’t need to adjust. He shifted his grip, tested the wrap. Tight. Secure.
He checked the edge with his thumb, just enough to feel resistance, then lowered it. The blade didn’t bite. It waited.
"I want two," Gabriel said.
The smith’s brow furrowed. "Identical?"
"Yes. Sa length. Sa weight. Sa balance."
"That’s twenty."
"No," Gabriel replied. "Ten."
The smith let out a short breath through his nose. "One blade is ten. You knew that."
Gabriel reached into his pouch and placed the coins on the bench.
Eight silver pieces clinked softly against the wood.
"I have eight," he said.
The smith stared at them.
Then back at Gabriel.
"That’s not how this works," the smith said.
Gabriel didn’t move.
The forge crackled behind them. Heat shimred in the air. A drop of water fell sowhere in the back and vanished with a faint hiss where it struck hot stone.
Slowly, faintly, the red in Gabriel’s eyes began to glow.
Not bright. Not flaring.
Just there.
A steady ember-light, controlled and contained.
The smith swallowed.
His jaw tightened. He looked away for a mont—toward the anvil, toward the rack of tools—then back to the coins.
"Eight," he muttered.
He gathered the silver and pushed it into a drawer beneath the bench. The drawer shut with a dull thud.
"But," the smith added, lifting his gaze again, "that doesn’t get you out the door clean."
Gabriel waited.
"You want two blades for eight," the smith continued, voice flat. "You make it worth my ti."
"What," Gabriel asked, "is the job?"
The smith leaned back against the bench. "My apprentice hasn’t co back."
Gabriel said nothing.
"Three days ago," the smith continued. "Sent him to the quarry north of town. Church contract. Stone work. Legal site."
"Alive?" Gabriel asked.
"I don’t know."
Gabriel nodded once.
"You bring him back," the smith said. "Or you bring proof he won’t."
"No noise," he added. "Nothing that cos back here. Nothing that puts Church eyes on my door."
Gabriel considered it for a mont.
Not the morality of it. The logistics.
"How long," he asked, "until the blades are finished?"
"Two days," the smith replied. "Sheath included. Cross-back, like you asked."
Gabriel nodded. "I’ll return."
The road north followed the river.
Gabriel left Bridgedon midmorning, moving at a steady pace. The town fell away behind him quickly, stone walls shrinking into a low line against the horizon. The sounds changed with the distance—hamrs and voices replaced by wind, water, and the crunch of boots on gravel.
Fields stretched out on either side at first. Low fences. Bare winter crops. Frost clung stubbornly to shaded ground. A farr drove a cart along the opposite side of the road, hood pulled tight, eyes down. He didn’t look up as Gabriel passed.
The river kept pace beside him, cutting through the land with steady movent. Its surface was dull beneath the sky, broken by ripples and scattered stones. The sound of it never stopped.
Gabriel followed the directions exactly.
Three miles along the river.
No shortcuts. No detours.
The land began to rise as the river narrowed. Fields thinned. Trees beca more common, bare branches reaching across the sky. Stone crowded the ground, forcing the road to bend and split around it.
Wind off the water cut colder here. Gabriel adjusted his hood slightly, angling it to keep the light from catching his eyes.
The road degraded the farther he went.
Packed dirt gave way to loose stone. Cart tracks thinned, then vanished. The path beca suggestion rather than structure, marked only by the occasional broken wheel rut or crushed patch of grass.
Stone dust appeared underfoot.
Pale. Fine. Tracked by boots and wheels alike. It clung to the edges of stones and collected in shallow grooves. Dust ant work. Work ant people.
The quarry lay ahead.
Gabriel slowed as the terrain changed.
The sll of cut stone reached him first. Dry and sharp. Iron followed, faint but present. Machinery creaked sowhere below, lifts hauling weight upward in steady rhythm.
He climbed the last rise carefully.
From the edge, the quarry spread beneath him in wide terraces carved into the cliff face. Stone walls stepped down toward the river. Workers moved in small groups, heads down, rhythm unbroken. Their clothes were grey with dust, shoulders hunched from long hours.
Guards stood where they were placed.
Spears. Short swords. Church colors worn without pride. Contract n. Not Paladins.
Gabriel stayed where he was.
He counted.
Two posts near the main cut. One by the storage sheds. Another near the lift anchors. Rotations overlapped poorly. Sightlines broke often—stacked stone, scaffolding, machinery.
No one looked up.
Gabriel eased back from the edge and moved along the ridge until he found better cover. From there, he could see the access tunnels cut into the rock. Dark mouths leading into the cliff face. He could see the storage area, the lifts, the paths workers followed.
He stopped.
The quarry worked below him, unaware.
Gabriel settled into the stone and watched.
The job began here.
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