Harlan led the way out of the inn, his stride purposeful and brisk, leaving me to follow in his wake. The old man moved with a surprising energy, given his age, and I found myself quickening my pace to keep up with him.
We walked through the narrow streets of Rackenshore, passing by buildings that had seen better days. The city bore the scars of war—cracked walls, broken windows, and a general air of weariness.
But there was also a sense of resilience here, a determination to rebuild and carry on despite the hardships. It was fitting; I thought that a blacksmith like Harlan would choose to remain in a place like this.
Eventually, we reached a small, nondescript building tucked away at the edge of town. The sign above the door was faded and nearly illegible, but there was no mistaking the sound of metal being worked inside. The rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil echoed faintly through the air, a sound that spoke of countless hours of labor and skill.
