Anthony peered down the dimly lit stairs, his brows furrowing. "This doesn't look like much."
"Looks can be deceiving," Arlon replied simply, beginning his descent without waiting for a response.
The others followed. The air grew cooler as they descended, and the faint glow of a forge's embers came into view. At the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves standing in front of a small, unimpressive wooden door.
It looked more like the entrance to a storeroom than the workspace of a master craftsman.
Arlon raised a hand and knocked twice.
Knock— Knock—
… Click
Creak—
The door creaked open, and Arlon's sharp eyes took in the man before him: soot-streaked face, untamed hair, and eyes sharper than any blade in the shop. He's exactly as the story described, Arlon thought, lips twitching faintly beneath his mask. Gruff, brilliant, and just wary enough to be interesting.
His sharp, discerning eyes took them all in, lingering on Arlon for a fraction longer than the others.
Flutter—
A faint shimmer of golden text flickered into view at the edges of his vision, the Narrator Screen weaving its usual dramatic flair.
["Henry Owl was simply a gruff craftsman, hidden away in the shadows of Falcon City. His skill unmatched, his name known only to a few."]
Arlon's lips twitched faintly beneath his mask. The Screen always had a flair for the dramatic.
Henry Owl, as if sensing the attention, turned toward the group with a sharp glance, his soot-streaked face and weathered hands speaking to decades of work.
"Who are you, and how did you find me?" the man asked bluntly, his voice carrying a no-nonsense tone.
"We're here for your expertise, Mr. Owl," Arlon said smoothly. "We have something that requires your skill."
Henry Owl's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "I don't take walk-ins. If you're here for a patched kitchen knife, go to the smiths uptown. I've got real work to do."
Flutter—
["Henry Owl's suspicion was not unfounded. His years in the trade had taught him to spot trouble before it entered his forge."]
Flutter—
["The group was no ordinary client—that much was clear. But it was the younger man, the one clutching a bundle wrapped in cloth, who drew Henry's eye."]
"This isn't just any blade," Arlon replied, his voice calm but firm. "And you're the only one who can handle it."
Henry's gaze shifted to Lawrence, who clutched the cloth-wrapped sword tightly. His suspicion deepened. "What makes you think I'll take your job?"
Arlon stepped aside slightly, gesturing for Lawrence to step forward. "Show him."
Lawrence hesitated, his grip tightening on the bundle. Under Henry's piercing gaze, he carefully unwrapped the sword. The blade gleamed faintly in the dim light, its cracks and chips stark against the worn steel.
Henry's expression shifted, his sharp eyes narrowing further as he stepped closer to examine the sword. He leaned in, his practiced gaze taking in every crack, every worn edge, without so much as touching it.
A faint, almost imperceptible hum escaped him as he studied the blade, his expression unreadable.
Finally, he straightened, letting out a rough sigh as he stepped back and gestured toward the door behind him. "Come inside. If I'm going to look at this properly, I need more light—and more quiet."
Ah, so he's interested after all, Arlon thought, catching the faint shift in Henry's expression.
He turned and pushed the door open wider, revealing the dimly lit interior of his workshop. With a sharp glance over his shoulder, he added, "Don't touch anything. I don't need clumsy hands breaking things I can't replace."
Arlon nodded once, stepping forward, and the rest followed without question. As they crossed the threshold, Alice and Anthony's eyes widened in awe.
The workshop was a chaotic masterpiece.
Weapons lined the walls, their steel gleaming in the forge's glow. Daggers, swords, and hammers hung in neat rows, each a masterpiece of craftsmanship.
Along one wall, shelves sagged under the weight of various materials—chunks of raw ore, ingots of gleaming steel, and rolls of supple leather. Tools of every shape and size cluttered the workbenches, from delicate chisels to massive tongs and hammers.
The air was thick with the scent of smoke, oil, and metal, and the low, steady hum of the forge fire filled the space with warmth.
Anthony let out a low whistle, his gaze trailing over a particularly massive two-handed sword propped against a wall. "This place is incredible. It's like a treasure trove for warriors—or a disaster waiting to happen for someone like Alice."
Alice crossed her arms, shooting him a glare. "At least I wouldn't burn it all down. Remember the stew incident?"
Anthony's face flushed red. "That was one time."
Alice stepped closer to a nearby shelf, her eyes catching the glint of a dagger with an emerald-studded hilt.
"Everything here… it's like it has a story of its own," she murmured, her fingers twitching as though tempted to reach out.
"Don't," Henry barked from across the room, his voice sharp enough to make Alice flinch. "I said no touching."
Alice stepped back quickly, her cheeks coloring. "Sorry," she muttered.
Henry ignored her, his focus already back on the sword as he placed it on a wide, heavily scarred workbench in the center of the room. He grabbed a lamp from a nearby hook, its warm glow spilling over the blade as he leaned in again.
This time, he let his fingers brush the metal, running them lightly over the cracks and chips. His hands were calloused, marked by years of work, yet his touch was impossibly delicate.
"This blade's been through the wringer," Henry muttered, his voice gruff. "It's held up through countless battles, but it's barely hanging on now."
Arlon stepped closer, watching Henry's fingers trace the blade's imperfections. He's not just looking—he's listening to the steel, Arlon noted, impressed despite himself. If anyone can save this relic, it's him.
Henry tilted the blade under the lamp's glow, the faint light highlighting every imperfection etched into the steel. He ran a calloused finger along the edge, pausing at a deep crack near the center.
"This metal's seen its limit," Henry murmured, running a calloused finger over a deep crack. "It's brittle, stretched to its breaking point. This blade's crying for relief."
"..."
Lawrence's fingers curled around the edge of the workbench, his knuckles whitening as Henry's words settled heavily in his chest
His grip tightened on the worn hilt, his thumb tracing the grooves his father's hands had etched into the steel. And now it was falling apart, just like everything else in his life had before Arlon arrived.
He glanced up briefly, his sharp eyes locking onto Lawrence. "Your father's sword, right?"
Lawrence nodded stiffly, his jaw tight. "Yes. It's all I have left of him."
Henry's gaze softened—just barely—but he didn't let up. "Sentimental value doesn't fix steel, kid. If you want this sword back in fighting shape, it's not going to be the same when I'm done. You'll have to let go of some of the old to make room for the new. You get that?"
Lawrence hesitated, his eyes flicking back to the blade. The weight of Henry's words seemed to settle heavily on his shoulders.
["Henry's gaze softened—just barely. Though he said nothing, his hands moved with care as he set the blade down on the workbench."]
[—" In that moment, the master craftsman and the young swordsman shared an unspoken understanding: this was more than a weapon. It was a memory, a promise, and a burden."]
Arlon, standing slightly apart from the group, watched the exchange silently. The Narrator Screen flickered again, its words a quiet hum in the back of his mind.
"That's why we came to you," Arlon said, his voice steady but firm. We need more than a blacksmith—we need someone who sees the soul of the blade. He watched Henry closely, looking for any crack in the man's gruff exterior.
"You talk like you know me," Henry said, his eyes narrowing. Arlon held the gaze, unflinching. I know the version of you from the story, he thought, but real people are always messier. Let's see how much truth lines up with fiction.
Arlon's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile beneath his mask. "Let's just say I've heard stories."
Henry snorted, shaking his head. "Stories, huh? Well, if you've heard them, then you know I don't work for free."
Arlon didn't hesitate. "Price won't be an issue."
Henry grunted and straightened, setting the sword down flat on the bench. "Good. Because this isn't going to be a patch job. This sword needs to be reforged entirely. Stripped down, melted, and rebuilt from scratch. That's the only way it'll survive the next battle."
Lawrence swallowed hard, his grip on the workbench tightening. "Will it still... be his?" Lawrence asked, the words catching in his throat.
Henry's gaze softened slightly again. "That depends on you. A sword's strength doesn't come from the steel alone—it comes from the one who wields it. If you carry it forward, it'll still be your father's sword. Stronger this time."
Lawrence's shoulders relaxed a fraction, and he nodded. "Then do it."
Henry stepped back from the workbench, brushing his hands on his soot-streaked apron. "Leave it here. Give me a few days, and you'll have a sword ready for war.",His tone was confident, as if the reforging was already a foregone conclusion.
Arlon inclined his head slightly, his calm demeanor never wavering. "Alright."
As the others began to turn toward the exit, Arlon's sharp gaze swept across the workshop. The weapons hanging on the walls and the neatly organized tools caught his attention, each piece exuding the kind of master craftsmanship that couldn't be found in ordinary forges. Something stirred his curiosity.
"Do you sell all these weapons," he asked, his tone neutral but carrying a hint of curiosity, "or are they just for display?"
Alice and Anthony, who had been following behind him, paused. Anthony's head immediately swiveled toward the weapons rack like a hawk spotting prey, while Alice crossed her arms, her interest more restrained but no less keen.
"You make these?" Anthony asked, his voice filled with admiration. He moved closer to the rack, his fingers hovering near the hilt of a broad, gleaming longsword with intricate engravings.
"This blade… the weight and balance must be incredible. It looks like it could cut through steel."
Henry, still standing by the workbench, glared at him. "Don't touch."
Anthony froze, his hands snapping back like a guilty child caught reaching for the cookie jar. "I wasn't going to," he muttered defensively, though his eyes lingered longingly on the sword.
Alice, meanwhile, stayed near Arlon, her critical gaze sweeping across the various weapons and tools. "A lot of these are imbued, aren't they?" she asked, her tone thoughtful as her fingers twitched faintly.
Her mage's intuition was sharp; the faint hum of magical energy resonated in her mind. "I can feel traces of mana in some of them."
Henry turned his sharp eyes to Alice, his expression softening ever so slightly at her observation. "You've got a good sense for that," he admitted gruffly. "Most people don't notice unless they're actively trying to channel the energy."
Alice nodded, her curiosity piqued. She stepped closer to the dagger she had noticed earlier, its sapphire hilt faintly glowing. "This one," she murmured, "it's a catalyst, isn't it? Designed for mages."
Henry's gaze flicked to the dagger, then back to Alice. "It is. But like I told your friend, no touching unless you're buying."
"I apologize for my brother's behavior, sir," Alice said, casting a glance toward Anthony, who huffed from across the room.
"How am I supposed to know if a weapon suits me if I can't hold it?" Anthony retorted, his arms crossed. "A swordsman has to feel the blade before committing—"
Alice shot him a sharp glare.
"..."
"You can feel it with your eyes," Henry shot back, his voice like steel. "These aren't some cheap market swords you can pick up and swing around like a fool. If you want one of my weapons, you'd better prove you're worth it."
Anthony raised his hands in mock surrender, though his pride was clearly bruised. "Alright, alright. No touching. Got it."