Damon emerged from the forge minutes later, his expression darker than before. During this time, Carls had been chatting with the blacksmith, Anvil, convincing the standoffish man to assist Damon. While Anvil wasn't the friendliest, Carls knew him well enough to push past his prickly demeanor.
When Damon stepped into the main shop, Anvil glanced at him. His sharp eyes immediately caught the shift in Damon's demeanor. The coldness in the boy's gaze had been replaced by something deeper—a painful, hollow look, as if he'd just endured a significant loss.
Anvil smirked knowingly.
"Looks like you suffered quite the blow. And here I thought you were walking out with some rare treasures."
Carls, ever the optimist, tried to cheer Damon up.
"No worries, Damon. Life's full of wins and losses. You'll bounce back."
Damon didn't respond. He silently slung the bag off his shoulder, set it on the counter, and pulled out the ores he had collected.
