The warm glow of early morning sunlight spilled into the orphanage, filtering through the slightly warped glass panes and casting long shadows on the worn wooden floor. The air was alive with the sounds of preparation—Lera's voice rang out from the main hall, carrying a tone of urgency mixed with maternal warmth.
"Do you have everything? Extra blankets? Food? Camping gear?"
Her voice echoed through the building as the five children scrambled in various states of readiness. Sparks was busy tying the laces of her slightly oversized boots, muttering under her breath about how annoying they were. Ox struggled to fit a makeshift pack over his broad shoulders, the fabric clearly meant for someone far smaller. Alistair, always focused, was already set, his bag packed neatly and slung over one shoulder. Zara lingered near the doorway, glancing at her mark where Luna was quietly hidden, the bond between them humming softly. Cross leaned against the wall, inspecting the strap of his small satchel with a critical eye.
Lera emerged from the kitchen, hands on her hips as she surveyed the group. Her auburn braid swung behind her as she moved, her sharp eyes catching every little detail. "Where's the rest of your gear? Blankets? Bedrolls? Do you have enough food packed?" Her questions came rapid-fire.
The children exchanged sheepish glances. Sparks finally spoke up. "We don't really... have any of that stuff."
Lera blinked, her brow furrowing in concern. "Right. Of course. We've never needed to send you out properly equipped before." She pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering, "Greaves is going to love this."
As if summoned by her words, Greaves appeared in the doorway, a bucket of water in one hand and a slightly amused expression on his face. "What's this about me?"
"The kids don't have camping gear," Lera said, gesturing to the group. "We can't send them out like this."
Greaves sighed, setting the bucket down with a thud. "Of course they don't. We've never had the budget for that sort of thing."
"So what do we do?" Lera asked, her voice tinged with exasperation.
Greaves rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "We'll take them into the village. There's bound to be something we can use."
Lera nodded, her expression softening. "Good idea. The shops will be open early, and we can—"
Before she could finish, a loud knock echoed from the front door. Greaves turned, opening it to reveal Darnell, flanked by three other guards. The morning light caught the edges of his armor, highlighting its well-worn but sturdy craftsmanship. His usual easygoing demeanor was tempered with the seriousness of a man on duty.
"Morning," Darnell said, stepping inside. "What's all the commotion?"
"We were just about to take the kids into the village," Greaves replied. "They don't have camping gear for the herb-gathering trip."
Darnell's brow furrowed. "Camping gear? You're not sending them out unarmed, are you?"
"We don't have anything real," Greaves admitted, his tone almost apologetic. "Just wooden training weapons. Real weapons are too expensive to keep around with so many kids."
Darnell considered this, his sharp eyes scanning the group of children. "The guardhouse has some older gear. Not new by any means, but still serviceable. I'll see what we can spare—a few daggers, maybe a short sword or two."
"That would help," Greaves said, relief evident in his voice. "What about other supplies?"
Darnell rubbed the back of his neck, his armor clinking softly. "You'll need flint for fire-starting, some rope, and basic packs for carrying anything you find."
Greaves nodded. "I'll see what we can pick up."
Darnell's eyes shifted back to the kids. "We'll need to go over some basic safety rules before the trip. And they'll need to understand the dangers out there."
"Of course," Lera said firmly. "We'll make sure they're ready."
Darnell's patrol team exchanged glances, and one of the guards spoke up. "We've got a spare list of supplies at the guardhouse. I'll grab it."
Darnell nodded in agreement. "Good idea. Let's meet at the market square in an hour."
With that, the group set off toward the village. The path from the orphanage was well-trodden but surrounded by thick trees, their branches swaying gently in the morning breeze. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of dew and earth. As they approached the village, the landscape shifted, the dense forest giving way to open fields dotted with small houses and stalls.
The village itself was bustling with activity. Merchants called out from their stalls, offering everything from fresh produce to finely crafted wares. The sound of haggling filled the air, mingling with the occasional clink of coins and the rhythmic hammering of a blacksmith at work. Adventurers in varying states of armor wandered through the streets, some stopping to browse while others gathered at the local guild hall, a sturdy building adorned with a sign bearing the guild's crest.
"Stick close," Greaves said, his voice firm but kind. "This place is busy, and it's easy to get separated."
The children clustered together, their eyes wide as they took in the sights and sounds of the bustling village. Sparks' gaze lingered on a stall filled with intricate clockwork trinkets, while Ox eyed a merchant selling roasted meats on skewers. Zara's attention, however, was fixed on the guild hall, its imposing presence drawing her curiosity.
As they made their way toward the blacksmith's shop, they spotted Darnell again, standing near the village square with his patrol team. He waved them over, a list in hand.
"Here's what you'll need," he said, handing the list to Greaves. "I'll head to the guardhouse and grab what we can spare. Meet me there once you've finished at the blacksmith's."
Greaves took the list, scanning it briefly before nodding. "Thanks, Darnell. We'll see you soon."
Darnell's patrol team dispersed, heading back toward the guardhouse, while Greaves led the group toward the blacksmith's shop. The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal grew louder as they approached, the sound reverberating through the air.
The blacksmith's shop was a modest but sturdy building, its open forge visible from the street. A tall, muscular man worked the anvil, his broad back glistening with sweat as he shaped a glowing piece of metal. Sam stood nearby, his hands covered in soot as he carefully examined a newly forged blade.
"Looks like Sam's busy," Greaves said with a faint smile. "Let's not distract him too much."
The children peered into the forge with wide eyes, the heat from the flames washing over them. Sparks, ever curious, leaned closer, her gaze fixed on the intricate tools hanging on the walls.
"Stay back," Greaves warned gently. "The forge isn't a place for wandering hands."
Sam glanced up, noticing the group for the first time. He wiped his hands on a rag, a grin spreading across his soot-smudged face. "Greaves! What brings you here so early?"
"We need some gear," Greaves replied, holding up the list. "The kids are going on an herb-gathering trip with Darnell."
Sam's brow furrowed as he took the list, scanning it quickly. "Camping gear, flint, rope... I think we've got some of this in the back."
"Nothing fancy," Greaves said. "Just whatever's functional."
Sam nodded, gesturing for them to follow. "Come on. Let's see what we've got."
The group stepped into the shop, the air thick with the smell of metal and smoke. Sparks couldn't help but trail her fingers along the edge of a workbench, marveling at the tools and materials scattered across it. Zara lingered near the doorway, her hand absently brushing over her mark where Luna remained hidden.
Greaves turned to the children, his voice calm but firm. "Stay close, and don't touch anything."
As Sam disappeared into the back room, the children exchanged excited whispers, their curiosity barely contained. The rhythmic clang of the forge continued in the background, a steady heartbeat in the bustling village morning.
The air is warm inside, carrying the faint tang of iron and the acrid scent of smelted metal. Rows of tools, weapons, and armor gleam in the dim light, neatly arranged on racks and shelves that line the walls. The shop feels alive, the occasional clink of metal and the soft hum of enchantments lingering in the air.
The children, their eyes wide with wonder, wander deeper into the shop, each instinctively drawn to different parts of the store. Alistair moves toward a section of gleaming shields and swords. His gaze lingers on a beautifully crafted longsword with a dark steel blade, its crossguard engraved with swirling patterns resembling flowing water. His fingers hover near the edge of the display, curiosity flickering in his green eyes. The swords come in a variety of sizes and shapes, some straight and sharp, others curved and elegant, each exuding its own sense of history and purpose.
Ox veers toward the gauntlets and armor, his broad hands hovering over a set of rugged iron bracers. He peers closely at the intricate etchings carved into the metal, tiny runes that glow faintly with enchantments. Nearby, a breastplate gleams with golden inlays, depicting a roaring lion. The sheer size of the armor amazes him, though none of it is large enough to fit him yet. He frowns slightly, imagining what it would feel like to be encased in such protection.
Cross, true to his nature, gravitates toward the bows, daggers, and arrowheads. His amber eyes narrow as he studies the craftsmanship of each piece. A sleek, blackwood bow catches his attention, its surface smooth and polished, with silver filigree inlaid along its limbs. He runs a hand over the fletching of some arrows on display, testing their balance with a natural touch. The daggers nearby gleam under the lantern light, the blades curved and straight, some simple, others adorned with jeweled hilts.
Sparks, unlike the others, doesn't linger in one place. She flits from section to section, marveling at the sheer artistry of the items on display. She admires the intricate carvings on a shield, the swirling patterns on a sword, and the masterful melding of form and function in the tools of war. "This one looks like it was made for a noble," she mutters, gesturing toward a dagger with an emerald pommel. Her coppery eyes sparkle as she moves to the next item, clearly captivated by the skill that went into each creation.
Zara, however, finds herself drawn to a display near the back, where materials are showcased in glass cases. Her golden eyes widen as she takes in the collection of ingots, hides, and monster parts: shimmering scales, jagged claws, and vibrant furs. One particular ingot catches her attention—a blood-orange metal that seems to pulse faintly, radiating a subtle warmth. She tilts her head, her foxlike ears twitching as she studies it.
"Greaves," Zara asks, her voice soft but curious, "what is this?" She points to the ingot, her small finger hovering over the glass.
Greaves steps closer, his brows furrowing as he reads the small plaque beneath it. His breath hitches, and he mutters under his breath, "Phoenix metal… made from mithril and phoenix blood." He straightens, his voice sharp with disbelief. "This… this could buy the orphanage twenty times over."
The kids glance at him, their expressions a mix of awe and confusion. "Why is it so expensive?" Sparks asks, craning her neck to get a better look.
"Because it's one of the rarest and most powerful materials in existence," Greaves explains. "It's incredibly difficult to forge, and the enchantments it can hold are… unparalleled. This isn't just metal—it's a legend in itself."
Before anyone can ask more, the shop door swings open, and a group of adventurers steps inside. Two humans, their heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor, exchange a low laugh as they enter. Their gear is well-used but of high quality, and the confidence in their strides speaks of experience. Their conversation continues as they make their way toward the counter.
"…and I'm telling you, the best way to deal with an orc is to make sure it doesn't survive birth," one of them says with a snort. His companion laughs, though there's an edge to it that suggests he agrees.
The kids stiffen at the words, their gazes dropping to the floor. Alistair steps closer to Ox instinctively, his hand brushing against his friend's arm in silent support. Zara's ears flatten against her head as she shrinks back slightly, clutching at her sleeve. Sparks' usual spark of defiance dims, and she hugs herself, staring at the ground. Even Cross, typically unflappable, clenches his fists, his jaw tightening.
The adventurers glance at the kids, their expressions twisting with disgust. "Mixed breeds," one of them mutters, loud enough to be heard. "This village really should take better care of its problems."
"Yeah," the other sneers. "Should've taken care of that before they even got a chance to crawl."
The children remain silent, their shame and sadness palpable. Greaves stiffens, his usually calm demeanor cracking as a cold aura begins to radiate from him. Ice shards form in the air around his hands, their edges sharp and glinting. His eyes narrow, his voice low and deadly. "What did you just say?"
Before the adventurers can respond, Sam emerges from the back room, his arms full of camping gear. He freezes when he sees the scene, his gaze flicking between the adventurers, the ice shards forming around Greaves, and the children's withdrawn expressions.
"What's going on here?" Sam asks, his tone calm but with an edge of steel.
The adventurers exchange a glance, one of them smirking. "Nothing you need to worry about, blacksmith. Just making an observation."
Sam sets the gear down on the counter with a deliberate thud and strides toward the group, hammer in hand. Without a word, he raises it and brings it down—not on the adventurers, but on the edge of the counter beside them. The sharp crack echoes through the shop, startling everyone.
"You're done here," Sam says, his voice calm but unyielding. "You don't talk about my friends like that. In fact, you don't talk at all. Get out of this shop. Now."
The adventurers hesitate, clearly taken aback. One of them sneers, "You can't just—"
Sam steps closer, the hammer resting casually on his shoulder. "I said now. You're not welcome here today, tomorrow, or ever."
The cold aura around Greaves intensifies, and the ice shards grow larger, their edges razor-sharp. "I suggest you listen to him," Greaves says, his voice like the edge of a glacier. "Unless you'd like to find out just how quickly I can freeze you where you stand."
The adventurers glance between Sam and Greaves, their bravado faltering. Without another word, they turn and leave, the door slamming shut behind them.
The tension in the shop lingers for a moment before Sam lets out a breath, setting his hammer down. He turns to the kids, his expression softening. "You alright?"
The children nod hesitantly, though their expressions remain subdued. Greaves kneels in front of them, his icy aura dissipating as he places a gentle hand on Ox's shoulder. "Don't let their words weigh on you. They're fools, blinded by their own hatred. You are more than what they'll ever understand."
Ox nods, his usually cheerful demeanor subdued but steady. "Thanks, Greaves."
Sam claps his hands together, breaking the lingering tension. "Alright, enough of that. Let's focus on what we came here for. I've got the gear you need, and we'll make sure you're ready for your trip. Sound good?"
The kids exchange glances before nodding, their spirits lifting slightly. Sparks manages a small smile, her curiosity returning as she glances back at the phoenix metal ingot. "Can we at least look at the cool stuff again?"
Sam chuckles. "You can look. Just don't touch."
The group slowly regains its energy, the moment of tension giving way to a sense of unity and resilience. As they move through the shop once more, the adventurers' cruel words fade into the background, replaced by the warmth of friendship.