"I shall see you later, Grandfather. I must head out now," Kelen said briefly, offering a formal nod before taking his leave.
The elders watched him depart, their eyes still holding that old affection, but now traced with a thin line of confusion.
Kelen turned away from the main thoroughfare, steering into a narrow, shadowed alleyway.
Behind him, the synchronized thud of his guards' boots felt heavier, more deliberate.
As they neared the end of the passage, the sweet scent of flowers vanished.
Replaced by the acrid, biting tang of burning coal and searing iron.
At the edge of the alley stood a sprawling workshop.
No ornate sign hung above its door—only a battered, notched shield bolted to the timber frame.
Stepping inside was like entering an entirely different world.
The 'crowd' here was a stark contrast to the cheerful bustle of the marketplace.
The roar of the bellows sent orange flames dancing against the soot-stained walls.
Everywhere, the rhythmic strike of hammers against glowing metal—clang! clang! clang!—sounded like the opening notes of a war anthem.
It wasn't just soldiers inside.
Kelen watched a common-looking woman, who hours ago had been buying fresh fruit, now meticulously testing the edge of a small, wicked-looking dagger with her thumb.
A man who sold fine silks in the square was now waiting as a smith hammered out a dent in his heavy buckler.
Long wooden tables groaned under the weight of an arsenal.
Slender, whip-like rapiers, broad-headed axes, and intricately carved pistol grips.
Some held gleaming brass daggers, while others balanced the weight of a claymore with practiced ease.
The 'innocence' of Vespera's market had been forged here into something cold and unyielding.
Kelen swept his gaze across the room.
Every soul was occupied; every hand was preparing.
The peace of Vespera now felt like nothing more than a hollow scabbard, hiding the lethal blade within.
Kelen cut through the crowd toward the hottest part of the forge, where the ring of iron was deafening.
There, a massive man with soot-stained arms was hammering a glowing rod into shape.
Kelen drew the blade that had gleamed so brilliantly in the daylight and laid it firmly on the cold stone table.
"The edge feels dull," Kelen's voice carried clearly over the roar of the furnace.
"I need to see what else you have. Something sharper, lighter. A blade that can slice through the wind itself."
The smith paused, wiping sweat from his brow with a grime-covered forearm.
He picked up Kelen's sword, balancing it with practiced ease before letting out a low grunt.
"I can give this an edge that draws blood at a mere touch."
"And the new batch is ready in the back room—steel that flashes like lightning."
Kelen nodded, but his eyes were searching for something else.
"And the black powder? I need fresh rounds for the pistols."
The slight grin on the smith's face vanished instantly.
He set his hammer down, a heavy sigh escaping his chest.
"The rounds are a problem, Kelen. The supplier from beyond the city walls... he hasn't shown."
"It's been days since his carriage was last seen on the road to Vespera."
"What we have is all that's left. There is no new ammunition to be found."
Kelen's expression hardened, his 'mask' tightening into a mask of cold realization.
His fingers instinctively gripped the hilt of his sheath.
Silence on the roads meant the threat was no longer just lurking in the shadows of the night.
It was now guarding the very paths that connected Vespera to the world.
Kelen rested his hand on the hilt and looked the smith in the eye.
"How long until this blade is ready?"
The smith picked up the sword with practiced speed, wiping it with a scrap of velvet.
"Only a few moments' work, sir."
"While you go through the back room to inspect the new batch of steel, I'll have this honed as sharp as a leopard's claw."
"Take whichever one strikes your fancy."
Kelen nodded and took a step toward the back chamber, but he paused, turning over his shoulder once more.
"And the powder? What of those two or three days we owe for the ammunition?"
The lines of worry on the smith's face deepened.
He stared into the roaring heart of the forge as he replied, "I suspect it will take another two or three days at least."
"I'll dispatch my swiftest rider beyond the city gates today to find out what has stalled the caravan."
"Supplies have never been this late, Kelen. Something is not right out there."
Kelen offered no reply.
He merely narrowed his eyes and disappeared into the shadows of the back room.
Two or three days felt like an expensive price for Vespera to pay.
And Kelen knew all too well how heavy a night without ammunition could weigh on them.
Kelen pulled back the heavy curtain and stepped into the shadowed chill of the back room.
The air here was stagnant, carrying the sharp, cold scent of dormant steel.
Dozens of blades rested on wooden racks or hung from the walls.
Kelen began to test them, one by one.
He picked up the first—the hilt was too heavy.
The second—its balance was off by a fraction.
He swung a long, slender rapier through the air, but it lacked the rhythmic 'sing' he was searching for.
He gripped dozens of hilts, weighed their steel, and tested their reach.
But each time he set them back with a heavy, dissatisfied exhale.
Nothing felt like a natural extension of his own arm.
He stepped back out into the roar of the forge, where the smith was still grinding his old blade against the stone.
Seeing him empty-handed, the smith paused, genuine surprise coloring his voice.
"What?" the smith asked, stunned.
"Kelen, did truly none of those weapons or blades catch your eye?"
"Some of the finest steel in all of Vespera is sitting in that room, forged by my own hands."
Kelen leaned his weight against the workbench, his voice low but steady.
"No, it's not that. They are all fine blades... the craftsmanship is undeniable."
"But for me, nothing in there was 'perfect.' Nothing felt as though it truly belonged in my grip."
The smith let out a long, cold sigh.
He steadied the bellows and set his hammer aside.
Realizing now that Kelen wasn't seeking a mere weapon, but something far more elusive.
"Perfect..." the smith echoed, weighing the word.
"Fine then, you tell me. If none of these are worthy of you, what kind of blade do you desire?"
"What must that edge be like to finally feel right in your grip?"