The exhaustion was a physical weight, heavier than the Full Suit of Knight Armor now resting on a stand in the corner of the small, stone-walled hut. Stephen hadn't just used his muscles; he had drained his Mana to the absolute brink, pouring every ounce of his intent into Krag's steel. With a heavy pouch of Novigrad Crowns tucked under his pillow—a gift of gratitude from the elders—he didn't even bother to pull the furs over himself. He was asleep before his head hit the rough-hewn wood.
While Stephen drifted into a dreamless void, the morning sun crested the peaks of the Unclaimed North, bathing Gahrat-Zhur in a pale, wintry gold.
The silence of Krag's forge was broken not by the roar of the bellows, but by the light, rhythmic tread of boots that didn't belong to dwarves. A delegation of Aen Seidhe elves—scouts and traders from a nearby hidden enclave—stepped into the shop. They had come for their seasonal trade of dark-steel alloys, but the moment they crossed the threshold, they stopped dead.
The shop didn't smell of just soot anymore; it smelled of ozone and Blessed Light.
"Krag," the lead elf whispered, his eyes widening as he looked at a rack of dwarven battle-axes. "What... what have you done to your steel?"
He reached out, his long fingers hovering over a blade etched with the runes of Ignis Calor. The metal didn't just shine; it vibrated with a low, harmonic hum. Even the most skilled elven Sages used Runestones like Svarog or Dahzbog, but those were mere pebbles compared to this. The enchantments on these weapons were woven into the very molecular grain of the iron.
"Is this a new Runestone?" the elf demanded, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and suspicion. "I have seen the work of the Runewrights from the South, and even they cannot bind light this purely. Where did you find such power?"
Krag, leaning against his master anvil with a pipe in his mouth, let out a slow puff of smoke. He looked at the elves with a newfound pride. "No stone did that, elf. And no Southern sorcerer either."
He gestured with a calloused thumb toward the small, sturdy guest hut nestled against the mountain wall. "A traveling human mage by the name of Stephen did the work. A humble lad—didn't ask for a throne or a title, just a place to sweat and a bit of silver to work with. He's not like those puffed-up peacocks from the academies. He treats the metal like a brother."
The elves exchanged sharp, concerned glances. A human who could forge Solid Silver and command the stars was a variable they hadn't accounted for in the North.
"Is he here now?" the lead elf asked, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his own sword as he stared at the hut.
"Sleeping like the dead," Krag grunted. "And if you're smart, you'll let him finish his rest. A man who can make an axe burn with the sun isn't someone you want to wake up cranky."
******
The elves did not simply look at Krag's weapons; they felt them. As Aen Seidhe, their connection to the Chaos of the world allowed them to sense the pulse of the enchantments.
The lead elf, Filavandrel's scout, ran a trembling hand over a dwarven axe. He gasped as the Blessed Light flared in response to his touch. It wasn't just a glow; it was a purifying warmth that felt like a shield against the creeping shadows of the Great Well. But when he moved to a mace etched with Fire Magic, he drew his hand back in shock. The steel hummed with a dormant, violent heat—a Weapon of Flames that could ignite the very air.
"This is impossible," the elf whispered. "To bind the sun and the hearth so tightly to mere iron... we must see this human."
Ignoring Krag's grumbled warnings, the delegation crossed the courtyard and pushed open the heavy wooden door of the guest hut.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled of mountain pine. Stephen was sprawled across the bed in his moth-eaten Mage Robes, his chest rising and falling in the deep, heavy rhythm of total exhaustion. He looked young, almost vulnerable in his sleep—a stark contrast to the power he had unleashed in the forge.
The elves' gaze, however, was immediately pulled to the corner of the room.
There, resting on a wooden rack, stood the Full Suit of Knight Armor. Even in the dim light of the hut, the fluted steel seemed to hold a dull, protective shimmer. But it was the weapon resting against it that stole their breath.
The Solid Silver Rapier.
The elves surrounded it, their eyes wide. In the Continent, silver was the tool of the Witcher, usually soft and fragile. But this blade possessed a needle-thin elegance and a crystalline structural integrity that surpassed even elven Sihils. The Blessed Enchantment woven into its silver fuller was so potent that the air around the blade seemed to hum with a holy frequency.
"The craftsmanship is... beyond reproach," the lead elf murmured, his voice hushed with a rare humility. "The smithing is perfect, and the enchantment is deeper than any Runestone we possess. It surpasses everything in the shop."
He looked back at the sleeping Stephen. "Who is this man, to carry the secrets of the Ancient World in his hands?"
Just then, the System chimed in Stephen's subconscious, a sharp, low-fidelity ring that caused his eyelids to flicker.
------
[ SYSTEM ALERT ]
Detecting High-Affinity Lifeforms.
Current Status: Under Observation.
Note: Your magic has drawn the eyes of the Elder Blood's kin.
------
Stephen groaned, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of the rapier as he began to stir, oblivious to the fact that he was being stared at by the most elite scouts of the North.