The Caravanserai hummed with activity as Garrok and Tink stepped into the bustling hall. The air carried the rich scents of foreign spices, roasting meats, and sweet mead. The clink of glasses and the low buzz of conversation filled the space, as survivors of the previous day's raid swapped stories and shared drinks, relieved to be alive.

  Travelers, merchants, and adventurers mingled freely, though more than a few curious glances were cast at the unlikely pair making their way through the crowd. Spotting a quieter corner, Tink led Garrok to an empty table tucked against the far wall. They settled in just as a server approached to take their orders.

  Tink’s eyes sparkled with excitement, but before she could launch into questions, Garrok spoke first.

  "I know you're curious about my rifle," he said, his voice low and even, "but I have to admit, I’m just as interested in your crossbow—or should I call it a wheel-bow?"

  Tink blinked, then grinned as she placed the weapon on the table between them. "Tell you what—I’ll show you mine if you show me yours."

  Garrok’s lips curved into a faint smile. "Fair enough."

  He set his rifle down beside her crossbow, the two weapons laid out like cards on a gambler's table. Over the next few minutes, he explained the workings of his long-gun—the self-priming lockplate, the enlarged vent hole that fed powder directly to the priming pan, and the flash guard that minimized pressure loss and kept the side blast from blinding the shooter.

  Tink listened intently, nodding along. "But how do you keep the rifle from flying out of your hands? The stock’s too short to brace against your shoulder, and the barrel’s thick and heavy. Doesn’t that throw off your aim?"

  As the server returned with their drinks—eyeing the weapons nervously—Garrok took a sip of his ale before answering.

  "I spent years living in the wilds," he began. "Dense woods, tight spaces. I shortened the barrel and stock for better maneuverability. To make up for the shorter barrel and larger vent hole, I use a heavier powder charge—and to handle the extra force, the barrel’s thicker than usual."

  He held up one of his paper cartridges. "These help with the speed. You saw how I used them during the raid. Tear one end, pour it down the barrel, ram it home with my hatchet handle. Cuts the reload time nearly in half."

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Tink’s grin widened. She reached for her drink, but her eyes stayed locked on him. "Alright," she said, raising her tankard. "Your turn to be impressed."

  She set her crossbow onto the table more firmly this time. "This is my Spring-Powered Arrow Launching Bow—SPAL bow for short."

  At a nearby table, someone choked on their drink, drawing a small giggle from Tink before she continued. "The limbs are replaced by grooved metal wheels, and the tension comes from coil springs mounted on either side of the foregrip. The design gives it more power than a standard crossbow while keeping it compact and quick to reload."

  She demonstrated, pulling the bowstring between the wheels and locking it back smoothly. "The wheels guide the string evenly and reduce wear on the line. Easier to maintain, too."

  Garrok leaned in, studying the mechanism. "Not bad," he said, nodding with genuine respect. "We both had the same idea—smaller, faster, deadlier. Just took different roads to get there."

  "Great minds, right?" Tink replied, raising her glass.

  Garrok chuckled softly and signaled for their dinner. As they waited, he made sure the wolves outside were well-fed before turning back to the conversation.

  The rest of the evening passed easily. They traded stories, debated design theories, and laughed more than either had expected. The tension Garrok usually carried seemed to ease, the weight of solitude lifting just a little in the warmth of shared passion for their craft.

  A few hours and more than a few drinks later, the hall had quieted. Most patrons had retired for the night. Across the table, Tink slumped forward, her head bobbing as the sweet mead finally took hold. She blinked up at Garrok, managing to slur the location of her room before tipping sideways, sound asleep.

  Garrok shook his head but smiled faintly. Gently, he lifted her into his arms, careful not to disturb the tools strapped to her vest. Nyx and Fang watched silently from the doorway as he carried her through the winding halls.

  When he reached her room, he laid her down on the bed and tucked the covers around her. She stirred briefly, mumbling something about "reload ratios" before falling back into peaceful sleep.

  Garrok stood there a moment longer, watching the soft rise and fall of her breath. It had been a long time since he’d shared an evening like this—conversation, laughter, and the simple company of someone who asked questions because they cared.

  Finally, he turned and made his way back to his wagon. The night air was cool against his face, the stars scattered above like silver powder on velvet.

  He sat on a crate outside his forge, leaning back as Nyx and Fang settled at his feet. His thoughts drifted to Tink—the jingle of her bracelets, the excitement in her eyes, the way she’d watched every move of his hands at the forge.

  For the first time in longer than he could remember, Garrok felt something warm settle in his chest.

  Maybe, he thought, some roads were better walked with company.