Moving through the door, the first thing that struck Alric was that this was a workshop. Work came first. The shop, if it could be called that, felt more like a suggestion than a rule.

  A broad counter stood just inside the entrance, but the rest of the space was dominated by the forge beyond it. Tools hung from the rafters, and several anvils were set up in different parts of the open room, positioned more for convenience than symmetry. Heat pressed in from the far side, lingering in the air even though the forge itself was unlit.

  A figure sat hunched over a grindstone, its wheel spinning steadily.

  Without lifting his gaze, the figure called out, “Hold your horses, lad. Be with you in a bit.”

  From where he stood, Alric could make out little beyond the broad strokes. The smith sat low, shoulders rounded with the permanent curve of someone who spent more time leaning into work than standing upright. He was wide. Not tall, not imposing in the way armor made men imposing, but solid in a way that suggested weight rather than height.

  A heavy leather apron hung from his frame, darkened by old stains and burn marks, creasing naturally where it bent and flexed with him. One arm moved in a steady, economical rhythm against the grindstone, the other braced comfortably, as though the motion no longer required conscious thought. Red hair, dulled by soot and distance, hung loose about his shoulders and gathered thickly at his chest, tied back just enough to keep it clear of the wheel.

  There was no flourish to him. No glance toward the door. No pause in his work beyond the voice that had acknowledged Alric’s presence.

  Deciding it would be rude to stare, Alric looked away. His gaze drifted across the space until it settled on a large metal heater shield resting nearby.

  He moved closer, unable to help himself. Alright, he thought. This was the sort of thing the stories meant.

  The metal was polished, a single motif worked into its center that followed the shield’s gentle curve. The design depicted some kind of creature. Claws first and foremost, talons layered over talons, with only the faintest suggestion of a body behind them, as though the smith had found the idea of claws more interesting than whatever they belonged to.

  “Adventurer ordered that,” a voice said.

  Alric hadn’t heard the dwarf approach.

  “Paid,” the dwarf continued, pointing at the shield. “Never collected. Goes to show he should’ve bought it sooner.”

  Alric burst out laughing, the first time he’d heard dark humor since coming to this world. The dwarf’s mouth split into a wide grin in response.

  “What you needing, lad?” he asked, leaning on the counter.

  It became immediately obvious that the counter’s height had been built for a dwarf, not a human.

  “First,” Alric said, gesturing toward a nearby case, “can I see those?”

  The shield and the knives were the only two things on display.

  The dwarf’s bushy red brows knit together briefly. Then he shrugged, retrieved the case, and set it on the counter.

  Alric picked up two of the knives and held them side by side. The steel lacked a mirror finish, instead catching the light softly, a practical choice, he realised. He turned them, edge to spine, comparing weight, balance, length.

  They were almost identical.

  He took out two more and compared all four, slower this time. There were differences, but only just. Tiny deviations you had to go looking for, the sort that vanished the moment you stopped paying attention.

  To do something like this without machinery hinted at very serious skill.

  “These are great work,” he said, returning them to the case.

  The dwarf nodded without looking smug. He began fussing with the case, lining the knives up again.

  This gave Alric a chance to study the smith properly.

  Up close, the dwarf looked older than Alric had first thought. Not in years, but in wear. Deep lines cut through his face, set there by heat and squinting rather than age, his skin roughened and darkened. His beard was thick and unruly, the red shot through with darker strands, gathered loosely at his chest by a battered metal ring that had been twisted out of shape and never properly repaired.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  His hands were what caught Alric’s attention most. Broad, scarred, and permanently marked by small burns and nicks, they moved with careful familiarity as he set the knives back into place, adjusting them by feel more than sight. There was nothing delicate about them, but nothing careless either.

  When he finished, the dwarf stepped back half a pace, satisfied, and only then looked up.

  “So, lad,” he said, settling back against the counter once more. “What’ll it be?”

  “I need to sell some armor,” Alric said.

  One of the dwarf’s eyebrows rose.

  “I’m going to use my item box to get it,” Alric added quickly, having learned his lesson.

  The second eyebrow joined the first.

  The dwarf stepped away from the counter, giving Alric a sideways look as he did so.

  Alric couldn’t help but notice he’d chased the dwarf away from his own counter twice now.

  Alric raised his hand, feeling the familiar tug as the cube appeared. The armor came out all at once, unceremoniously dumped onto the counter. One piece slid free and clattered to the floor. The helmet landed last, settling neatly on top of the pile, staring up at him as if mildly disappointed.

  The dwarf paused.

  Then he stepped forward.

  He lifted one piece and studied it in silence, fingers working methodically over the leather straps, testing their give and placement. His gaze flicked back to the pile. He set the first piece down and drew out a second, its twin, holding the two up together. He compared them with a faint scowl, as though the similarity itself offended him.

  “Lad,” he said at last, turning one piece slightly to catch the light, “I’ve not got the coin or buyer for this.”

  He glanced at Alric, sharp and assessing.

  “Where’d you get it,” he asked, “and why’s it got no mark?”

  “Uh… it was given to me,” Alric said. “I don’t really know.”

  The dwarf scowled, and Alric felt his shoulders sag a little.

  “Aye. Figures,” the dwarf muttered. “Best bet’s a merchant house. Moreen and Sons. Only ones in the city that’d touch somethin’ like this.”

  He set the piece down and nodded toward the pile.

  “I’ll give ya a rough guess on price,” he said, already reaching for another part. “Mind if I look a bit closer first?”

  “Sure, go ahead,” Alric said, unsure he could have stopped the dwarf even if he’d wanted to.

  The dwarf retrieved the fallen piece and began arranging the pile on the countertop, pressing sections together awkwardly until they formed a rough, vaguely humanoid shape, the way a new artist might sketch a body before worrying about details. He tapped a few of the pieces, listening closely, then leaned in to inspect the seams.

  “Well,” he said at last, straightening, “it’s good armor. Mixed silver and mithril. More ceremony than fightin’, I’d say.” He turned the helmet in his hands. “Looks the part.”

  He gave a small grunt.

  “Reckon it’s worth about twenty gold, if you can find the right nob.” He tilted the helmet slightly. “Good armor, this, if you’re lookin’ to be killed on a battlefield. Too flashy.”

  He returned the helmet to the pile.

  Unsure if that was a lot, Alric tried to do some mental arithmetic and quickly realised he had too many missing pieces and not nearly enough ways to measure wealth. By his reckoning, it was worth either twenty thousand or twenty million roast sausages, depending on which assumptions he guessed wrong.

  Seeing his hesitation, the dwarf asked, “Ya expected more?” tilting his head.

  Alric shook his own. “Not sure what I was expectin’.”

  He lifted his hand toward the armor again. The dwarf backed off a step as Alric put it away once more, the pile vanishing into the cube. When his arm dropped, the dwarf leaned back against the counter again, apparently satisfied.

  “So,” Alric said, “where do I find Moreen and Sons?”

  The dwarf tilted his head, then perked up. “’Course. Ya new here.” He jerked his chin toward the door. “Merchants’ Row. Black building, can’t miss it. Just by the Nob Bridge. Out the shop, up that way, then follow the main avenue.”

  Alric blinked. “Uh. I’ve got a guide, but I’ll tell him what you said.”

  The dwarf had already turned away, heading back toward the grindstone.

  “Be seein’ ya, lad,” he called over his shoulder, a smile in his voice. “Thanks for showin’ me, though.”

  Alric paused at the door. “Thank you as well.”

  Stepping outside, he was reintroduced to the smells, though they jarred him less this time. He glanced around for his guide and spotted Tyke sitting against the wall nearby, fingers in his mouth.

  Alric looked at him quizzically.

  “Honeyed apples,” Tyke said around his fingers. “Best ever.”

  He stood and wiped his hands on his trousers.

  Alric accepted this without comment. “I need to go to Merchants’ Row. You know where that is?”

  Tyke nodded. “Not far. By the Nob Bridge.” He set off immediately, not bothering to check if Alric was following.

  The walk was shorter this time, and before long they joined the main avenue. Alric noticed the change at once. The road underfoot was better laid, the crowds thinner. Buildings here were less patched together, fewer awkward additions stacked atop one another. For the first time, he spotted colour beyond grey and brown, a building front washed in faded green.

  The avenue curved toward a broad, well maintained bridge. Guards stood flanking it, recognisable even from a distance. Beneath, a lazy brown river slid past, unhurried.

  What struck Alric most, though, was the far side. Instead of open land, the river pressed up against high stone walls, the bridge leading directly into a gate. The city walls only enclosed one side of the crossing, an oddity that nagged at him even as he took it in.

  To his left, the port stretched out into the river like a clutch of grisly fingers. Flat, raft-like vessels clung to the docks, heavy with cargo.

  Ahead, just before the bridge, stood a cluster of buildings that clearly belonged together. Taller. Cleaner. Built to a shared design. Painted in colours that had not yet surrendered to soot and time.

  Alric slowed without meaning to.

  Tyke noticed and raised an eyebrow, pointing at the buildings. “That’s Merchants’ Row.”