Tucked along the quieter edge of the market district—just far enough from the clamor of shouting merchants and the clink of coins—stood a building that practically breathed heat. A low stone wall bordered the yard, its outline softened by snow. Neatly stacked piles of firewood, iron ingots, and raw timber leaned against it in orderly rows, waiting to be transformed.

  The structure itself was built like it meant to last a dozen winters and then some: a robust mix of stone and timber, the roof steep enough to shrug off the heaviest snowfall. Smoke curled steadily from the thick chimney, and the windows glowed with the amber promise of warmth and work. Outside, under a covered lean-to, an anvil rested like a sentinel. The ground nearby was blackened with old scorch marks—testaments to countless projects and repairs hammered into being beneath open sky. Just beside the heavy door, a runestone flickered faintly, casting a gentle warmth over the tools hanging nearby—ensuring the cold wouldn’t sap their bite.

  Aira led the way up the short path, flanked by Mary and Raven. As the heavy door opened, they stepped into a wave of heat and the dense, metallic tang of forge-worked iron. The interior of the smithy was dominated by a broad forge hearth, its fire blazing bright and steady. Tools hung in precise rows along the walls: hammers, tongs, chisels, files—each with a place, each well-used. The air was thick with soot and the comforting scent of hot metal.

  To one side, a workbench overflowed with blueprints and half-finished fittings, ironwood shavings curling around carving tools in little piles. This was a place of both steel and skill—a harmony of strength and craft.

  Blades lined several racks along the far wall. Some were plain and functional, the kind a farmer or a foot soldier might carry. Others bore elegant touches—a subtle line etched down the fuller, a curve to the hilt, a gleam to the guard that hinted at greater purpose. Every piece spoke of experience.

  The man behind the forge was as much a fixture as the tools on his wall. Broad as a barn door, he was a mountain of corded muscle, wrapped in a heavy leather apron stained with soot and time. His beard, long and braided, was streaked with gray and dusted with ash. Scars and old burns laced his forearms like a map of his life’s work. Even his boots, thick-soled and iron-toed, were singed at the edges.

  As soon as he spotted Aira, he gave a sharp whistle and signed toward the back with a nod. Two apprentices—one a tall, silent man with the bearing of a soldier, the other a young teen still learning the ropes—immediately left their tasks and retreated deeper into the workshop.

  “Ha! If it isn’t the Vicious Cub of Everfrost,” the man rumbled with a grin. “Back for the scabbard for that not-Soul-Weapon of yours?”

  Aira arched an eyebrow. “The elderly wolf still has bite, I see. And just as cranky as ever, Hagan.”

  The man—Hagan, master smith of Ironholt—snorted. “Someone’s got to be lively around here when your wit’s gone sheepish.”

  Aira blinked, unsure if that was supposed to be a pun or just another Hagan-ism. Then Hagan’s expression shifted—still amused, but sharper now. He gestured toward a cluttered workbench near the forge, littered with bits of wood shavings and metal fittings.

  “You think people are blind? You bring me a strange sword and order an Ironwood scabbard? No one uses wood that precious for something like that. Well... except your grandparents, for that fancy box and those ridiculous clogs of yours.”

  Aira’s smile thinned. “Then why didn’t you bring that up last time?”

  Hagan scratched at his beard, looking a little sheepish. “Only realized it after the fact.”

  “Fortunately for you,” he said, already turning to a side shelf, “I had just enough scrap to make a second one for Wolfking, that should cover your tracks with the other.” He shot her a glance over his shoulder. “Good thing I wrote down the measures.”

  Without another word, he set two new scabbards on the counter. They gleamed faintly in the forge-light—still warm from finishing, empty and ready.

  Aira stepped forward and lifted the finer of the two, inspecting the subtle craftsmanship. Then, with quiet purpose, she handed it to Raven.

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

  Shadebinder slipped into the scabbard with a satisfying whisper. The forest-green leather shimmered faintly as it caught the light, and silver-threaded spiderwebs traced elegant arcs across its surface—delicate, but resilient.

  Shadebinder pulsed with approval.

  This is great! I have a beautiful dress now.

  Next, Aira sheathed her own blade. The second scabbard was simpler: deep navy leather, steel reinforcements along the spine, capped with a wolf’s head in pale gold. Practical. Steady. Knightly.

  Wolfking remained silent.

  Aira handed over a folded parchment. “Payment. And thanks.”

  Hagan took it with a grunt. “Always a pleasure.”

  Without waiting, Aira turned, motioning for the others to follow. Her voice was soft as she opened the door to the winter outside.

  “Come on. Still more to do.”

  As they stepped out of the blacksmith’s forge, the sharp air of Ironholt greeted them again—crisp, tinged faintly with ash and snow.

  Mary exhaled into her scarf. “Well, now what, Aira? We’ve done what we came for.”

  Raven crossed his arms. “Which means, if someone hadn’t ordered pastries... we could be halfway back to Stormhold by now.”

  Aira gave him a look. “The wolf sleigh runs on a schedule. Next one's in a few hours—so we’d be waiting either way.”

  Shadebinder murmured softly:

  So... what’s next?

  Aira nodded toward a shop just across the way. “That one.”

  They crunched across the snow-blanketed lane, boots sinking slightly in the slush between cobblestones. Dusk had started to settle, tinging the rooftops in rose-gold.

  From the outside, it looked modest—a quiet storefront tucked between two larger buildings along Ironholt’s main street. Frost crept along the corners of the glass window, where ornate gold lettering spelled out a name faded by weather and time. A pair of brass lanterns burned steadily on either side of the door, their glow flickering gently in the growing dusk.

  But as they stepped through the oak-framed doorway, the chill of the street vanished behind them.

  Inside, the shop was warm and inviting. The air was fragrant—carrying soft hints of dried herbs, polished wood, and perfume-oils that reminded Raven faintly of festival garlands. The walls were painted in creamy tones, trimmed with gilded molding. Carved bins overflowed with vivid, lifelike blooms: tulips with waxy petals, roses traced with shimmering frost, sprigs of lavender that gave off a quiet hum from embedded scent-runes.

  Candlelights flickered softly from cubby shelves—some tall and slender, others nestled into crystal globes or delicate wreaths. Their flames glowed steady, enchanted never to flicker or smoke. There were soft ambers, pastel pinks, deep navies, even the pale white of winter’s breath.

  Other items lined the walls too: elegant ribbons, painted charms, and small memory bundles arranged with reverence—meant for offerings or shrine dedications. The shop was not cluttered, but curated. Gentle. Thoughtful. Every detail seemed designed to comfort.

  From the workshop in the back, the whisper of silk and the snap of thread echoed faintly.

  The woman who emerged was like a figure from a noble’s sitting room rather than a northern village: short and poised, her blonde hair twisted into a sculpted braid-crown, her deep wine-red dress tailored with gold thread that glinted in the warm light. A soft shawl was draped over her shoulders, and though her fingers were calloused, it was the wear of needlework, not weaponry.

  Even Lilia, Raven thought idly, might hesitate before challenging this woman’s sense of style.

  But when Bella spoke, her tone was warm and motherly, laced with a calm command.

  “If it isn’t Lady Wintermane. What do I owe the pleasure?”

  Aira returned her smile politely. “Good afternoon, Lady Bella. I’ll need black flowers and a white candlelit.”

  “Of course.”

  As Bella moved to gather the items, Raven found himself drawn to the flower displays. He leaned in, reaching toward a silvery blossom that shimmered like frost.

  He paused.

  They weren’t real.

  He hadn’t noticed at first. The detail, the weight—they felt natural in his hands. For a moment, he’d wondered if Ironholt had a greenhouse like Stormhold. But no... they were crafted. Exceptionally so.

  Mary noticed his expression. “You like it?” she asked, tilting her head.

  Raven tilted his head, still studying the bloom. “It’s... really well made.”

  Aira glanced over and smiled. Without a word, she plucked three flower pins from a nearby tray—one a garnet silk, another pale blue and amber, and a final one in dusky violet.

  Aira removed her fur-lined winter hat, careful not to crush it as she turned it over in her hands. She pinned the amber flower just above the ear flap, adjusting it with a small, satisfied nod before placing the hat back on her head.

  “Give it here for a second.” With gentle hands, she pinned the deep garnet bloom to Raven’s hat, the rich red standing out against the dark fabric. Then, turning to Mary, she fastened the pale blue flower in place—soft and delicate, like frost on silk.

  “We’ll take these as well,” she said to Bella.

  Once the items were ready, Aira handed over a folded parchment as payment. Bella accepted it with a graceful nod.

  “Thank you for your patronage,” she said, her voice like velvet.

  Outside, as they stepped into the cold once more, Raven glanced down at the black flower Aira held in her other hand.

  “So... what are the gloomy flowers for?”

  Aira’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a softer kind of resolve.

  “We visit the shrine next.”