Clang! Clang!

The sharp sound of metal colliding sliced through the silence of the night.

"…What…?"

It was late—so late that the sky beyond the window had long since turned pitch-black. Elena stirred beneath her blanket, her brows knitting together as the noise dragged her out of a deep sleep.

Clang!

This time, it was louder.

She rubbed her eyes, her mind still hazy as she slowly sat up and looked around the dimly lit room. Moonlight spilled faintly through the curtains, casting pale shadows across the floor.

Beside her, Lisa was fast asleep.

"…Lisa?"

Elena whispered her name, but there was no response. Lisa's breathing was steady and calm, completely undisturbed.

She can't hear it? Elena wondered, puzzled.

The metallic sounds continued—rhythmic, deliberate, unmistakably the sound of weapons striking one another.

There was no way anyone could sleep through that.

Elena tried lying back down, pulling the blanket over herself and squeezing her eyes shut.

It's fine. It'll stop soon…

But the noise didn't stop.

Clang! Clang!

Her eyes snapped open again.

"…I can't sleep like this."

With a soft sigh, she slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Lisa, and padded quietly toward the door. The floor was cool beneath her feet as she opened it just enough to peek into the hallway.

The corridor was dim, lit only by a few wall lamps.

And directly across from her room—

Louis's door.

The sound was coming from there. She was sure of it.

Elena hesitated for a moment, fingers curling slightly at her side.

At this hour…?

Gathering her courage, she stepped closer and raised her hand, knocking gently.

"Louis? Are you in there…?"

Her voice was soft, almost hesitant.

"…."

No response.

She frowned slightly.

Another clang echoed from inside the room—clearer now, sharper. It wasn't random noise. It was controlled. Intentional.

"…Louis?"

This time, she placed her hand softly against the door.

No response.

Is he still sleeping…?

Outside, the sky was steeped in darkness. It was well past midnight, the kind of hour when even the wind seemed hesitant to stir. Normally, she wouldn't even consider waking him.

But—

Clang! Clang!

The sharp, rhythmic sound echoed again, cutting through the quiet of the house.

Elena blinked.

That noise… it wasn't coming from Louis's room.

Curiosity tugged at her. Wrapping the blanket more tightly around her shoulders, she quietly made her way downstairs, careful not to let her footsteps echo.

The sound grew louder as she approached the source.

The blacksmith shop.

The workshop attached to the house glowed faintly with firelight. Elena hesitated for a moment before gently pushing the door open.

Warm air rushed out to greet her.

Inside, sparks leapt with every swing of the hammer. The blacksmith—Vermut, the master of the forge—was working tirelessly, his large frame slick with sweat as he brought the hammer down again and again with unwavering focus.

Clang.

Clang.

And there, beside the workshop—

Louis.

Curled up near the wall, fast asleep.

Elena's steps slowed.

He was lying on his side, knees drawn close to his chest, his coat pulled loosely around him. In the warmth of the forge, he must have fallen asleep without realizing it.

…Is he cold?

She glanced at the blanket still wrapped around herself.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Elena approached him and gently knelt down. Slowly, carefully, she draped the blanket over his shoulders, making sure not to wake him.

"Mmm…"

Louis stirred faintly, brow relaxing as the warmth settled around him. Almost instinctively, he tugged the blanket closer, pulling it up to his neck.

Elena froze.

For a second, she worried she'd woken him—but his breathing soon returned to its steady rhythm.

As she watched him sleep, something unfamiliar stirred in her chest.

His face—so unguarded, so peaceful—was nothing like the composed expression he usually wore. No caution. No calculation. Just quiet exhaustion.

She hadn't realized how tired he must have been.

A small, gentle smile formed on her lips.

You really push yourself too hard…

Without thinking, she reached out and lightly brushed a stray strand of hair away from his face. Her fingers lingered for just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Then, as if suddenly aware of her own actions, Elena quickly pulled her hand back.

Her cheeks felt warm.

Behind her, the steady rhythm of Vermut's hammer continued, grounding the moment in reality.

Elena stood up quietly, giving Louis one last look.

"Good night… Louis," she whispered.

Turning away, she made her way back upstairs, unaware that the faint smile on Louis's lips lingered even after she was gone.

-----

"It's complete!!"

"Huh…?"

I jolted awake at Grundar's booming voice, my head lolling to the side as I rubbed my eyes. At some point, I must have dozed off in the corner of the blacksmith shop.

…When did I fall asleep?

As I sat up, something slid off my shoulders and pooled at my feet.

A blanket.

I stared at it blankly.

I don't remember bringing a blanket.

Why was I sleeping with this over me?

Still half-asleep, I looked around the dim workshop, the orange glow of the forge painting long shadows across the walls. That's when I noticed her.

Elena.

She was sleeping a short distance away, seated against a stack of wooden crates, her breathing slow and even. Her head tilted slightly to the side, golden hair spilling over her shoulders.

Why is she here…?

I searched my memory, but there was nothing—just fatigue and a vague sense of time slipping through my fingers. Whatever had happened, I must have completely passed out.

Careful not to make any noise, I picked up the blanket and gently walked over. Slowly, I draped it over Elena's shoulders, adjusting it so it covered her properly.

She stirred slightly, brows knitting for just a moment, but she didn't wake up.

"…Good," I murmured quietly.

Only then did I turn toward the workshop proper.

"Look at this! Louis!"

The moment I stepped inside, a wave of heat crashed into me. The forge was still burning hot, sparks drifting lazily in the air. The sharp scent of iron and smoke filled my lungs.

And there stood Grundar.

Sweat ran down his broad arms, his beard slightly singed at the tips, but his face was split into a grin so wide it looked like it might tear.

In his hands—

A gauntlet.

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