The forge sat at the edge of Bridgedon, where stone buildings thinned and the road began to fracture back into dirt.

Gabriel reached it shortly after dawn.

Smoke rolled from the chimney in steady bursts, dark against the pale sky. The ring of iron carried down the street in measured strikes, unhurried and consistent. The sound didn't change when he passed beneath the hanging sign or pushed the door open. Work done the same way every day.

Heat pressed in immediately.

The forge was narrow and practical. Walls blackened by soot. Racks of blades lined one side. Unfinished work, repairs, commissions waiting their turn. Some were wrapped in cloth, others left bare, dull edges catching the light.

Tools lay within arm's reach of the anvil, each one worn smooth by years of use. A grindstone sat near the back, its surface scarred and uneven.

No decoration. No sigils. No excess.

The blacksmith didn't look up.

He was broad through the shoulders, sleeves rolled high, forearms corded with muscle and old burns. The hammer fell again, sparks jumping as steel met steel. The rhythm was steady, controlled. No flourish. No wasted motion.

Gabriel stopped a few paces from the anvil and waited.

Three strikes later, the hammer stopped. The smith plunged the blade into a trough beside him. Steam hissed and bloomed, rolling up past his face before thinning into the rafters. Only then did he turn.

His eyes moved over Gabriel once. Cloak. Boots. The worn sword at his side. The empty space where a second blade should have been.

"You're back," the smith said.

"Yes."

The smith wiped his palms on a rag and reached to the bench. He set a finished blade down between them. Long. Straight. Unmarked. Practical steel shaped for use, not display.

"Ten silver," the smith said. "Like I told you."

Gabriel picked it up.

The weight settled cleanly into his hand. He tipped the point once, then steadied it. No pull. No drag. The balance was close enough that his wrist didn't need to adjust. He shifted his grip, tested the wrap. Tight. Secure.

He checked the edge with his thumb, just enough to feel resistance, then lowered it. The blade didn't bite. It waited.

"I want two," Gabriel said.

The smith's brow furrowed. "Identical?"

"Yes. Same length. Same weight. Same balance."

"That's twenty."

"No," Gabriel replied. "Ten."

The smith let out a short breath through his nose. "One blade is ten. You knew that."

Gabriel reached into his pouch and placed the coins on the bench.

Eight silver pieces clinked softly against the wood.

"I have eight," he said.

The smith stared at them.

Then back at Gabriel.

"That's not how this works," the smith said.

Gabriel didn't move.

The forge crackled behind them. Heat shimmered in the air. A drop of water fell somewhere in the back and vanished with a faint hiss where it struck hot stone.

Slowly, faintly, the red in Gabriel's eyes began to glow.

Not bright. Not flaring.

Just there.

A steady ember-light, controlled and contained.

The smith swallowed.

His jaw tightened. He looked away for a moment—toward the anvil, toward the rack of tools—then back to the coins.

"Eight," he muttered.

He gathered the silver and pushed it into a drawer beneath the bench. The drawer shut with a dull thud.

"But," the smith added, lifting his gaze again, "that doesn't get you out the door clean."

Gabriel waited.

"You want two blades for eight," the smith continued, voice flat. "You make it worth my time."

"What," Gabriel asked, "is the job?"

The smith leaned back against the bench. "My apprentice hasn't come back."

Gabriel said nothing.

"Three days ago," the smith continued. "Sent him to the quarry north of town. Church contract. Stone work. Legal site."

"Alive?" Gabriel asked.

"I don't know."

Gabriel nodded once.

"You bring him back," the smith said. "Or you bring proof he won't."

"No noise," he added. "Nothing that comes back here. Nothing that puts Church eyes on my door."

Gabriel considered it for a moment.

Not the morality of it. The logistics.

"How long," he asked, "until the blades are finished?"

"Two days," the smith replied. "Sheath included. Cross-back, like you asked."

Gabriel nodded. "I'll return."

The road north followed the river.

Gabriel left Bridgedon midmorning, moving at a steady pace. The town fell away behind him quickly, stone walls shrinking into a low line against the horizon. The sounds changed with the distance—hammers and voices replaced by wind, water, and the crunch of boots on gravel.

Fields stretched out on either side at first. Low fences. Bare winter crops. Frost clung stubbornly to shaded ground. A farmer drove a cart along the opposite side of the road, hood pulled tight, eyes down. He didn't look up as Gabriel passed.

The river kept pace beside him, cutting through the land with steady movement. Its surface was dull beneath the sky, broken by ripples and scattered stones. The sound of it never stopped.

Gabriel followed the directions exactly.

Three miles along the river.

No shortcuts. No detours.

The land began to rise as the river narrowed. Fields thinned. Trees became more common, bare branches reaching across the sky. Stone crowded the ground, forcing the road to bend and split around it.

Wind off the water cut colder here. Gabriel adjusted his hood slightly, angling it to keep the light from catching his eyes.

The road degraded the farther he went.

Packed dirt gave way to loose stone. Cart tracks thinned, then vanished. The path became suggestion rather than structure, marked only by the occasional broken wheel rut or crushed patch of grass.

Stone dust appeared underfoot.

Pale. Fine. Tracked by boots and wheels alike. It clung to the edges of stones and collected in shallow grooves. Dust meant work. Work meant people.

The quarry lay ahead.

Gabriel slowed as the terrain changed.

The smell of cut stone reached him first. Dry and sharp. Iron followed, faint but present. Machinery creaked somewhere below, lifts hauling weight upward in steady rhythm.

He climbed the last rise carefully.

From the edge, the quarry spread beneath him in wide terraces carved into the cliff face. Stone walls stepped down toward the river. Workers moved in small groups, heads down, rhythm unbroken. Their clothes were grey with dust, shoulders hunched from long hours.

Guards stood where they were placed.

Spears. Short swords. Church colors worn without pride. Contract men. Not Paladins.

Gabriel stayed where he was.

He counted.

Two posts near the main cut. One by the storage sheds. Another near the lift anchors. Rotations overlapped poorly. Sightlines broke often—stacked stone, scaffolding, machinery.

No one looked up.

Gabriel eased back from the edge and moved along the ridge until he found better cover. From there, he could see the access tunnels cut into the rock. Dark mouths leading into the cliff face. He could see the storage area, the lifts, the paths workers followed.

He stopped.

The quarry worked below him, unaware.

Gabriel settled into the stone and watched.

The job began here.

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