Chapter 24: Eyes That See

"..."

Lawrence's fingers curled around the edge of the workbench, his knuckles whitening as Henry's words settled heavily in his chest

His grip tightened on the worn hilt, his thumb tracing the grooves his father's hands had etched into the steel. And now it was falling apart, just like everything else in his life had before Arlon arrived.

He glanced up briefly, his sharp eyes locking onto Lawrence. "Your father's sword, right?"

Lawrence nodded stiffly, his jaw tight. "Yes. It's all I have left of him."

Henry's gaze softened—just barely—but he didn't let up. "Sentimental value doesn't fix steel, kid. If you want this sword back in fighting shape, it's not going to be the same when I'm done. You'll have to let go of some of the old to make room for the new. You get that?"

Lawrence hesitated, his eyes flicking back to the blade. The weight of Henry's words seemed to settle heavily on his shoulders.

["Henry's gaze softened—just barely. Though he said nothing, his hands moved with care as he set the blade down on the workbench."]

[—" In that moment, the master craftsman and the young swordsman shared an unspoken understanding: this was more than a weapon. It was a memory, a promise, and a burden."]

Arlon, standing slightly apart from the group, watched the exchange silently. The Narrator Screen flickered again, its words a quiet hum in the back of his mind.

"That's why we came to you," Arlon said, his voice steady but firm. We need more than a blacksmith—we need someone who sees the soul of the blade. He watched Henry closely, looking for any crack in the man's gruff exterior.

"You talk like you know me," Henry said, his eyes narrowing. Arlon held the gaze, unflinching. I know the version of you from the story, he thought, but real people are always messier. Let's see how much truth lines up with fiction.

Arlon's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile beneath his mask. "Let's just say I've heard stories."

Henry snorted, shaking his head. "Stories, huh? Well, if you've heard them, then you know I don't work for free."

Arlon didn't hesitate. "Price won't be an issue."

Henry grunted and straightened, setting the sword down flat on the bench. "Good. Because this isn't going to be a patch job. This sword needs to be reforged entirely. Stripped down, melted, and rebuilt from scratch. That's the only way it'll survive the next battle."

Lawrence swallowed hard, his grip on the workbench tightening. "Will it still... be his?" Lawrence asked, the words catching in his throat.

Henry's gaze softened slightly again. "That depends on you. A sword's strength doesn't come from the steel alone—it comes from the one who wields it. If you carry it forward, it'll still be your father's sword. Stronger this time."

Lawrence's shoulders relaxed a fraction, and he nodded. "Then do it."

Henry stepped back from the workbench, brushing his hands on his soot-streaked apron. "Leave it here. Give me a few days, and you'll have a sword ready for war.",His tone was confident, as if the reforging was already a foregone conclusion.

Arlon inclined his head slightly, his calm demeanor never wavering. "Alright."

As the others began to turn toward the exit, Arlon's sharp gaze swept across the workshop. The weapons hanging on the walls and the neatly organized tools caught his attention, each piece exuding the kind of master craftsmanship that couldn't be found in ordinary forges. Something stirred his curiosity.

"Do you sell all these weapons," he asked, his tone neutral but carrying a hint of curiosity, "or are they just for display?"

Alice and Anthony, who had been following behind him, paused. Anthony's head immediately swiveled toward the weapons rack like a hawk spotting prey, while Alice crossed her arms, her interest more restrained but no less keen.

"You make these?" Anthony asked, his voice filled with admiration. He moved closer to the rack, his fingers hovering near the hilt of a broad, gleaming longsword with intricate engravings.

"This blade… the weight and balance must be incredible. It looks like it could cut through steel."

Henry, still standing by the workbench, glared at him. "Don't touch."

Anthony froze, his hands snapping back like a guilty child caught reaching for the cookie jar. "I wasn't going to," he muttered defensively, though his eyes lingered longingly on the sword.

Alice, meanwhile, stayed near Arlon, her critical gaze sweeping across the various weapons and tools. "A lot of these are imbued, aren't they?" she asked, her tone thoughtful as her fingers twitched faintly.

Her mage's intuition was sharp; the faint hum of magical energy resonated in her mind. "I can feel traces of mana in some of them."

Henry turned his sharp eyes to Alice, his expression softening ever so slightly at her observation. "You've got a good sense for that," he admitted gruffly. "Most people don't notice unless they're actively trying to channel the energy."

Alice nodded, her curiosity piqued. She stepped closer to the dagger she had noticed earlier, its sapphire hilt faintly glowing. "This one," she murmured, "it's a catalyst, isn't it? Designed for mages."

Henry's gaze flicked to the dagger, then back to Alice. "It is. But like I told your friend, no touching unless you're buying."

"I apologize for my brother's behavior, sir," Alice said, casting a glance toward Anthony, who huffed from across the room.

"How am I supposed to know if a weapon suits me if I can't hold it?" Anthony retorted, his arms crossed. "A swordsman has to feel the blade before committing—"

Alice shot him a sharp glare.

"..."

"You can feel it with your eyes," Henry shot back, his voice like steel. "These aren't some cheap market swords you can pick up and swing around like a fool. If you want one of my weapons, you'd better prove you're worth it."

Anthony raised his hands in mock surrender, though his pride was clearly bruised. "Alright, alright. No touching. Got it."

Alice gave Anthony a sideways glance, her lips twitching slightly. "Maybe if you worked on your form instead of trying to rely on expensive weapons, you wouldn't need to 'feel' every blade you see."

Anthony shot her a glare. "Says the mage who doesn't even carry a proper weapon."

"My staff is sufficient," Alice replied coolly, lifting her chin. "I don't need a collection of shiny swords to compensate."

Before Anthony could retort, Arlon raised a hand, silencing the back-and-forth with a calm but firm presence.

"Enough," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Both Alice and Anthony fell silent, though Anthony crossed his arms and muttered something under his breath. Alice, on the other hand, cast one last curious glance at the dagger before stepping back to stand beside Arlon.

Henry snorted, shaking his head as he watched the exchange. "Kids these days," he muttered, though there was a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

Turning back to Arlon, Henry added, "If you're serious about buying, understand this: I don't sell to just anyone. You prove you can handle what you're asking for, or you walk out empty-handed. My weapons aren't toys for amateurs or decorations for the rich."

Arlon's expression remained calm, unreadable behind his mask. "Understood," he said evenly, his tone leaving no room for debate.

Henry gave him a lingering look, as if trying to gauge whether Arlon was the type to bluff or follow through. After a moment, he shook his head and turned back toward the workbench, his gruff voice muttering, "Overzealous kids these days... think they can swing a sword and call themselves warriors."

As he set Lawrence's sword carefully on the workbench, his fingers pausing briefly on the worn hilt, something seemed to click in his mind. He scratched at his chin, his sharp eyes narrowing in thought before glancing back at the group.

"Wait," he said abruptly, his voice cutting through the quiet. "I might have something."

Anthony perked up immediately, his curiosity overriding his earlier frustration. "Something?" he echoed.

Alice folded her arms, casting Henry a curious but wary look. "What do you mean?"

Henry ignored them both, his attention flicking toward Lawrence. "For you," he clarified, gesturing at the young swordsman. "I've got a blade you can use—temporary, of course—while I fix your father's sword. Can't have you walking around unarmed."

Lawrence blinked in surprise, his posture stiffening. "A temporary weapon?" he asked, hesitant. "I couldn't—"

"You could," Henry interrupted sharply, his tone brooking no argument. "And you should. You're not doing yourself or anyone else any favors carrying a broken blade."

Henry wiped his hands on his apron before moving toward a large, reinforced chest in the corner of the workshop. It was worn but sturdy, the iron hinges creaking faintly as he opened it.

Creak—

Inside, weapons were arranged with a care that spoke of their value. He rummaged for a moment before pulling out a sword, its sleek blade glinting faintly in the dim light.

He turned, holding it out for Lawrence to see. "This here's a mana sword," Henry said gruffly. "Forged with mana stone fragments embedded in the blade. It draws on the user's energy to activate, makes it sharper and deadlier than standard steel."

Lawrence's brow furrowed slightly as he stepped closer, his gaze fixed on the sword. "A mana sword?" he repeated, his voice tinged with curiosity.

Arlon, too, regarded the blade carefully, his sharp eyes narrowing. In the story, such weapons weren't commonplace, but they existed—powerful tools for those who could wield them properly. So Henry already has something like this? Arlon thought, filing the detail away.

Alice, however, was quicker to act. She stepped closer, her mage's intuition sparking to life as she studied the weapon. "It's impressive," she said, her voice thoughtful, "but we'll need to check Lawrence's capacity first. Mana swords rely on awakeners' energy. If he pushes it too far, it could backfire."

Lawrence gave a slow nod, his gaze shifting from the sword to Alice. "You're right," he said quietly. "I'd rather test it first before relying on it."

Henry huffed, clearly unimpressed with their caution. "Suit yourself," he said, holding the sword out to Lawrence. "Take it. I'll hold onto your father's blade until it's done. Just don't break this one in the meantime—it's worth more than you."

Lawrence hesitated, glancing briefly at Arlon, who gave the faintest nod of approval. Finally, Lawrence stepped forward and accepted the sword, gripping it carefully.

The blade felt surprisingly light in Lawrence's grip, yet there was an unmistakable hum beneath his fingers—a faint, pulsing energy that resonated through the metal, as though the weapon itself was alive, waiting to be wielded.

"Thank you," Lawrence said, his voice steady but carrying the weight of genuine gratitude.

Henry dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Don't thank me—just don't do anything reckless with it. I'd rather not see my work returned in pieces."

With the temporary weapon now in Lawrence's possession, the group began making their way toward the exit. Alice and Anthony trailed behind, their hushed conversation centered on the unique properties of the mana sword.

Alice, her mage instincts alight with curiosity, gestured animatedly as she theorized its potential capabilities, while Anthony occasionally chimed in with skeptical remarks.

As Arlon prepared to leave, the cool evening air brushing against his cloak, the golden screen flickered with a low hum. It wasn't a typical moment for a flash of text, but there it was, a quiet pulse of information that flickered beneath his mask.

Flatter—

["Henry Owl suspects something about Arlon. His sharp eyes have noticed the control in Arlon's movements and the precision of his words.

[—Henry knows Arlon isn't just any customer, but someone with weight behind his name."]

Arlon's step faltered slightly, but he quickly pushed the thought aside. Henry's gaze had lingered a little too long, as though waiting for a misstep.

Arlon lingered near the door, his sharp gaze fixed on Henry, his posture calm yet deliberate, as though he was weighing his next move.

"I'll join you shortly," Arlon said over his shoulder, gesturing for the others to leave. Lawrence nodded silently and stepped out first, while Alice and Anthony hesitated for a moment, curiosity flickering in their eyes. Finally, they followed, leaving the door to swing closed behind them.

The room grew quieter, the faint crackle of the forge fire filling the silence.

Henry leaned against his workbench, crossing his arms as he studied Arlon with a discerning gaze. "So," the blacksmith said casually, "you're not going to ask how I know who you are?"

Arlon didn't move, his stance steady as he replied evenly, "Should I?"

Henry smirked, the lines of his face deepening with dry amusement. "Well, most would. Not every day someone recognizes the infamous Arlon Throndsen." He paused, his sharp eyes flickering with something unreadable.

"Next heir to the illustrious Throndsen family, if the rumors are true."

Arlon paused for only a heartbeat, so slight it was nearly imperceptible, before replying in the same calm tone, "Rumors, as you know, are rarely accurate."

Henry let out a short laugh, the sound rough and full of irony. "True enough. Can't say I believed half of what I heard about you. They say you're arrogant, selfish, and only interested in your own gain."

Arlon's gaze didn't waver, though a faint flicker of something unreadable crossed his eyes. "And yet, here I am," he said with a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

Henry's smirk widened. "Yeah, that's the funny part. A guy who's supposed to be all those things kicks three corrupt nobles out of a council meeting and has them arrested."

Arlon raised an eyebrow, his tone light but laced with a sharp edge. "You seem well-informed for a man hidden away in an alley."

Henry shrugged, the gesture as casual as his tone. "Word travels fast when it's good gossip. I hear things, just like anyone else in this city. You made quite an impression, though I doubt that was your intention."

Arlon allowed a faint hum of acknowledgment, his voice calm. "I merely did what needed to be done."

Henry barked out a laugh, pushing himself off the workbench. "Spoken like a true Throndsen. You know, kid, you're not what I expected. The rumors don't quite fit."

"And what did you expect?" Arlon asked, his tone as steady as ever.

Henry tilted his head thoughtfully, the faintest trace of a grin on his face. "Honestly? Someone who'd walk in here barking orders or demanding I drop everything for him. But you…" He gestured vaguely toward the door.

"You're different. Not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing yet."

Arlon's lips curved faintly beneath his mask, the amusement subtle but unmistakable. "Perhaps you'll decide when the sword is finished."

Henry chuckled, turning his attention back to the workbench and the broken blade waiting on its surface. "Maybe I will. For now, you'd better catch up with your friends before they wander into trouble. I'll take care of the sword."

Arlon watched him for a moment longer, sharp eyes taking in every detail of the blacksmith's posture and expression. Henry Owl, the man who would one day forge a legendary blade for Lawrence, was already proving to be more than the pages of the story had described.

Without another word, Arlon inclined his head faintly and stepped out of the workshop.

The cool evening air greeted him as he rejoined the bustling streets of Falcon City. Ahead, the faint glow of Lawrence's temporary mana sword shone through its sheath, while Alice and Anthony stood nearby, chatting quietly.

Arlon's gaze lingered on the group for a moment before he began walking toward them, his thoughts still circling the exchange with Henry Owl.

The man isn't easily swayed, Arlon mused wryly. A trait that could either be a strength or a nuisance, depending on how this unfolds.

By the time they returned to the grand estate, night had fully settled over Falcon City. The bustling streets gave way to the quiet serenity of the manor grounds, the stillness a stark contrast to the chaos of the forge.

Moonlight spilled through the tall windows of Arlon's chambers, painting the room in silver hues. The soft rustle of the evening breeze stirred the gauzy curtains, casting shifting shadows across the elegant furnishings.

Arlon emerged from the adjoining bath, a dark robe tied loosely at his waist. Steam clung to him for a moment before dissipating into the cooler air of the room. The scent of cedar soap lingered faintly, a rare indulgence that did little to mask the ever-present weight of his thoughts.

Across the room, Ace, the sleek black cat with unsettling red eyes, lounged lazily on a high-backed chair. His tail flicked idly as his gaze followed Arlon's movements, a faint gleam of amusement in his eyes.

"I think I'm starting to like this life of yours," Ace said, his voice smooth, tinged with mischief. "But I have a feeling it's going to get boring soon... Got any plans to stir things up?"

Arlon didn't answer immediately. He crossed the room with measured steps, stopping by the dresser where his neatly folded clothes awaited. The soft fabric of his robe shifted as he moved, but his hands lingered at his sides, his mind elsewhere.

"No plans," he said at last, his voice low. "Not yet."

He paused, his gaze drifting to the open window where the moonlight pooled on the polished floor. He was thinking about what lay ahead—decisions that needed to be made, tasks that demanded delegation.

Alice and Anthony would be perfect for escorting Eric back to his family, with Lawrence accompanying them. The thought of Lawrence's steady presence was enough to ease the tension in his shoulders.

"It's safe now," he murmured to himself. "Lawrence is with me. I can relax... for now."

Ace let out a dramatic yawn, stretching his lean body across the chair before fixing Arlon with a pointed look.

"You're overthinking again," he teased. "Not good for you. Just let it be."

A faint smirk tugged at Arlon's lips. Ace's irreverent commentary, though irritating at times, often had a way of breaking through his spiraling thoughts. He nodded slightly, silently conceding the point, before moving toward the bed.

Just as he began to sit, a soft knock broke the silence. Arlon straightened, his brow furrowing slightly. Before he could respond, the door creaked open, and Dimitri stepped inside, balancing a tray with effortless grace.

"I thought you might enjoy some tea before bed, my lord," Dimitri said, his calm smile as practiced as his impeccable posture.

Arlon watched as Dimitri crossed the room, the soft clink of porcelain accompanying his measured steps. The tray was set down on a small table near the window, the ornate teacup gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

"You know me too well, Dimitri," Arlon said, his tone light but edged with irony. He reached for the cup, lifting it carefully as though it might bite him.

The first sip confirmed his suspicions. The tea's bitter, earthy taste assaulted his senses, and it took every ounce of composure not to grimace. He swallowed with difficulty, setting the cup back on its saucer with deliberate calm.

Dimitri, unbothered, stepped back, his hands clasped behind his back as he delivered his next words with casual precision.

"In four days, the grand graduation ceremony of Lady Eliz and young Master Erlod in the Empire begins."

"..!?"

Arlon froze mid-motion, his calm demeanor fracturing as Dimitri's words sank in.

"Wait..." he said, his voice rising. "What? When are we leaving?"

Dimitri's expression remained composed as he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves with deliberate precision. "Tomorrow morning, my lord. The journey to the Empire must begin early if you wish to arrive on time for the ceremony."

"Tomorrow?!"

"Yes," Dimitri confirmed evenly. "Preparations should begin immediately to ensure everything is in order."

The weight of the news hit Arlon like a hammer. He stared at Dimitri, his mind racing to catch up. The tranquil evening he'd allowed himself evaporated, replaced by a flurry of thoughts about the journey ahead.

"I'll... I'll figure this out," Arlon muttered, more to himself than to Dimitri.

Dimitri inclined his head with a faint, knowing smile before turning to leave. The door closed softly behind him, and silence settled over the room once more—broken only by the faint crackle of the breeze against the windows.

Ace, who had been silently observing the exchange, let out a long, exaggerated sigh.

"Looks like your moment of peace didn't last long," he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.

Arlon didn't respond, his mind already turning over the logistics of the next day. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees as he steepled his fingers.

The moonlight cast long shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his expression.

Tomorrow would be a challenge, but it wasn't insurmountable. After all, he thought grimly, challenges were nothing new.