Chapter 30

I was still dusting ash from the anvil when I heard him approach—slow boots across stone, the kind of stride a man carries after years of knowing where and when something's about to go wrong.

Karvek didn't speak.

He stood in the doorway, arms folded, face shadowed by the forge light. He hadn't said a word about Felix's armor, hadn't asked when I'd start his.

Didn't need to.

Some bonds didn't need speaking.

He stepped forward, fingers tracing the gauntlet blade rack, then the hammer head cooling in the water trough. His gaze flicked to the wall, where his sword—the one I'd forged back in Barak Khald—hung, scarred and worn from weeks of use. That sword had seen blood. It had cracked bone and carved through more than it was ever meant to. It had lasted.

"Feels strange," Karvek finally said.

"What does?"

He shrugged. "Being owed something again."

I wiped sweat from my jaw. "You earned this the day you charged down that hill beside me."

He didn't argue.

Didn't have to.

Karvek wasn't like Felix. He didn't need silence. He needed resilience.

I started with chain-backed plates, nothing flashy—just slabs of shaped steel hammered to a curve that matched the way his body moved. Not heavy like knight's mail, but thick enough to stop a cleaver. I quenched the steel in oil infused with charroot and limestone, a trick I'd learned from an old Redfall smith—kept it from dulling on the second hit.

His chestplate I cut from three separate layers—outer steel, middle canvas fiber for vibration deadening, and an inner wool lining stitched tight with cross-patterned threading. It sat on him like a second ribcage. Could breathe in it. Twist. Fall. Stand again.

The pauldrons were asymmetric—left larger than the right, layered with extended curve protection. I remembered how Karvek fought—he led with his left, guarded the draw with his right. Always expected the first blow, never the last.

Bracers were thick, shaped to catch blades and redirect—not stop. Stopping meant absorbing. Absorbing meant breaking. I gave him teeth-shaped ridges on the outside. Notched the edges like shark fins. One swipe across a throat would make a mess even without a weapon.

"Good weight," Karvek muttered when he lifted one.

"I know," I said.

I reinforced the greaves with dense metal ribs wrapped under boiled hide. Fastened them with leather buckles and iron rings so they could be taken off fast in the field. The boots were double-soled, riveted through a shank plate for support. Flexible, but unyielding if you planted your stance in mud or snow.

No bright finish. No polish. Just a dark oil-soot rub to keep off rust and avoid glare.

This wasn't armor for a parade.

It was for the aftermath.

I almost stopped there.

But something felt missing.

I thought about Karvek's sword—how he always moved with it slung across his back like a question waiting to be answered.

He'd need a backup. Something for closer work. Quicker.

So I made him a hatchet.

Not a camp axe. A weapon.

Dwarf-forged, curved slightly at the edge for cleaving. Inlaid with small notches near the beard for catching blades. Steel-core handle wrapped in black leather.

I etched one rune into the flat of the axe head:

"Dur Valdr" — Stand Through Flame.

He didn't say anything when I handed it to him.

Just turned it once in his hand.

Gave a grunt like it might have been approval.

Then strapped it to his belt and walked out.

I leaned back against the forge post, breath burning in my chest. My hands stung. Wrists ached. The forge still hissed like a breathing thing.

But I wasn't done yet.

Lisett was next.

And gods knew, she wouldn't make it easy.

I hadn't meant to do it all at once.

But when the forge is hot, and the weight sits right on your shoulders, you just keep going. One piece becomes two. Two becomes armor. Then weapons. Then a gift you don't know how to name until it's finished.

I didn't stop after Karvek.

I should have.

But my hands were already pulling leather from the drying hooks, feeling the grain for weak spots. My eyes were burning, but the design was already laid out in my head.

It was for her.

Lisett wasn't a frontliner. She didn't rush into fights. But she didn't run either. She'd stood over Karvek's broken body at Barak Khald, slapping salves over bone-deep wounds while arrows hissed past her shoulders. She'd pulled me out of the blood-muck on the Path. When others flinched, she focused.

That was courage.

So I built her something worthy of it.

I started with a deep-grey doeskin vest, cut high at the collar but open at the shoulders for movement. I inlaid it with interlocking panels of hardened resin and boiled rootfiber, pressed into a flexible armor mesh. Not enough to stop a longsword—but it would turn a dagger. Or slow a crossbow bolt.

The sleeves were a mix of canvas and dyed hide, reinforced at the forearms with shaped scale-plates etched in light silver. Flashy, yes—but only where it made sense. The scales glimmered faintly in firelight, like frost catching dawn. I did that for her—because Lisett never asked to be invisible.

I wrapped her belt in stitched velvet over hardened core leather. Slender pouches lined it—six in total—each perfectly fitted for vials, tools, scalpel cases, and flint-snap burners. A custom holster on her hip held a folding alchemist's wand she insisted she'd "someday finish." I left the space there. Hope deserves armor, too.

Her boots were calf-high, side-laced, with steel-toed reinforcements hidden under black ash dye. No heels. Just traction. Grip.

Her cloak—that was the centerpiece.

Crimson-wool, lightweight, embroidered along the hem with a double-threaded silver vine. Subtle enough to pass unnoticed at a glance, but anyone looking close would see it: the leaves were etched with runes.

Not magical.

Not glowing.

Just truths.

I stitched the words in old dwarven script. Three short lines, across the inner hem.

"Hold Fast. Mend Deep. Never Bow."

She'd never asked for a weapon.

But I gave her one.

It wasn't a sword. Wasn't a dagger. It was a focusing rod, forged from twin-core dwarven bronze with an internal groove down the center. About the length of her forearm. Carved in swirling patterns. The tip held a shard of fireglass, flame-caught and sealed under hammered quartz. When tapped against her belt flint, it would heat instantly—enough to sterilize, to cauterise, or, gods willing, to burn if she needed it to.

A medic's torch.

Or a last line of fire.

On the handle, I carved a small sigil. My mark.

Triangle. Crescent. Crossed threads.

It wasn't flashy for the sake of flair.

It was hers.

I finished sometime before dawn.

My eyes had gone red. My limbs, lead.

The forge had gone quiet. The anvil cold. My hammer lay beside me, still warm from its last strike.

I made it to the cot in the corner of the forge loft. Sat down.

Tried to take off my boots.

Didn't finish.

When I Woke Up

It was warm. That was the first thing I noticed. Not just the air—but around me.

Blankets. Someone had thrown two thick wool throws over my body. My boots were off. My arms were bandaged.

I shifted, groaning.

Lisett's voice, low and warm, drifted from nearby. "He's waking."

I opened my eyes.

The forge was lit—but not from fire. The shutters were open. Morning light streamed through, softened by cloth hung over the window frame. The air smelled of roasted rootbread and strong tea.

Karvek was by the fire, turning a skillet. Felix leaned against the stair rail, arms crossed.

And Lisett knelt by my side, a soft grin curling her lips.

"You've been out two days," she said.

"Two?" I croaked. "Did I…?"

"You finished all of it," Felix said.

"And more," Karvek added.

Lisett pressed a flask into my hand. "You missed the surprise."

I blinked. "What surprise?"

She stood and gestured around.

All three of them wore the gear.

Felix in full black-and-ash, nearly silent even as he moved. His hood drawn low, blades hidden. A shadow waiting for dusk.

Karvek, all bulk and iron, leaned into his armor like it was part of him. His new axe gleamed at his belt, scarred from training. Not blood.

And Lisett—she wore her crimson cloak, shoulders straight, wand at her hip. She looked taller. Brighter.

More seen.

"We fixed the forge," she said. "Cleaned the soot. Built racks. Repaired the upstairs table. Stocked the larder. Felix found fresh rootbread. Don't ask how."

I stared.

She smiled.

"You gave us protection," she said. "We gave you rest."

Karvek dropped a cup of hot tea beside me. "Don't get used to it."

I took it, and for a moment, I let myself feel the weight settle.

Not pain.

Not exhaustion.

But belonging.

For a long time, none of us spoke.

Lisett returned to the workbench, eyes on a series of half-sketched spell designs, but her focus wasn't there. Not really. She stole a glance every few moments—checking if I'd fall back asleep, or fall apart.

Felix had perched himself on the rafters again. I didn't hear him climb. Just noticed him up there, sharpening a blade with smooth, almost meditative strokes.

Karvek leaned against the frame of the hearth, one leg braced, cup in hand, watching the forge like it might decide to come alive again.

They were still in their gear.

That part hit me harder than the bandages did.

Not because they wore it—but because it fit.

Felix's boots made no sound as he shifted. The cloak fell just right when he dropped from the beam, landing in a crouch that was too smooth to be learned in a week.

Karvek moved like he belonged in that weight—leather layered over chain, his axe riding on his back like it had been there for years.

And Lisett… her crimson robe caught the light when she passed the window, the ward-threads faintly visible if you knew what to look for. She carried her wand like a sword, not a crutch.

I didn't just forge them gear.

I forged them roles.

"I'm not used to waking up to finished work," I muttered.

Karvek snorted. "Get used to it. You're not the only one who knows how to hold a hammer."

Lisett shot him a look. "He forged your breastplate."

"And I straightened your bench legs," Karvek said. "Everyone contributes."

That was the difference. Before, it had been survival.

Now? It was a rhythm. Ours.

Felix finally spoke. "There's been no movement from the alleys. No watchers. No disturbances."

"Too quiet," I said.

"Exactly."

Lisett closed her journal with a soft thunk. "Then it's time."

I looked up. "Time for what?"

She stepped over, kneeling beside the cot again, her expression steady.

"For you to decide where we go next."

I hadn't been still in years—not really. Even when injured, even when stranded, there was always a direction. A mission. A war. A hunt.

But now, in this moment, they were looking at me not for orders… but for vision.

Karvek spoke first. "We've got steel. We've got hands. We've got each other."

Felix nodded. "Which means we're dangerous enough to be hunted."

Lisett: "So we choose what gets built next. A forge. A resistance. A rebellion. Doesn't matter. But it starts here."

They'd all made their choice already. They were waiting for mine.

I drained the last of the tea. Set the cup down with care. And stood—slowly, the way stone rises, not the way men do.

My legs held.

So did my answer.

"We work. We train. We build. Quietly."

Karvek tilted his head. "No vengeance? No crusade?"

I looked to the hammer leaning by the anvil. Skarnvalk, silent for once. Watching.

"Not yet," I said. "That comes later."