chapter 19-Old room

Lorin stood in his old room, the smallest one in the Frex estate. It was still large by any commoner's standard—finely furnished, with a fireplace, a polished oak desk, and a bed softer than anything he had slept on in years. But the size was a reminder. A subtle message.

He had never been mistreated outright—none of his legitimate siblings,Julius had dared to lay a hand on him—but the message had always been clear: You are not one of us.

He tightened his grip on his belt as he fastened his sword. His father had summoned him, but Lorin had no intention of staying. He had seen the old man, heard his words, and now he was done.

A sharp knock knock broke the silence.

Lorin frowned. No one had disturbed him the entire night. He debated ignoring it, but then a voice called from the other side.

"Lorin, dear, may I come in?"

His breath caught for a moment before he stepped forward and pulled the door open.

Standing there was an older woman, her graying brown hair tied neatly in a bun, her sharp features softened only by the gentle warmth in her eyes. She wasn't dressed in noble finery—just simple, well-kept servant's garb, the kind she had always worn.

"…Marla?"

The woman smiled. "Still remember me, do you?"

Lorin let out a short laugh, stepping aside. "Hard to forget the only person in this house who ever gave a damn about me."

She entered, scanning the room before turning her full attention to him. "You've grown."

He shrugged. "Happens when you live long enough."

Marla's eyes softened. "And you've been living well?"

Lorin hesitated. The easy answer was yes, but something about lying to her felt wrong.

"I've been surviving," he admitted.

She sighed, shaking her head. "Still stubborn as ever."

He smirked. "Wouldn't be me otherwise."

She stepped closer, reaching up to adjust his collar like she used to when he was a boy. "I heard about your life in the lower districts. Your... habits from knight Dante"

Lorin rolled his eyes. "Ah, so this is a lecture, then?"

She swatted his arm lightly. "Not a lecture. Just concern."

"I'm fine, Marla."

She studied his face, and for a moment, he felt like a child again under her knowing gaze.

"Your father really called you back?" she asked.

Lorin nodded.

She sighed. "And are you going to stay?"

Lorin snorted. "Not a chance."

Marla smiled faintly. "Good. That house doesn't deserve you."

That caught him off guard. "You always told me to be patient. To try and find my place here."

She reached out, squeezing his hand. "And I was wrong."

Lorin blinked.

Marla shook her head. "I should have told you to make your own place. Not wait for them to give it to you."

He swallowed, pushing down the sudden tightness in his chest.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat. "At least you finally got something right."

She chuckled, then stepped back, her expression turning serious. "Be careful, Lorin. The noble houses—they don't call back lost sons for nothing."

Lorin exhaled. "Yeah. I figured as much."

She nodded, then gestured toward the door. "Come on, then. Best you get moving before the walls remember you're here."

Lorin grinned. "Yeah, yeah."

As he stepped past her, she reached out one last time, fixing his collar once more. It was a small thing, a habit from years ago, but it made something ache in his chest.

He let her do it.

Then, without another word, he walked out of the estate.

And this time, he wasn't coming back.

The Iron Maw Den was always alive with movement, but today, the energy was different. Gorrack led Ghaz through the south district, where the heat of forges made the air thick with the scent of burning coal and molten steel.

"We're close," Gorrack grunted. "Velga doesn't take visitors often, so don't waste her time."

Ghaz nodded, adjusting the strap of his satchel. The list of supplies he needed was still tucked inside. The prosthetic for Druth was the priority, but he also needed high-quality glassware—beakers, vials, tools for proper medical work.

When they finally reached the heart of the forge, Ghaz's first thought was hot.

The air was thick with smoke, the walls lined with weapons, gears, and half-finished constructs of metal and leather. In the center of it all was Velga Ironband—a dwarven woman of thick muscle and sharper eyes, her red hair tied back, soot staining her sleeves.

She was hunched over a glowing piece of metal, her hammer striking rhythmically against the anvil. Sparks flew with each blow.

She didn't look up when she spoke. "Gorrack, if this is another one of your damn errands, you can piss off."

Gorrack chuckled. "Not today. Got someone who needs your skill."

Velga's strikes slowed. She set the hammer down, rolling her shoulders before finally turning to face them. Her gaze landed on Ghaz.

"Hmm. You don't look like a customer."

Ghaz held up his list. "I need prosthetic work. And glassware."

Velga snorted. "And I need a damn break. But we don't all get what we want."

Ghaz smirked at Gorrack. "He will be the one paying."

"Good. I don't work for free."

She wiped her hands on her apron, then gestured toward a side table. "Show me what you need."

Ghaz spread out the sketches—plans for a functional, adaptable prosthetic arm. The design was simple but effective, built for flexibility and durability. Velga studied it, her sharp eyes flicking over the details.

The only concern Druth had was it he should be able to hold a sword, as long as he can hold it he could swing it just with his stump

"Hmm." She tapped a finger against the metal plating. "You want articulation here? That's gonna cost extra."

Ghaz nodded. "Fine. What about the glassware?"

She glanced at the separate sheet. "Beakers, tubes, proper heating flasks… Hah. I don't even what this is. You a healer or a damn alchemist?"

"Bit of both."

Velga smirked. "Well, at least you're not an idiot."

As she leaned over to inspect the designs further, Ghaz noticed it—the slight hitch in her breath, the brief pause before she coughed into her sleeve.

She recovered quickly, waving it off. "So, you got the coin for this or are we bartering?"

Ghaz's eyes lingered on the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, the stiffness in her shoulders.

Metal fume fever.

It wasn't immediately lethal, but long-term exposure to certain fumes from smelting could wreak havoc on the lungs. Fatigue, fever, muscle aches—it was common among smiths, but it could get worse if untreated.

Ghaz didn't comment. Not yet.

"I'll pay in full," he said instead.

Velga grinned. " 120 silver coins."

She clapped her hands together. "Alright. I'll need a week for the arm. Glassware can be done sooner. But no rush orders. I don't work like that."

Ghaz nodded. "Understood."

Velga stretched, rolling her shoulders again. "Anything else?"

Ghaz hesitated. Then, casually, he asked, "How long have you had that cough?"

Velga's smirk faltered for the briefest second before she scowled. "None of your damn business."

Gorrack snorted. "He's a shaman and a healer, Velga. Probably already diagnosed you five minutes ago."

Velga crossed her arms. "Tch. Nosy bastard."

Ghaz shrugged. "I can help."

She studied him for a long moment. Then, with a smirk, she reached for her hammer.

"I will go to the elixir pavilion if I am sick".