The sun had slipped out from behind the clouds by the time they regrouped at the city gates.
Alona was waiting, arms crossed and cloak half-unbuttoned in the late afternoon warmth. "There you are," she said, eyes scanning the trio as they approached. "No frostburn marks. That's a win."
Alona led them past the old merchant arches and into the heart of Whitemoor proper. The city bustled with a cautious kind of energy—people whispering, heads turning as they passed, but no one stopped them. Not anymore.
"I thought you'd like to see more of the town," Alona said. "The market's this way. And there's a bakery on Kingsvine Street that worships butter."
Fang let her lead, gaze flicking across rooftops and alleys, his thoughts half in the shadows. Gaia stuck closer, curious about the shops and old stonework. But Isgram paused at a corner, arms folded, brow furrowed.
"I've seen enough of this place," he said. "I'm heading to the industrial quarter. The forge smoke's been calling me since we got here."
Alona raised a brow. "You're ditching us for hot metal and hammer noise?"
Isgram smirked. "Better than bread and gawking crowds."
Gaia glanced at Fang. "Let him go. We'll bring him something sweet if he survives the heat."
Fang nodded. "We'll meet later. Don't burn the city down."
Isgram just waved them off and vanished into the smoke-stained skyline.
Fang's shadow beasts slithered beneath his heels, unseen. He'd taught them to hide inside his shadow weeks ago.
They were tethered by his mana to his shadow, waiting to pounce and eat whatever he will send them to kill.
They rounded a quiet bend near the lower market, but then a yell was heard:
"Go back to the pit you crawled from, freak!""Why don't you take your demon whore and crawl back to the wastelands?"
A group of young men loitered near a water trough, loose shirts stained with ale and sweat. One stepped forward, cocky grin curling beneath patchy stubble. His friends barked laughter, emboldened by numbers.
Alona stiffened. "Don't—"
Gaia raised a hand without looking at her. "Let them speak."
Fang didn't stop walking. His eyes flicked to the speaker, then to Gaia. She smiled like someone humoring children.
"You don't know what a demon is," she said, voice low and sharp as a chisel. "But if you're desperate to meet one…"
The grinning man reached for a rock. "Maybe we knock that mask off your face, freak!"
He hurled it.
The rock stopped in the air, less than a foot from Gaia's head.
It hung there, suspended mid-throw, trembling slightly. The street fell quiet. Even the pigeons above the rooftop eaves froze.
The man's smirk vanished as reality clicked in his mind—too late.
Gaia stepped forward, gently held out her hand, and the rock floated down, tapping once against the cobbles before settling at her feet.
"That's your one," she said. "Spend it well."
Then she turned and kept walking, cloak fluttering behind her like a snapped banner.
Alona, shaking with fury, spun toward the stunned group. "You dare attack a guest of the council? Of Chief Fujin himself? Guards!"
Her voice rang like a bell across the square. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. And within moments, a pair of city guards pushed through the gathering crowd.
"That one," Alona snapped, pointing to the man who had thrown the rock. "Arrest him for assaulting the honored guests of the CHIEF HIMSELF! Make sure everyone sees the consequences of attempting to hurt our newest allies!"
The man stammered, his bravado collapsing into protest as he was seized.
Fang didn't look back. His bunnies twitched in the shadow at his heels, eager but restrained.
Gaia simply said, "People learn. Or they disappear."
The crowd dispersed slowly, uneasy murmurs still chasing behind them as they walked on. Fang stayed silent, eyes scanning rooftops. The shadow bunnies stirred now and then, but remained submerged. Gaia walked like nothing had happened. Alona, on the other hand, looked like she'd swallowed a hot coal.
"I'm sorry," Alona said finally, catching up to walk beside Gaia. "They had no right. You shouldn't have to deal with that. Not here."
Gaia gave her a sideways glance. There was no anger in her expression—just a kind of tired patience. "It's fine."
"It's not."
Gaia shrugged. "You get used to it."
Alona frowned. "That's not the point."
Gaia slowed a little, her gaze drifting to the old stonework of a nearby chapel tower. "First time I met elves in this world, I hadn't eaten in three days. I woke up in the middle of a forest, no idea where I was, barely clothed. I followed the sound of birds hoping it'd lead me to water."
She didn't look at Alona as she spoke, her voice detached, like reciting something fossilized in her bones.
"I saw two hunters near a stream. Thought maybe I could ask for food. I even practiced how I'd say it. 'Please.' That was the word I picked."
She paused.
"But the moment one of them saw my horns, he screamed something and grabbed his bow. I raised my hand to say stop, and the arrow came flying anyway. I was lucky. It hit the dirt."
Fang glanced back at her. She kept walking.
"I ran. Didn't stop for hours."
Alona's mouth tightened. "I hate this."
Gaia shrugged again. "Don't. They're scared. Fear's honest. Cleaner than flattery."
She looked at Alona now, her gaze steadier. "But thank you. For shouting."
Alona exhaled slowly, the tension easing out of her shoulders. "Next time, I'll throw the rock back."
Gaia smirked. "I'd pay to see that."
They kept walking, the sun turning gold against the tiled rooftops, and for the first time in days, the weight between them felt a little lighter.
-------------------------------
The industrial quarter roared with life.
Steam hissed from copper pipes strung along stone walls, and forge smoke curled into the skies like black serpents. Metal clanged in rhythm, hammers over steel, bellows whooshing, and the deep hum of enchanted anvils at work. Isgram inhaled the thick air like it was incense.
A voice like gravel on metal barked from across the street.
"Well, by the gods! If it isn't the puny man back from the dead!"
Isgram's eyes narrowed before his face cracked into a grin. A tall, broad-shouldered elf stood by the entrance of a forge, arms folded over a soot-streaked apron, silver hair tied in a rough knot. Despite the age in his face, his smirk hadn't aged a day.
"At your age, I expected a gravestone Garrick," Isgram called back. "But I'd be happy to help speed that up if you call me puny again."
The elf let out a booming laugh and strode forward, slapping Isgram on the back hard enough to rattle bones.
"Elves live longer, remember?" he said. "Even more than the stubborn dwarves!"
Isgram laughed with him, and his eyes were drawn to the wall behind the man.
The workshop he worked at was filled with swords hanging on the wall horizontally, and one piece stood out.
"I remember you nearly burned your eyebrows off forging that damn ceremonial spear."
"That spear won an archduke's tournament."
"Because the idiot never took it out of the box."
Their banter echoed down the street as smiths turned from anvils and bellows, heads lifting with recognition. One by one, calls and greetings rang out—some teasing, others surprised, but all familiar. Isgram grinned as a dozen master smiths began approaching.
Despite the city's tension, the forge district welcomed him with open arms. He was home here, among hammers and fire—and elves who didn't flinch at magic or horns, but measured worth in burns and molten steel.
By dusk, the forge fires dimmed across the district. One by one, the shops and stalls shut their shutters and doused their embers. It wasn't for a holiday. It wasn't for tradition. It was because word spread fast in the industrial quarter—Isgram was back.
Inside Garrick's sprawling smithy, the air was thick with heat, iron, and the laughter of old comrades. Garrick, silver-haired and soot-faced, slammed a tankard into Isgram's hands and shouted over the noise, "You still drink like a man half your height?"
The room roared with laughter as more smiths poured in—elves, all of them, rough-handed and broad-shouldered, more at home with anvils than wives. Fifteen or so crammed around the long tables that ran through the heart of Garrick's forge. Ale flowed freely, and so did stories.
"You left Davra?" asked Devin, a younger smith with burn marks and curiosity in equal measure.
Isgram leaned back, tankard resting on his gut. "Yeah. Court hunters were sniffing after me. I was on a mission to find someone." He paused, eyes distant for a second. "Still am, in a way."
Devin narrowed his eyes. "Wait… You were looking for someone back then too. You never said who."
"Didn't know who, not really," Isgram said. "Only that they'd be a chosen one. Someone like me. Someone worth bleeding for."
The room quieted just a notch, and their attention turned to him. Isgram took another gulp of ale.
"I fled into the forests. Spent months dodging patrols. Dwarves tried to come after me—I sent them back in pieces. Elves too. Hunters who didn't ask questions, just drew arrows."
A few smiths shifted uncomfortably at that.
Isgram caught the mood and held it in his gaze. "I never kill without reason. You all know that. You've seen me lose fights before I raise my blade in anger."
The silence cracked, replaced by a few nods and quiet murmurs of agreement.
"I met a guy named Fang in those woods. He was the one I was searching for, someone who would give my life a new purpose. Then Gaia. Together, we are building a place where we can have peace and not feel like we're hunted.
We're gathering the others now. Chosen ones like us. The hunted, the damned, the gifted. We're building a haven. A real place, where we don't have to keep looking over our shoulders."
Devin furrowed his brow. "That sounds... huge."
"It is," Isgram said, eyes steady. "But I didn't come here to stir panic. I just signed a peace agreement with Davra and Whitemoor. I'm not hiding anymore."
That silenced the room. Not with fear, but with awe.
Devin once again looked at him, but this time felt the gap in their gravity in this world only bigger than before.
"This is a dangerous idea, Isgram. How do you know that all of those chosen ones will be like you? We all heard stories of the chosen ones from the wars, and we know how merciless they are."
Isgram took a large sip.
"Tell me, did the kings and queens send Garrick here to the battlefield to drink or to kill? Or Achilles here, he was fighting the demon kind themselves. He was never the merciless kind, especially considering his smell after a day in the forge!" Isgram burst in laughter, and the rest joined him, but one short elf who was pouting at the insult.
Achilles knew he was right, but he wouldn't let him go without a fight: "At least I'm not the shortest one here anymore, puny man!"
And another wave of laughter filled the shop.
Isgram calmed down and returned to his serious mood.
"We're not building an army. We're building a place for monsters like us. Peace doesn't come from saints—it survives because the strong choose not to kill."
Garrick raised his tankard, voice booming. "To Isgram. Puny no more. Maker of monsters, bringer of peace!"
The forge shook with laughter again, the sound of tankards clinking and stories spilling freely into the fire-lit night.
"I'll drink to you, Isgram. But not all of us will accept it easily. You've got work to do in this village, my brother."
Isgram nodded.
For once, Isgram allowed himself to sink into the noise, the warmth, the memory of a home that had never quite stopped waiting for him.