Adrian overslept. Again.
The forge was cold when he dragged himself out of bed, just gray ash where a steady fire should've been. He muttered something rude at himself and went about coaxing the embers back to life.
By the time he had a flame going, Grayhaven was already awake. Wagon wheels clattered over cobblestones. Somewhere down the street, a peddler was insisting his apples were fresh — which meant they'd survived the mountain roads only slightly bruised.
Adrian just shrugged it off. Morning noise was background music to him. Hammer, fire, coin — that was his rhythm.
The door creaked open, and his first customer wasn't the usual kind. Not a farmer. Not some rookie with a bent sword. A woman in a green cloak stepped in, boots still powdered with road dust. She didn't bother with greetings. Just laid a longsword on his counter like she was dropping a dead bird.
The blade looked perfect at first glance — too perfect. But when Adrian tilted it toward the light, he saw the truth: the faintest ripple running along the edge. Not chipped. Not cracked. Warped. Like someone had forced it through armor thick enough to say "no."
"Can you fix it?" she asked. Calm voice. Too calm.
Adrian ran a thumb along the blade, felt the steel bite at his skin. "Depends. Where'd you get it?"
Her eyes didn't so much as blink. "Does it matter?"
"It does if I have to reforge it," he said. "Some alloys fight back."
The woman studied him for a heartbeat, like she was deciding if he was worth telling the truth to. Then she said, "I'll pay double. Just make it straight again."
Double. That got his attention. People in Grayhaven didn't pay double for anything unless they were desperate… or hiding something.
"Leave it," Adrian said. "Come back tomorrow."
She gave the smallest of nods and walked out, cloak trailing road dust in her wake. No name. No story. Just gone.
The moment she left, a faint blue shimmer lit up over the sword.
[Item Appraisal]Silvered Longsword – Grade B– Durability: 52%– Edge Integrity: Compromised– Material: Silver-steel hybrid, dwarven folded– Enchantment Residue Detected: Unknown source
Adrian swore under his breath. Dwarven steel? Here? Nobody in Grayhaven carried a blade like this unless they'd looted it… or stolen it. He wasn't going to ask which. The fewer questions he asked, the longer he lived.
He set to work. This sword wasn't friendly. The metal pushed back under the hammer, refusing to be told what shape to take. Too cold, it would snap. Too hot, and the temper would die. He kept the heat steady, patient, letting sweat sting his eyes while the forge filled with the sharp tang of burning silver.
Mid-afternoon brought shouting outside. Not the cheerful kind. This was panic — heavy boots running, the clash of steel on steel, someone yelling for the watch.
Adrian almost stepped outside. Almost. But the blade was hot, the edge still wrong, and none of it had anything to do with him. Low-key was safe. Low-key kept the taxes paid.
Then the door swung open again.
Not the woman this time. A man. Dusty leather armor, sword at his side, breath coming in sharp bursts.
"You Adrian Ravensteel?"
Adrian didn't like that tone. "Who's asking?"
"Varik," the man said. "Scout for the guild. I need a blade repaired. Fast." He slammed a shortsword on the counter. Its edge was a mess — gouged, twisted, and still smeared with something dark. Blood, maybe. Or maybe not.
Adrian glanced from the weapon to the man. "What'd you hit with this?"
Varik's jaw tightened. "Something that shouldn't be in these hills."
The panel blinked again, unprompted.
[Forge System Notification]Warning: Detected foreign material — corrosive, unknown origin.Recommendation: Extreme caution during repair.
Adrian exhaled, slow and even. Whatever was happening out there, it wasn't just another bar fight.
"Leave it," he said, keeping his voice level. "Come back tonight."
Varik gave him a hard, measuring look. "You work fast."
Adrian tapped the hammer on his anvil — one sharp note of finality. "I don't like keeping trouble waiting."
The scout nodded once and left as quickly as he'd come.
Adrian looked down at the two swords on his bench — one gleaming with faint dwarven silver, the other stinking of something that didn't feel natural. The forge fire crackled, throwing a spray of sparks that almost looked like the panel hovering above them.
Adrian Ravensteel never wanted glory. Never wanted to stand out.
But trouble? Trouble had a nose for sharp steel. And it had just found his door.