Rethan,like he'd only just decided the "preparations" part was finished,glanced toward the wall where a low, narrow bar stood. It was more practical than decorative, with a few bottles lined up without any real order, the way they were in the homes of people who didn't pretend to be connoisseurs,people who drank when they had a reason.
"Since we're talking about connections and drinking," he said offhandedly as he rose from the table and walked to the bar, "I don't think we're going to pretend tomorrow is a normal day."
He took out two small glasses without asking whether Edgar felt like it, then grabbed a bottle of dark liquor that smelled sharp the moment the cork came free.
Edgar snorted softly, leaning back in his chair.
"You really are an alcoholic," he said without anger. "Who drinks in the morning?"
"People who might die tomorrow," Rethan replied with a grin, pouring evenly into both glasses.
He set one in front of Edgar.
"Well?" he asked. "You drinking with me or not?"
For a moment Edgar stared at the glass like he was genuinely weighing it, then he waved a hand in resignation and picked it up.
"One," he muttered. "And don't tell anyone I drank at this hour, or somebody'll start thinking I run the shop drunk."
"Relax," Rethan said. "Your reputation's already suspicious, considering you hand out better gear than half the city can get their hands on."
They drank.
The alcohol hit hard, burning down Edgar's throat and, for a brief moment, pushing everything else,the last few days, the looming dungeon, the tension in the air,just a little farther away.
Rethan set his empty glass down first.
"Since we're on the subject of the dungeon," he said, switching topics without any transition at all, "the guild leader in the city isn't thrilled with the Halvens' decision."
Edgar looked at him more sharply.
"They sent three mages," he said slowly. "That should be enough for a Beast-rank dungeon."
Rethan nodded.
"Enough," he agreed. "On paper. The problem isn't the number."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"They're young," he went on. "No real dungeon experience. Sure, they're trained,strong, probably very strong,but they're still the kind who only just stopped drinking milk at their mother's teat and think magic solves everything."
Edgar grimaced.
"So the guild leader's worried about losses."
"He's worried about a massacre," Rethan corrected calmly. "The conditions are brutal,air that scorches your lungs, treacherous footing,and then you add three young hotheads from a noble House who'll want to command, bark orders, and prove they're better than ordinary people with swords."
He gave a short, humorless snort.
"And adventurers hate that," he added. "Because they know how it ends. Arrogance, nobody listens, one mistake,and suddenly half the team doesn't come back."
Edgar nodded slowly.
"And there's nothing they can do," he said quietly.
"Nothing," Rethan confirmed. "If the head of the House decided it, the guild can do is grit its teeth and pray the young mages have at least a little sense."
A brief silence fell,heavier than before.
Edgar lifted his glass again, turning it between his fingers.
"When you get back," he said at last, "I'll bring out the good stuff. The kind actually worth drinking."
Rethan barked a laugh, clearly pleased.
"See?" he said, clapping Edgar on the shoulder. "That's why you're my friend. You know what matters."
Edgar nodded, but he glanced at the empty glass with mild irritation.
"Next time we drink in the evening," he added. "Because if this keeps up, I'm going to start thinking I really am an alcoholic."
Rethan responded with nothing more than a smile and a nod, offering no promise beyond the gesture itself.
***
Roland stepped out onto the street and set off toward the Iron Gate, quickly realizing it wasn't just Mr. Klein's shop living under pressure now. The closer he got to the forges, the more people there were,carts, makeshift stands loaded with goods, bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder. The smell of heated metal and smoke hung in the air far thicker than usual, as if the whole district was working on one shared breath.
A line stretched outside Hergan's forge,long and tense,made up of adventurers, craftsmen, and people who hadn't thought about weapons yesterday and were now trying to turn their cores into anything that might give them even the faintest edge. Off to one side, someone was explaining in a low voice that the forge was running three shifts now, and that Hergan barely left the furnaces at all.
Roland pushed through slowly, murmuring apologies and lifting the crate just enough for people to see it. The sight of crystals worked better than any explanation. When he finally reached the entrance, one of the forge's younger assistants,a boy not much older than Roland,took one look at the crate and raised his eyebrows.
"Those crystals?" he asked immediately.
Roland nodded, catching his breath.
"Order for Master Hergan," he said. "From Mr. Klein."
"He's in the second forge," the boy replied, pointing to a door on the left. "You can set them down in there. Just be careful,he's forging right now."
Roland slipped into the second forge carefully, closing the door behind him only enough to keep it from bumping the frame. After the first step, he could feel it,the focus in here was different from the main hall, where noise, chatter, and hurry blended with the crash of hammers. Here, every sound felt like it belonged, like it had purpose.
Hergan stood at the anvil in silence, bent over heated metal that already held the shape of a blade, though it was still far from a finished sword. The furnace behind him didn't burn with wild flame, but with a steady, deep glow sustained by magical runes embedded in the stone, keeping the temperature even and predictable,as if the fire itself knew when it was supposed to obey.
The hammer in the smith's hands wasn't an ordinary tool. Though it looked heavy and worn, its head was scored with thin, nearly invisible grooves. Every so often a brief, pulsing light ran along them, synchronized with his strikes, and each blow did more than shape the metal,it soothed the energy circulating through the blade before it could gather too densely in one place.
Roland set the crate down by the wall and froze. No one had told him to, but he knew,this wasn't the moment for movement, or for words.
Hergan turned the blade with tongs, striking in a precise rhythm,neither fast nor slow, but the kind that felt carved into muscle by years. With each blow the metal changed only slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if the smith wasn't forcing it into submission so much as guiding it toward where it already wanted to go.
Only when the blade was set briefly onto a stabilizing stand did Hergan reach for a tool Roland had never seen before,something between a chisel and a thin iron stylus, its tip wrapped in small rings of an unfamiliar alloy that chimed softly the moment they neared the metal.
The smith pressed the tool to the hilt and began forming the socket for the core. He didn't carve it out brutally, but slowly etched channels branching from the center like fine veins, shaping each one individually and carefully, making sure the material's continuity remained unbroken. Roland knew those channels would later distribute energy through the entire weapon.
The metal responded to every touch with a faint tremor, darkening where magic imposed a new structure, yet it didn't crack or resist. Hergan's tools weren't so much cutting into it as controlling the process,keeping balance between physical form and whatever power would feed it.
Only then did the smith reach into a box beside the furnace and take out a core.
It wasn't large,mid-grade, its surface matte, with an irregular light pulsing deep inside.
Setting the core was the moment Roland immediately recognized as the most important. The instant the crystal met the socket in the hilt, the blade shuddered visibly, and the fine veins carved earlier began to glow faintly, showing that the energy was starting to circulate exactly as it should.
Hergan didn't hurry. He pressed the core in slowly and steadily, using the stylus to close the metal around the crystal so it remained partially visible,set like the heart of the weapon, not hidden deep within.
When everything was in place, the smith lifted the sword and made a short, controlled motion. For a fraction of a second nothing happened,then the blade released a low, deep tone. Not loud, but full, as if the weapon itself were confirming the stability of its flow.
Hergan looked from the sword to the core, then simply nodded.
"It works," he said.
The sound faded, leaving the forge unnaturally quiet. Even the runes dimmed, as if acknowledging the blade's completion. Roland let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding
Hergan eyes narrowing as they finally found Roland by the wall.