Gisoreux was not a place for the weak of stomach. It was a scar of grey stone and rotting wood spreading across the banks of the River Ois, a labyrinth of narrow alleys, screaming markets, and open sewers. For Geneviève, who had spent the last year amidst the silence of the forests and the solitude of the swamps, the impact with the city was like a slap in the face.
The stench hit her well before she saw the walls: a mix of rotting fish, leather tanning, exotic spices, and the unmistakable smell of thousands of unwashed bodies packed into too tight a space. But Gisoreux was necessary. Her armor, once belonging to Sir Balduin, was falling to pieces. The left pauldron was deformed by the Vargheist's bite, the leather straps were rotten from humidity, and the chainmail was shedding rings like a tree sheds leaves in autumn. If she faced another winter with that metal on her back, she would die of rust before the sword.
Geneviève rode toward the South Gate, blending into a caravan of wool merchants. She kept her head low, visor down, a silent tower of iron amidst the clamor of the peddlers. Two city guards, with halberds leaning lazily against the wall and grease-stained liveries, were stopping travelers for the toll.
"Hey, you! Tin can!" barked one of them, spitting on the ground. "Two shillings to enter with that horse. And take off your helm, I want to see if you're a bandit."
Geneviève stopped her destrier. Her heart hammered against her bound ribs, but Gilles did not tremble. With a slow, deliberate movement, she unhooked a heavy jute sack hanging from her saddle. She threw it at the guard's feet. The sack landed with a wet, heavy thud. The guard opened it with the tip of his halberd. Out rolled the severed head of an Orc Boss, a hideous thing with yellow fangs and leathery skin, which Geneviève had "collected" two days earlier along the Old Road.
The guards paled. There was a bounty on that head, issued by the local Duke. "No toll for hunters," muttered the guard, quickly closing the sack and making the sign of the hammer. "Pass, milord. And take that thing to the barracks before it attracts flies."
Geneviève retrieved the sack without a word and moved on. She had learned that violence, or the promise of it, was the only currency everyone accepted without questions.
She avoided the high districts, where nobles would have scrutinized her searching for heraldic crests she did not have. Instead, she headed toward the "Soot Quarter," where smoke from the forges darkened the sky even at noon. She was looking for a specific smith. Not a human. Humans ask questions, they gossip. She was looking for a Dwarf.
She found the sign, a simple rough stone anvil, above a workshop that looked more like a cave than a store. Thrunbor the Black. She entered. The heat was suffocating, a searing embrace that reminded her of her father's forge, but amplified ten times over. A stocky Dwarf, with a beard braided with iron and arms as thick as tree trunks, was hammering a piece of glowing metal. He did not look up. "If you want to shoe a horse, go to the farrier down the street. If you want a parade sword with gems, go to the elf jewelers. Here, we beat steel to kill."
Geneviève dismounted. She advanced into the orange glow of the forge. She unclasped the destroyed pauldron and let it drop onto the workbench. The Dwarf stopped. He picked up the deformed piece of metal, running a calloused, soot-blackened finger over it. He analyzed the marks of the monster's teeth, the bending of the metal, the makeshift repair Geneviève had attempted.
"Vargheist fangs," grunted the Dwarf, finally raising dark, piercing eyes. "And you survived. Not bad for an umgi (human). But this armor is garbage. It's ceremonial scrap, it won't hold against real blows. Whoever sold it to you wanted you dead."
"It was... an inheritance," said Geneviève. Her hoarse, artificial voice rang metallic. She placed a heavy leather pouch on the bench. Inside were the coins from the Orc bounty and everything she had saved in a year. "I want it to work. Not to shine."
Thrunbor weighed the gold, then looked at the full armor she was wearing. "I'll have to reforge it almost from scratch. Tighten the torso, reinforce the joints. You look... narrow in the shoulders for a knight. And you move light." The Dwarf stared at her. For a moment, Geneviève feared he had understood. Dwarves see details that others miss. But Thrunbor nodded. "Better that way. Smaller target. I'll make you a real plate cuirass. No ornaments. Steel tempered the Karaz-a-Karak way. But you'll have to leave it here for two days."
"I cannot take off my helm," said Geneviève, rigid.
The Dwarf snorted. "I've seen men burned by dragons, lepers, and wanted criminals. I don't care about your face, umgi. I care if you pay. Keep the helm if it makes you feel safe, but you'll have to stand still while I take measurements for the breastplate."
Those hours were a different kind of torture. Geneviève stood motionless as a statue while the Dwarf took measurements with a leather tape, getting dangerously close to her secret. But Thrunbor was a professional. When he noticed the unnatural shape of the chest flattened by bandages under the padding, he made no comments. He probably thought of a deformity or war wounds. He only mumbled: "I'll leave you more room in the chest to breathe. You fight suffocating, you die suffocating."
Two days later, Geneviève walked out of the shop transformed. She was no longer wearing Sir Balduin's scrap metal. She was wearing a suit of composite Full Plate. It was dark, burnished with oil to prevent rust, devoid of crests or golden engravings. It was functional, brutal, and perfectly balanced. The plates overlapped with millimetric precision, allowing fluid movements that were previously impossible for her. The joints were protected by dense chainmail. And, most importantly, the Dwarf had kept his promise: the chest cuirass was domed imperceptibly, giving her those few inches of breath the bandages had denied her for years.
Geneviève inhaled deeply the smoky air of Gisoreux. For the first time, her lungs filled completely. She had spent every coin she owned. She had no money for food. But as she climbed back onto her destrier, she felt the reassuring weight of the Perfect Greatsword Thrunbor had sold her in exchange for Balduin's old blade and the rest of the gold. A matte blade, sharp as a razor, balanced for her hands, not those of a dead man.
She felt powerful. She was no longer a squire playing at being a knight in her father's clothes. She was a war machine. She headed toward the city exit. She had heard rumors at the tavern (listening while standing outside the window): to the north, toward the Pale Mountains, something was waking up. Something that required Dwarf steel and human faith. Gilles the Mute was ready for the hunt.