Matthew couldn't help it—he chuckled out loud.
The look on Ser Roger Hog's face was priceless—half-bluff, half-bluster, all embarrassment.
"Let's just see how he does," Matthew said, tilting his chin toward the forge. "Results first, words later."
He wasn't angry about the old knight trying to squeeze advantage from their deal, but he also wasn't about to let the man get greedy.
People's appetites grew with every inch they were allowed. It was best to show them boundaries early—remind them where the line was.
Still, if the blacksmith actually managed to produce usable armor, it would all balance out.
A gamble worth the cost.
He told himself that and felt a bit lighter. After all, it was just scrap iron. Wasting it meant nothing.
He had plenty of that to spare—money, too.
Ser Roger was quite the opposite.
The knight, for his part, suddenly found Matthew's relaxed expression irritating. He turned away, pretending to focus on the forge instead.
The old blacksmith, Quirie, was gently placing fresh chunks of charcoal into the flames, using his tongs to slip semi-fused iron back inside.
Every piece that went in burned through more fuel.
Watching the coal disappear, Roger's heart tightened. If this experiment failed, he wouldn't just waste the iron—he'd lose another hundred coppers in charcoal alone.
"Seven save me, we're broke," he muttered under his breath.
Then the forge hissed sharply, molten heat bursting out as the metal began to soften again.
Roger winced as Quirie tossed in more wood. His cheeks twitched painfully.
Better not to watch.
With a groan, he turned for the stairs.
But before he could get away, the old smith's booming voice echoed out.
"If you're going out, fetch me some cold water—two buckets!"
The knight's foot nearly slipped off the last step.
He spun around to glare back, only to see Quirie already facing the fire again, completely ignoring him.
Roger clenched his fists, then exhaled hard through his nose.
"Don't lose your temper, Roger. He's your friend. It's for the family. For the family…" he muttered as he stomped off through the tunnel, the smell of ash following him like smoke.
Outside, the sunset had turned the courtyard gold, the air thick and hot.
And his patience thin.
Half a day wasted, and now he was being sent to haul water like a servant.
When he reached the bucket stand, he nearly kicked one over just to spite the world—but caught himself.
He took a long, shaky breath. Then another. And another.
By the fourth, the stench nearly made him gag.
That's when the kitchen door opened behind him.
A young male servant stepped out, carrying a bucket of slop to dump. He froze the moment he saw the knight standing in the yard.
"Ser Roger! What are you—uh—doing here?" the man stammered, struggling not to spill.
Roger's eyes lit up with wicked inspiration.
"You! Take two buckets of cold water down to the stone cellar. Now. The blacksmith needs it."
Before the servant could respond, the old knight brushed past him toward the kitchen.
"Quickly!" he barked over his shoulder.
The poor man blinked in confusion but nodded obediently. "Y‑Yes, my lord!"
By the time he turned back, Roger was already gone.
Everyone in the tower knew that stone hut had been abandoned for years.
Still, orders were orders.
The servant dumped his bucket, rinsed it, filled two with fresh well water, and hurried down into the stifling cellar.
The deeper he went, the hotter it grew. Within a few steps, sweat rolled down his neck, sizzling almost against the air.
At the bottom, the sight stunned him—real fire glowing bright red, the forge roaring alive.
"My gods… it works again?" he gasped.
Matthew turned, equally surprised to see someone new.
Quirie didn't bother. "Bring it here," he shouted without looking up.
The servant rushed to set the buckets beside him, wiping at his drenched brow. He turned, wide-eyed, between Matthew and the roaring flames.
"Unbelievable," he murmured, thrilled despite the heat. "Has the Hog forge reopened? Are we making armor again?"
Quirie shoved him lightly away with the flat of his tongs. "Back off. Put the water down and stop gaping."
Embarrassed but still smiling, the servant obeyed, glancing around in awe before retreating toward the stairs.
Matthew watched the brief exchange with a curious smirk.
So this was the Hog family—half‑incompetent, half‑devoted, but somehow still standing.
A family's rise depended on talent; its fall came from division.
And for all their poverty, the Hogs didn't lack loyalty. They just lacked a leader with strength enough to lift them again.
Matthew almost pitied Ser Roger. Almost.
His pity faded quickly, though, as he looked back at Quirie—who was adding yet another shovelful of coal.
That made it the third load.
The old man went on working in absolute silence, the fire cycling from white to orange to red again as iron cooled, then heated once more.
Even Matthew began to sweat with impatience.
"Hey, Quirie," he finally snapped. "How long's this going to take?"
The smith glanced over his shoulder with a huff. "Time, boy. The fire's still too weak. Scrap needs more heat to temper right. You want strong mail, you wait. Otherwise, wear paper."
"Too weak," Matthew muttered under his breath. "Now that's bad news."
He rubbed his temple.
This was going nowhere. Between Roger's greed and this old man's obsessive madness, he nearly suspected the whole thing was a scheme—to keep him in the tower, paying rent and waiting forever.
He wouldn't put it past Ser Roger. The man's hunger for coin was bottomless.
Still, there was no point arguing with madness.
"Fine," Matthew said dryly. "I'll leave you to it then. When the iron's ready to work, tell your lord. I'll come watch in person."
Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel.
Walking away felt like stepping out of a furnace and into bliss.
No question about it: Quirie's loyalty belonged entirely to the Hogs.
And that meant further patience—or kindness—would be wasted breath.
Two steps, then three—he pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped out into the cooling dusk.
The sky had deepened to amber, the last light clinging to the rooftops. He blinked, realizing how late it had become.
"Time flies," he murmured. "I wonder how recruitment's going."
Quickening his pace, he made for the tower again.
He climbed straight to the fourth floor, jaw set, mind already sifting through plans—only for the door in front of him to open first.
Fishy popped his head out, grinning. "I knew it was you! I'm starving—can we eat now?"
Before Matthew could answer, Bors appeared behind him, seizing the boy by the collar and covering his chatty mouth.
"Not now," he said, looking apologetic. "He's been fidgeting all evening."
Fishy kicked his legs in mute protest, but Bors held him up like a sack of grain.
Then the big man looked to Matthew, hopeful. "So? How's the armor coming?"
Matthew sighed, shaking his head. "Not even close."
Bors nodded sagely, unfazed. "Takes time. Armor's delicate work."
He scratched his beard. "Better slow than wrong."
Matthew couldn't disagree. "True," he said quietly. But too slow, and the only thing forged will be my patience.
He asked instead, "How's the recruiting? Any luck?"
Before Bors could speak, Fishy, still half‑dangling, muffled a quick answer through his hand.
"We got almost fifty! Forty‑one sellswords and six farmers!"
Bors set him down, and the boy grinned proudly.
Matthew blinked, then smiled.
"Well," he said with genuine warmth, "that's good news."
And for the first time that day, he actually meant it.
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