"First things first, lad, get them bits o' gear off and that scrap off yer arm. Don't want 'em covered in grime, gods know what's in it."
Kael didn't argue. The command wasn't cruel, just practical, like Andre's mouth only knew two settings: bark and bark harder.
He set the gear down where the lantern's weak light could still reach it, far from the filth and the rust piles, then started peeling off the outer layers until he was down to the basilisk leather and the parts that actually mattered.
The smithy smelled like old smoke and older regret. The grime wasn't normal dust either, more like a gritty paste that stuck to the broom, to his boots, to his palms. The longer he stood there, the more he noticed how the place fought him. Cobwebs didn't just hang; they clung. Rust didn't just sit; it flaked into the air like ash.
Kael began cleaning up the place as asked.
