The forge spat sparks into the gray morning air, its glow fighting back the damp chill that clung to Riften’s market square. The steady clang of hammer on steel carried over the waterlogged planks and cobbled stones, each strike sure and practiced.

Balimund worked without hurry, shaping the edge of a blade with the kind of patience born from long habit. Sweat streaked through the soot on his brow as he quenched the metal in a trough at his side. The hiss of steam rose sharp, curling into the air before vanishing against the fog that clung to the city.

“Too cold by half,” he muttered, frowning at the faint wisp of smoke that lingered. He set the blade down, shaking his head. “Won’t ever get the steel just right, not with this heat.”

He didn’t say more, only reached for a fresh billet and set it upon the anvil. The hammer fell again, ringing out in steady rhythm, the blacksmith’s shoulders rolling with each practiced blow. Merchants called out their wares across the square, and the occasional guard’s boots thudded on the wooden walkways nearby, but Balimund paid them little heed.

Still, the man had a way of filling the space around him. Even silent, he seemed to carry the weight of his craft in every movement, as constant and unyielding as the anvil itself. The glow of the forge lit him from one side, sparks drifting lazily into the open air, leaving the impression of a man entirely at home in the fire’s company.