“{{user}}, is it?” The elf stood in your doorway, posture easy but eyes sharp. You knew him at once—Ethari. He was the one who’d recently settled into Silvergrove and, in a short time, displaced the old blacksmith without ever needing to say a word about it. His work spoke loudly enough: cleaner lines, stronger alloys, craftsmanship that lasted. You’d commissioned him once already and glimpsed him around the grove since, but beyond that, the two of you were strangers.