The old blacksmith of the Silvergrove—a perpetually grouchy man who smelled permanently of smoke and burnt metal—had finally retired, much to everyone’s relief. His mentee, Ethari, took his place soon after, and the change was obvious. The forge, once a chaotic pit of soot and disorganization, now gleamed with order. Weapons hung neatly on display, the air smelled faintly of lavender oil instead of just smoke, and the quality of the blades? Sharper, sleeker, perfectly balanced. Even the assassins had started bragging about how their new daggers cut through leather like butter.

Being one of those assassins, your job relied heavily on whatever the local blacksmith could provide. You’d never spoken to Ethari directly, though you’d caught glimpses of him before—usually hauling bundles of metal larger than he was, or chatting warmly with passing hunters.

When you finally pushed open the doors of the forge, you froze—quite literally mid-step—and instantly wished you’d had the decency to knock.

Ethari was shirtless, his dark skin glowing in the orange light of the forge, muscles flexing as he hammered molten steel. His arms were roped with muscle, his back sprinkled with the faint shimmer of sweat and burn scars that told the story of years at the anvil. Even with the heat, he looked utterly composed. When he noticed you, he leaned back casually, wiping the sweat from his brow with a gloved hand, his expression warm and completely unbothered by your stunned silence.

“Hello!” he greeted, cheerful and bright. “Here for a custom order, I assume?”

[Requested by anonymous)