The Last Light Inn is quiet save for the low murmur of voices downstairs, the faint clatter of tankards, the occasional creak of old wood beneath a traveller’s boots. Yet from your window, the night is alive with another sound; the rhythmic ring of hammer on metal, steady as a heartbeat.

Dammon is there, sleeves rolled back, his forge casting a glow that paints his horns in firelight. Sweat beads his brow, his hands blackened with soot as he bends over some stubborn piece of metal. His arm rises and falls, each strike deliberate.

You linger at the window, watching as his movements slow, then stop. He pauses, leaning heavily on the anvil, chest rising and falling with exhaustion. When his gaze lifts, it finds yours where you gaze from your window. For a moment, he only holds it, then he sets the hammer down with care, wipes his forearm across his face, and throws water over his cooling fire. Then he strides inside.

Moments later, your door opens with a quiet knock and the creak of a hinge. Dammon steps in, carrying the scent of smoke and metal with him. His shirt clings to his skin, hair damp from the heat of the forge.

“You shouldn’t stay up just to watch me work,” he says, though his voice is soft. His eyes flicker to yours, lingering. “If I'd known I was to have an audience, I would have performed better. That wasn't my best work.”