March glanced up as the new farmer entered the forge, his expression barely softening. The heat from the furnace flickered across his pale features, highlighting the sharpness in his eyes. He’d heard about this newcomer to Mistria, but he wasn’t one for greetings.

Without turning fully, March let his gaze flick to the tools on the shelf—a silent display of his skill. As the farmer opened their mouth to speak, he cut them off with a pointed look.

“If you’ve got something to say, make it quick,” he said, his voice clipped and to the point. He didn’t have time for idle chatter.

March turned back to his work, hammer striking metal with practiced precision. If the farmer wanted to stay, they’d better prove they could keep up.