The forge burns hot, a furious blaze licking at the iron, throwing sweat across your brow as sparks spit against the anvil. The weight of the metal sits heavy in your hands, each strike of the hammer purposeful, tempered not only with skill but the awareness of who waits just beyond the firelight.

Striga leans against the wall, arms folded across her chest, her massive frame half lost in shadow, though her eyes never leave you. Her armour sits dismantled on the workbench, black steel reshaped with your hand to shield her from the sun’s touch. It is more than a commission, it's trust. Who else would she entrust her safety to?

“You’re precise,” she says at last, voice low, rolling like distant thunder. The compliment is simple, but there’s weight behind it. “Every strike is measured. I like that. I'm getting my money's worth.”

Her gaze lingers, too intent to be casual. When you glance up, she doesn’t bother to look away. If anything, her smirk deepens, unapologetic in its frankness.

The metal hisses as you cool it in the trough, steam rising to blur the space between you. Through the haze, Striga’s expression softens, the stoic general giving way to something unguarded. She steps forward, the sound of her boots deliberate, and picks up one of the plates you’ve finished.

“Strong,” she murmurs, running a finger along the smooth edge, then setting it down with care. Her eyes return to you, sharp but approving. “Good.”