Rachel's eyes—those that had once shaken me to my core—were now so soft and delicate that she looked like a beautiful antique porcelain doll. After finishing our handshake, she cast another critical glance at my outfit.
—Well then, Sir Tris, now that we've cleared things up… why don't you have a weapon worthy of you?
—Well, it's just that—
—That's right! —she cut in shamelessly—. You were still Metal… well, now Steel, I suppose. You haven't been able to meet Gobann, the master smith in charge on the Silver floor.
That name opened an entirely new layer of geeky historical excitement inside me. This time, I was the one clasping my hands together, barely containing myself.
—Gobann?! The Celtic smith, creator of the spear Sleg Lugaid? Practically remembered as the Irish god of the forge!
Rachel was left speechless for a moment, as if she enjoyed watching someone else spiral with excitement.
—I see you know quite a bit for a newcomer —she said playfully.
—It's just… I heard a lot about him during my travels —I tried to dodge suspicion.
—I see, I see. Tris, leave it to me. I'll take you to the Forger of Stories.
"The Forger of Stories."
Yes. I was sure I had heard that name before. For an instant, Paul's cheerful face crossed my mind—only to be redrawn with the cold, distant look he gave me the last time we met.
Pulling me back to reality, Rachel grabbed my arm and began dragging me across the Nexo. Curious stares immediately followed; murmurs spread about who the fallen princess had at her side, with very little decorum—but Rachel didn't care in the slightest.
She marched without hesitation until we reached a wall I had ignored this entire time. On the other side of the dining halls and training courts stood a wall identical to the entrance one—but made of a different material: gleaming silver. Yes, it was the only wall not covered in rusted metal, but in pure silver.
—Come on, we have to go up the stairs —she said confidently, heading straight for the wall, solid as any other.
—Wait, Rachel, there's just a wall here, wait—
—What are you talking about, you idiot? The stairs are right here. Come on, stop resisting.
She ignored me completely, yanking me along. The resistance vanished when she put one foot in… then the other, pulling me with her by the wrist. I passed through the silver wall and, at last, a new world opened before my eyes.
The rusted walls were replaced by silver ones, so polished they looked like lightly frosted mirrors. The atmosphere itself felt cleaner, purer, carrying a sterile, hospital-like scent that pierced my nostrils. I instinctively raised a hand to cover my nose.
—Wow, looks like you really did rank up… what am I smelling? —she asked flirtatiously, leaning her head closer to my face.
A delicious scent of roses hit me full force. It was the most wonderful aroma I had smelled in months—and at the same time, it overwhelmed me instantly. My dulled senses had atrophied from disuse. She noticed and laughed elegantly.
—Hahaha, the same thing happened to me the first time. Let me tell you something: every time we rank up, we recover a sense. The first floor is smell, the second is taste, the third is true hearing; in Gold, true sight… and finally, you receive the lost gift: touch. Though I still don't know what that will feel like, haha.
—That's… useful information.
—You're welcome —she replied, resuming her walk and gesturing behind her back for me to follow.
The corridors were beautiful and far less crowded than those on the first floor. There were more elegant tables and training fields with real equipment, along with a wider variety of food. Drinks of different colors and flavors mixed with my newly awakened sense, and I couldn't help getting lost for a moment in the dining area, savoring every fruity and roasted aroma.
—Later, if you'd like, I'll invite you to eat something —she grabbed my wrist again—. We don't have much time; you shouldn't be here.
—I figured as much.
—In theory, we can bring guests up from the lower floors, but that whole "guest" thing is always ambiguous, so let's not tempt the system, okay?
—Whatever you say. You're in charge, princess.
She simply smiled elegantly. In very little time, we crossed the dining hall and reached a much wider shop. It was the only place that didn't seem to be made of polished silver; the walls were instead red and black bricks, interwoven in a strange pattern. Above the entrance hung a fluorescent sign accompanied by a stylish black axolotl with little paws, wings, and white scales, announcing:
"The Forger of Stories"
—Old Go —Rachel said playfully to a massive being who never stopped hammering over a black iron forge.
The creature—best described as a bipedal buffalo—smiled and turned toward her, setting down his hammer.
—Well, look who we have here: the number one fan of the prototype Prince Charming. And her…
His eyes settled on me with genuine disappointment. I couldn't hide my discomfort at being in an area reserved for those who had reached the halfway point of the Nexo. Without a doubt, in his eyes I was nothing more than a stowaway.
—Pet? —he finished.
—Nooo, Go. He's Sir Tristan, he just arrived —she said theatrically, pointing at me.
—Oh? Sir Tristan, huh? I remember hearing he had curly hair, not straight and tied in a little ponytail like a girl.
—Heh… myths sometimes change things —I replied sheepishly.
—So you're the great Tristan, huh? —Gobann raised an eyebrow—. Let me guess: all that heroism, tragedy, and broken romance… you want to turn it into a weapon? Or a harp?
He burst into laughter, amused by his own joke.
—Well, you've come to the right place. All you need to do is tell me a story worth hearing; I'll shape it into the weapon of your dreams—and maybe, if you convince me, I'll forge something worthy of my name.
I swallowed, intimidated.
—Go on, Tris, don't be afraid. Grandpa Go is a great guy once you get to know him.
"Easy for you to say—you're not the one being stared at in disgust by a mastodon twice your height and width."
—Well… yes, I want to… —I inhaled and exhaled, preparing myself to speak.
For a moment, I considered recounting Isolde's tragedy again, but it didn't feel right. It was as if that story didn't belong to me. Was it theft?
I could feel it—the piercing gaze of Gobann pulling the truth straight from the narrator's mouth. If he was to create a weapon worthy of me, it had to be forged from the stories I had truly lived…
—I… I've had many adventures… many lives…