[ The Black Anvil Smithy ]
The heat in the shop pressed against the skin. The furnace roared, drowning out the hammering of sleet on the roof.
Born, the Master Smith, wiped a soot-stained forehead. "Like I said. That Claymore is the heaviest stock I have. Twelve pounds of tempered steel."
Kael gripped the Claymore one-handed. He shook it. The tip wobbled.
"It's a twig," He tossed it back onto the table. Clatter. "If I put my full strength behind this, the steel will shear. I need mass."
"I'm a swordsmith, not a mason!" Born spat. "Go tear a support out of a bridge."
Kael turned to the door. Then he stopped.
In the corner, half-buried under a mound of coal, a rectangular bar of black iron leaned against the brickwork.
The surface was rough, pitted like the moon. A landscape of stress cracks and slag.
"That," Kael said, pointing. "What's that?"
Born glanced over. He snorted. "Failed casting from the gate project. Counterweight beam. Full of impurities. Cracked when it cooled. Garbage."
Kael walked over. He brushed the coal dust from the metal.
1.6 meters long. Twenty centimeters wide. Four centimeters thick. Solid cast.
Kael gripped the frigid end of the slab.
System. Analysis.
[ TARGET: CAST IRON BEAM (DEFECTIVE) ]
[ WEIGHT: 88 kg (194 lbs) ]
Kael braced his legs. His muscles locked.
Heave.
Metal ground against stone. The beam rose.
Born's jaw went slack. "You're lifting that? It's cast iron. One hard impact and it snaps."
Kael held the slab horizontally. His arm trembled, muscles coiling like rope, but the iron remained airborne.
"It won't break, not this thick."
He inspected the rough end. "Wrap this part in leather. Thick leather. That's the hilt."
"You want a grip on a piece of scrap?" Born stared. "No edge. No balance. It's a rectangular hammer."
"One Gold Dragon," He placed the coin on the anvil. "For the scrap and the leather."
Born stared at the coin.
"Your funeral," Born grunted. He snatched the gold. "Give me ten minutes. Don't ask me to sharpen it."
"I don't need it sharp, I just need it to crush."
[ The Courtyard ]
The sky was a bruise of purple. Snow fell with the Black Rain. The courtyard stank of wet iron.
A crowd stood near the stables. Soldiers. Servants.
Kael stopped at the edge.
Master Garric stood beneath his cloak. The Castle Steward, Mordred, stood bareheaded in the rain.
In the center, kneeling in the slush, was Tom.
The kitchen boy was soaked. River water streamed from his hair.
His hands were bound. The fingers were swollen, dark, misshapen. Several nails were missing.
His mouth hung open. When he tried to close it, the jaw slipped sideways.
"Citizens. Soldiers." Mordred's voice cut through the courtyard. "The Baron will not tolerate negligence."
He pointed to Tom.
"Sir Janson is dead."
The crowd murmured.
"His body was recovered below the Ravine," Mordred said. "Broken. An unfortunate fall."
He waited.
"This servant was found in possession of coin belonging to the deceased."
Tom flinched.
A guard stepped forward. He tore open Tom's tunic. Silver coins spilled from the lining.
Mordred examined them.
"When questioned," Mordred said, "the servant claimed he had been instructed to assist in the disposal of refuse."
Tom's lips moved. His jaw worked. No sound came out.
"He further claimed that he did not act alone. That a squad leader directed him."
The crowd shifted.
Mordred's gaze lifted. It found Kael.
Kael stood still.
Tom's eyes followed. They locked onto Kael.
Tom's mouth moved again.
He nodded once. Small. Mechanical.
"You see?" Mordred said. "It's always the simplest answer."
He dropped the coins into the mud.
"Thief, You robbed the dead."
Tom stopped moving. His shoulders dropped.
"So that's it," he whispered.
"Just a thief."
He looked at Kael. His eyes were dull.
Tom's eyes found Kael.
His lips shaped words that never came.
Kael looked away.
Mordred turned away. "Bag him."
The sack went over Tom's head. A kick to the knees. The block.
Thud.
The axe fell.
The sack rolled through the blackened slush. It struck Kael's boot.
Steam rose from the snow.
A memory surfaced. A woodshed. A shaking boy.
I shouldn't have pulled you in.
The thought passed.
Conscience is a burden.
Kael turned away.
[ Mental suppression ]
The weight of the weapon drove his boots deep into the slush.
"Brother."
A voice called from the shadows.
Kael stopped.
Eren stepped out of the rain. His scholar's tunic was stained with wine and mud.
Eren looked at Kael's new form. Then his eyes climbed to the slab of iron rising over Kael's shoulder.
Eren swallowed.
"By the Gods,". A crooked smile. "The rumors are true. You really killed the Tiger."
"What do you want, Eren?"
"Straight to business." Eren rubbed his arms. "I need sixty silvers. The gambling den doesn't care about excuses."
Kael looked at him.
"I warned you, the bank was closed."
"Investment," Eren snapped. "I almost had it."
He stepped closer. He touched Kael's sleeve.
"We're family. Aunt Martha's coughing blood. No coal. If I don't pay, they come to the house. You want them breaking bones there?"
He lowered his voice.
"You let that kitchen boy take the fall," Eren whispered. "People are talking."
Kael didn't answer.
"You think Mordred's done?" Eren leaned in. "Soldiers talk. Your squad will talk. Men don't like leaders who let others bleed for them."
Kael looked at Eren.
"If I open my mouth," Eren said, "you won't die on a scaffold. You'll die on patrol. Because no one felt like stepping in."
The rain hissed against the stone.
"You think my men don't know what this place is?" Kael asked.
Eren blinked.
"You think anyone here believes in innocence?"
Kael stepped into Eren's space.
"They don't need to like me. They need someone who survives."
Kael looked toward the dark beyond the barracks.
"And if you talk," Kael said. "You won't be exposing me. You'll be another loose end."
Eren's mouth opened.
Kael reached over his shoulder. The chain rattled.
He unslung the Monolith. He let it drop.
Thoom.
The ground shuddered. The iron slab drove inches into the frozen mud. It stood between them.
Kael rested one hand on the grip.
"Now,". "You wanted silver?"