Chapter 11: The Veteran
The smithy looked worse in daylight.
I'd picked up my commissioned equipment two days ago—the armor fit well, the sword balanced perfectly—but I'd noticed things during that visit. Cold forge some mornings. Apprentices standing idle. The quality work on the walls not moving.
Today, I returned with specific purpose.
Old Tom was working when I entered, but the work was repair rather than creation. He hammered dents from a guardsman's helmet, mechanical motions without artistry. The fire in the forge burned low, barely adequate for the task.
"Back again?" He didn't look up. "Something wrong with the equipment?"
"Equipment's fine. Best I've owned." True statement—it was also the first quality gear I'd owned, but he didn't need to know that. "I'm here about something else."
He set down the hammer. The helmet sat crooked on his anvil, half-repaired. "I don't do credit."
"I'm not asking for credit."
The shop's interior told its own story. My Scanner activated unbidden, painting the space with information I hadn't requested.
[LOCATION SCAN: RADEK SMITHY]
Financial Status: Distressed
Outstanding Debts: ~45 crowns (estimated from visible documents)
Inventory Value: 78 crowns (quality work, slow turnover)
Owner: Tomasz Radek, age 54, military veteran (bad leg, honorable discharge)
Assessment: Skilled craftsman, poor businessman, extensive veteran network connections
"Forty-five crowns in debt. That's manageable."
"I'm here to offer you a job."
Tom laughed. The sound had no humor in it. "A job. From a kid half my age."
"You're struggling. Bad leg makes you slower than younger smiths. Debts mounting. Apprentices will leave soon because you can't pay them properly." I kept my voice level, stating facts without judgment. "I'm offering a solution that doesn't involve losing everything."
His face went hard. "You've been asking around about me."
"I've been researching potential partners. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Research is respectful. Gossip isn't." I pulled a chair from the corner, sat without invitation. Confidence, not arrogance. "You served in the Redanian army for twenty-three years. Quartermaster corps, then infantry, then logistics coordination during the Second Northern War. You know every veteran in this city, and half the active guards were your students at some point."
"How do you know that?"
"I talked to people. Your name comes up in certain conversations." Partially true—the system had provided background, but I'd confirmed details through human sources. "You're not valuable to me as a smith. You're valuable as a connection hub."
Tom stared at me for a long moment. The forge crackled in the silence.
"What exactly are you proposing?"
"Twenty-five crowns to clear your immediate debts and fund your apprentices' training. In return, you join my organization as intelligence coordinator. Your job is leveraging connections—introducing me to guards, veterans, skilled workers. People you already know who might be useful."
"That's... not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"The usual. Strong-arm protection, blackmail, something corrupt." He flexed his bad leg unconsciously. "The city's full of that now. War refugees, desperate people, everyone looking to exploit weakness."
"I'm not interested in exploitation. I'm interested in building something that helps people survive."
He was quiet. I let the silence stretch, giving him space to think. Rushing would feel like pressure, and Tom struck me as someone who'd push back against pressure instinctively.
Finally: "Who else is in this... organization?"
"One other member. Mira Voss—you probably know her from the Drunken Scholar. She handles administration and is developing magical skills."
"The Aretuza reject."
"The talented woman that Aretuza was too shortsighted to train properly."
Something shifted in his expression. Recognition, maybe. He'd been underestimated too, after his injury. Written off as a crippled veteran instead of valued for his experience and connections.
"Let me think about it overnight."
"Fair. I'll be back tomorrow morning."
I stood, moved toward the door. Paused.
"Three of your old students are working guard rotation in the merchant district this week. Sergeant Mikkel, Corporal Davies, and someone named Henk who apparently owes you money from a card game fifteen years ago." I smiled. "Just in case you wanted references about my character."
His laugh this time was genuine. Surprised, but genuine.
"You're something else, kid."
"I try."
Tom's Perspective
The boy left me with too much to think about.
Twenty-five crowns wasn't charity—it was investment. He'd said as much. My connections were worth more than my smithing these days, and he'd recognized that when I was still pretending otherwise.
"Arrogant little bastard. But he's not wrong."
I limped to the forge, stirring embers that needed attention. The flames responded sluggishly. Everything responded sluggishly now. My leg, my business, my prospects.
The military had given me purpose for twenty-three years. Then a Nilfgaardian pike had taken my knee, and suddenly I was just another broken soldier trying to remember civilian skills. Smithing came back slowly. The connections never left—you don't forget the men you served with, the ones who bled beside you, the ones who didn't come home.
But connections without purpose were just memories. Names at the bottom of tankards. Stories that started "remember when" and went nowhere.
The kid was offering purpose.
"Building something that helps people survive."
I'd heard similar pitches before. Mercenary captains, criminal bosses, would-be revolutionaries. They all promised meaning. They all delivered blood.
But this one... he'd done his research. He knew my history, my debts, my network. And he'd offered to fix the immediate problems first, ask for loyalty second.
That was backwards from everyone else. Everyone else wanted the oath first, helped later. If they helped at all.
"Either he's incredibly naive or incredibly smart. Can't figure which."
I spent the evening talking to old friends. Sergeant Mikkel confirmed the drowner story—the kid had really cleared that nest solo, alpha and all. Corporal Davies mentioned the appraisal reputation, how merchants now competed for his assessments. Even Henk, that card-cheating bastard, admitted the boy had a quality nobody could quite name.
"Dangerous," Henk said. "The smart kind of dangerous."
Maybe. But smart and dangerous beat broken and useless.
The boy returned at dawn. Mira Voss came with him—dark-haired, quiet, watching everything with eyes too old for her face.
"I accept."
"Good." He didn't gloat. Didn't celebrate. Just nodded like he'd expected this outcome. "The oath is simple. Binding, but simple. You'll feel the connection settle—it's strange at first, but not painful."
"What exactly am I committing to?"
"Loyalty to the Covenant of Blades. Supporting its members, upholding its purpose. The binding works both ways—I'm committed to supporting you just as much." He offered his hands. "Repeat after me."
The words felt ancient in my mouth. Foreign. But as I spoke them—swearing loyalty to something I barely understood—golden light bloomed between our joined hands.
The binding settled like a warm weight in my chest. Connection. Purpose. Belonging to something larger than a failing smithy and mounting debts.
"Welcome to the Covenant," Finn said. "We're a population of three now."
I laughed. Couldn't help it. "Three people against the world?"
"Three people building something the world will need." He released my hands. "Now—tell me about your network. Who should I meet first?"
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