Following Ser Roger Hog up to the sixth floor, Matthew entered a room where a set of armor gleamed faintly in the dim light.
And, to his surprise—it wasn't bad.
From the polish of the steel to the grain of the metal's pattern, even at a glance he could tell this wasn't some cheap imitation.
It might actually hold in battle.
Ser Roger, impatient as ever, didn't wait for comment. He rushed over, unhooked the armor from its stand, and shoved the heavy breastplate into Matthew's arms.
"Here! Feel it!" he said, grinning from ear to ear.
The man's enthusiasm was overwhelming.
Matthew could hardly refuse. The weight pressed pleasantly against his hands, cool and solid. The metal was well‑kept, without a single dent or scratch—hardly used, but skillfully made all the same.
When he finished his examination, he handed it back with a polite nod.
"You've a fine craftsman, I see," he said honestly.
Ser Roger only chuckled, hanging the armor back on its peg. "Now do you believe me?"
"I do," Matthew replied with a smile. "And I'd very much like to meet this master smith of yours."
Truth be told, he was eager—desperate even.
He had spent the entire morning scouring Sow's Ridge for decent blacksmiths, visiting three separate forges.
Each had been worse than the last.
Tiny, half‑collapsed workshops with cracked bellows and rusted furnaces that hadn't been fired in months. The men called themselves smiths, but all they made were sickles, hoes, and the occasional shoddy leather cuirass.
Not a one could forge chainmail, let alone plate.
He had returned with his patience nearly gone—and now this old knight was promising the impossible.
Perhaps, at last, some luck.
They descended together through the tower and came out into a small stone courtyard.
The moment Matthew stepped inside, the optimism died.
Three pear trees stood crooked in the middle, half choking a patch of overgrown radish greens. The rest was a mess of pens and sheds—a goat shed here, a pigsty there, a reeking latrine beyond.
Chickens scratched the ground, leaving droppings everywhere, and a half‑mad dog was barking its throat raw at the new arrival.
"Quiet, you fool!"
Ser Roger gave the animal a sharp kick. It whined and promptly slunk toward his leg, tail tucked, seeking forgiveness.
The old knight ignored it and turned back to Matthew with his ever‑eager grin. "What do you think of the place? Nice, isn't it?"
Matthew's smile twitched. His eye twitched harder.
So this was the forge of legends?
It looked more like a refuse heap than a workshop.
The stench was thick enough to chew. Even the stones underfoot seemed sticky; he barely dared to step anywhere for fear of landing in chicken dung.
The only sign of smithing equipment was a dusty hammer leaning against a flat slab of stone, both baking under the sun.
He'd been duped.
Face darkening, he turned to leave—but Roger quickly grabbed his sleeve.
"Wait! Quirie! Come out, you fool!"
He shouted toward a squat stone shed attached to the latrine.
After a few calls, the door banged open, and out lumbered a man even older and broader than Ser Roger—a towering figure with arms like axes and skin blackened by ages of soot. A hammer hung from his callused hand.
Seeing Roger grappling with Matthew, the old man's eyes blazed.
He charged forward in a burst of energy that made Matthew's hand fly to his sword.
"Don't you dare lay a finger on my lord! I'll smash your skull!" he roared, raising the hammer high.
The ground shook with every step.
Roger barely intercepted him in time, clutching at his arm. "Quirie, stop! Stop, you mad ox—it's a misunderstanding!"
The towering blacksmith blinked, nostrils flaring, expression wild. The hammer hovered threateningly above the old knight's head.
Roger, sweating bullets, forced a dry laugh and turned desperately toward Matthew.
"This—this is Quirie," he explained quickly. "My childhood friend. He's the one who forged both my armor and my grandson's."
Then, snapping toward Quirie, he barked, "And what in the seven hells are you doing? This gentleman is a guest! Now take us to your forge—and behave."
The giant lowered his hammer with a grunt, clearly unashamed, then trudged ahead of them.
The awkward tension was thick enough to cut.
Roger followed, clearing his throat, muttering half‑hearted apologies. "You'll see, once you've seen his work… you'll understand."
Matthew followed reluctantly. Out of courtesy alone, he forced himself not to walk away.
The blacksmith's "forge" turned out to be part of the same stone hut. Quirie pulled aside a wooden door, and the stench hit like a fist. The room was dark, lit only by thin strips of light squeezing through cracks in the walls.
Matthew's instincts prickled. His eyes scanned every corner, hand close to his weapon.
"Down here," Roger called suddenly, bending to pull open a trapdoor in the dirt floor.
He stepped down into the darkness without hesitation.
Quirie followed, hammer still clutched in his fist, vanishing after him.
Matthew hesitated for a beat, then sighed and went in after them.
The tunnel was cramped, hot, and smelled of smoke. The deeper they went, the brighter the light grew—until a harsh red glow filled the space.
At last, the shaft opened into a hidden room below the courtyard.
A smattering of oil lamps flickered over walls streaked with soot. In the center sat a small pit of molten slag, and beside it a crude forge whose fire was just being coaxed to life.
Ser Roger and Quirie worked together at the bellows, faces flushed in the light.
"Listen, Quirie," Roger said, voice eager. "We pull this off, and we'll never want for money again. The forge stays burning, you keep hammering, everyone's happy. Think you're up for it?"
"Up for it?" the old man barked with a grin, eyes shining with reflected fire. "My lord, I fix armor, don't I? If I can mend it, I can damn well make it!"
Matthew's skepticism softened slightly as he watched that spark of pride—mad, unfiltered, but real.
Roger clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit!" he shouted, beaming.
Matthew still wasn't convinced. Aside from the three of them, the underground room was barren—no apprentices, no anvil worth the name, no sign this place had produced anything in years.
Why keep a forge like this at all?
As he pondered, Roger turned to him, wiping sweat from his brow. "Well, what do you think? Not bad for an old household forge, eh?"
Matthew managed a thin smile. "Impressive."
Roger either didn't hear the sarcasm or ignored it. He puffed out his chest. "I can give you the best price you'll find anywhere. Bring me your iron, and we'll have your men in armor before long!"
Matthew opened his mouth to decline politely—but the knight swung a friendly arm around his shoulders before he could speak.
"No need to thank me! You'll give me the honor, won't you?"
For a moment, Matthew just stared. The audacity stunned him.
This wasn't generosity—it was extortion with a smile.
The forge was barely functional, the tools ancient. It was obvious the whole idea was a ploy to fund the old knight's desperate household.
He drew a slow breath, preparing to refuse outright—
—but Roger cut him off again.
"You mentioned having a few scraps lying around, didn't you? I'll have Quirie show you a sample of his craft. Can't hurt to test him."
"Scraps?" Matthew blinked—then understanding struck. The captured weapons, the dented armor, the useless plunder they hadn't yet sold.
A grin tugged at his mouth.
He had nearly forgotten about that.
"Well," he said slowly, "why not? I'll have my men bring the gear over. Let's see what he can do."
But his tone sharpened. "One condition: if it fails—if he can't forge anything worth wearing—you don't get a single coin. And you'll cover our lodging for a night. That sound fair?"
Roger froze.
It was a dangerous bet. Forging armor from scratch required tools, temperature, skill—and luck. His family's current suits had been relics purchased decades ago, not handmade.
To wager on Quirie now was pure madness.
But before the old knight could think of an objection, the blacksmith bellowed in excitement, slamming his hammer into the floor.
"We'll do it! I'll make it work, my lord! Trust me!"
His eyes gleamed feverishly, face red as the forge fire.
Roger groaned inwardly, already regretting the challenge—but Quirie's hammer was already swinging, the fire roaring higher.
And Matthew, watching from the shadows, couldn't help but smile faintly.
A mad blacksmith, a greedy knight—perhaps this gamble would prove entertaining after all.
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