Bors fell onto his bed that night still grinning ear to ear.
He didn't know exactly which noble family Matthew came from—but he knew following him had been the right choice.
When he'd seen the glinting armor worn by Sir Haven and Morty, he'd understood immediately. This man wasn't just rich—he lifted people who stayed loyal.
He rolled over, unable to sleep, his mind full of dreams. What if I really become a knight one day?
The thought made him laugh in the dark.
"Ha ha ha…"
Smiling to himself, he drifted off.
He dreamt of returning home to his village, handing out new plowshares and sickles. No farmer would ever have to quit working because their tools broke again.
It was simple, good, and perfect.
But barely after he'd fallen asleep—the racket started.
Bang, bang, bang!
Boots clattered on the stone stairs, a man shouting breathlessly, his voice echoing through the tower's fourth floor.
"Lord Matthew! Where are you, my lord?"
The noise grew louder, closer, until everyone on the floor was awake.
Matthew sat bolt upright in bed, listening carefully.
Somebody's door creaked open.
"Hey! What are you yelling for?" barked a rough voice. "Don't you know the lord's asleep?"
Bors stood in the hallway, still in a thin undershirt taken from the Hog family's wardrobe, gripping an axe in one big hand.
He glared around. Seeing no one else had come out only made his temper worse.
"Bloody hell," he muttered. "Middle of the night, and I've got to deal with this alone."
He stalked toward the noise.
Under the flicker of lamplight, the trembling servant nearly dropped his candle. He raised both hands quickly. "I—I was sent by Master Quirie! He told me to fetch the lord—he's forging armor right now! It's ready for shaping! I'm not an intruder, I swear!"
Matthew could hear every word from his room—and his irritation melted into surprise.
Well now, he thought, not often a man gets good news at this hour.
A grin broke across his face as he jumped out of bed and began dressing.
By the time Bors had cornered the servant near Matthew's door, it was already opening.
Matthew stepped out, fully dressed and alert.
He saw the poor servant nearly pinned against the wall by Bors's arm and quickly swatted the big man's hand away.
"Enough," he said. "Lead the way."
The servant nodded rapidly, relief flooding his face.
Bors hesitated, lifting his axe. "Maybe I should come too—just in case?"
Matthew shook his head. "Stay here and guard our things."
Then he patted the servant's shoulder. "Move."
The man was only too eager. He turned and hurried off, Matthew following close behind—axe in hand, just in case. Their shadows stretched long and black along the curved stairway walls as they descended into the dark.
Within moments, they emerged into the courtyard.
Moonlight spilled like scattered salt across the stone. The usual stench of livestock mixed with another smell—hot and sharp, the air tainted with a bitter edge.
Matthew lifted a sleeve over his nose as they approached the old smithy. The further they went, the stronger the scent—the acrid tang of burned coal and something faintly poisonous.
The servant didn't seem to mind. That, Matthew thought, was either admirable or suicidal.
Down the narrow steps beneath the stone hut, the heat thickened until breathing felt like drinking fire.
At the bottom, he saw him—Quirie, the blacksmith, bare‑chested, covered in soot and sweat, arms pumping the bellows in rhythm with the roaring forge. The red light gleamed on his dark skin.
"Has he been at it all night?" Matthew asked.
The servant nodded, wiping his brow. "Yes, my lord. He's got more life in him than I do."
Matthew chuckled, applauding softly as he stepped closer. "Impressive. Truly."
Quirie finally turned, eyes wild in the firelight.
"Well!" Matthew called. "Show me what all this noise was about. I'm very curious to see what you've made!"
For once, the old man didn't quip back.
Instead, he grabbed a pair of tongs, fished out a chunk of slaggy metal from the quenching pit, and tossed it straight into the roaring furnace.
A cloud of steam shot up—the hiss like a thousand serpents.
Moments later, molten iron began to flow.
It poured out quicker than before, bright and smooth, threading down into a stone trough.
Quirie was already moving, shifting a pipe to direct the liquid into a basin of water. He worked the long iron rod with careful precision.
Then, grabbing heavy tongs again, he lifted a glowing block from the forge, eyed its heat, and shoved it back in with a satisfied nod.
This time, he didn't melt it completely.
When it burned to a fierce cherry red, he pulled it free and slammed it on a square stone anvil.
"Hyah!"
Each blow fell with deafening force, showering sparks in every direction.
Matthew flinched back, shielding his arms. The hot flecks stung but didn't burn—still, watching the old man take them full on without flinching was another thing entirely.
"Madman," Matthew murmured—with more admiration than insult.
The blacksmith worked like a demon. His skin glistened with sweat, blistering in spots as tiny black burns bloomed across him like dark freckles.
He didn't stop.
Strike after strike, he hammered the iron until it flattened, then shoved it back into the flames and started again.
Ten, twelve, fifteen times he repeated the process—until the air rang with the rhythm of iron on stone like a heartbeat in Hell.
Eventually, the piece grew thin, wide, glowing at its edges. Then—suddenly—Quirie frowned.
He dropped the hammer, rubbed his chin, clearly troubled.
"This won't do," he muttered.
Turning back, he announced sheepishly, "Used too much force. Can't draw it into wire like this. I'll have to melt it again."
Matthew blinked—then laughed uncontrollably.
"That's fine! Doesn't matter to me. Just keep going—I care only about the final result."
The old smith gave a curt nod, utterly unbothered, and threw himself back into work.
Matthew could scarcely believe his endurance. The hammer never stopped—melting, striking, melting again.
The clangs blended into one endless rhythm. Matthew's eyes watered from the heat, his ears from the ringing.
The servant fell asleep against the wall, half‑sitting, mouth open.
Matthew watched a while longer before finally shaking his head. "Mad indeed," he muttered, turning to leave. "I'll check again at dawn."
But he'd barely stepped onto the stairs when a triumphant roar echoed behind him.
"It's done! Ha ha ha, it's done!"
Matthew turned and raced back down.
There was Quirie, drenched in sweat, grinning like a man possessed.
In his tongs he held a glowing, crimson wedge of iron—tapered, sharp, and solid.
He laughed wildly, spinning around. "Help! Someone help me draw it! We'll pull the wire while it's hot!"
The startled servant jerked awake, scrambling upright to assist, but Quirie waved him aside as soon as he saw Matthew.
"No, not you! You—" He jabbed a finger toward the shadows, eyes landing on the young noble. "You look strong. Lend a hand, boy!"
Matthew raised an eyebrow but couldn't stop the smirk curling his lips. "All right, then. Let's see what your madness produces."
He rolled up his sleeves and stepped forward.
"Grab a pair of tongs," Quirie barked. "Over there, by the wall."
Matthew's smile froze.
He looked at the old man—stood there, proud as a king covered in soot—and felt his patience tremble.
Really? Sending the client to fetch tools?
For one sharp, dangerous second, he nearly decided to snap back with a blow to the head.
But before the words formed, the servant staggered from behind the forge, dragging a heavy iron mold filled with holes—one of the dies.
"It's too heavy!" the poor man wheezed. "Please, someone help me—"
Matthew sighed, the tension fading in an instant.
He couldn't even stay angry anymore. Watching the poor servant trip over his own feet while the mad smith shouted directions was almost comedic.
The absurdity of it all—the heat, the noise, the chaos—made him grin faintly.
"Fine," he muttered under his breath, walking forward again. "Let's finish this damned miracle."
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