The second half of the night was just as sweltering.
The servant had long since collapsed in the corner, snoring softly.
Matthew lay on the floor, staring wearily at the bundles of iron wire piled around him. The heat and exhaustion pressed on his bones, and even sweating felt like a chore.
The floor beneath him was soaked, darkened by sweat that steamed away before it could cool.
Across the forge, old Quirie showed no signs of slowing down. The man moved like he was made of iron himself—cutting wire, hammering ring molds, shaping links with mechanical rhythm.
Matthew couldn't help admiring his stamina… and the nearly insane passion he poured into smithing.
I wonder, Matthew thought faintly, if Bors could ever get like this.
That idea sparked a small grin. Yes—he'd bring Bors here tomorrow. Let the big ox spend a day learning from the old one. Maybe they'd drive each other mad.
A stubborn man to tame a stubborn craft. The thought amused him.
But his wandering mind halted when the metallic ringing suddenly stopped.
Quirie leaned, bones creaking audibly like cracking wood, and began picking up the finished rings from the ground.
Matthew winced at the sound—it was as if the man's joints were exploding. Still, something in him softened.
He pushed himself up with a groan, stretching his stiff back, and walked over to help gather the iron rings.
The old smith glanced at him once and, for the first time, the tension in his soot‑stained face eased.
When the last of the rings was in hand, Quirie exhaled, voice gravelly. "Hah… finally. The last step."
Matthew cradled a handful of the dark rings in his tunic, examining their dull glow. "How do you plan to join them?"
Quirie shot him a sidelong look. "If I told you, would you even understand?"
Matthew's mouth twitched.
So the old goat was back to his charming self.
Without a word, he dumped all the rings into Quirie's arms and said flatly, "Then stop talking and get to it."
The blacksmith froze, blinking.
But pride was pride. He said nothing, just turned back to the forge and began fitting each ring together, hammering them gently into chain links.
The process dragged on for hours. Sweat poured from his body in streams, hissing as it hit the hot stone below.
Finally, when the mass of linked metal took shape, Quirie lifted the chainmail sheet with both hands. It hung heavy and gleaming in the forge light.
A crooked smile crept over his weathered face—the smile of someone resurrected from despair. He'd thought this dream would die with him, and here it was, real again.
Matthew stood beside him, admiring the sight… until his eyes fell on the rough, uneven edges of the mesh. The misshapen rings looked like scars.
He doubted the thing would hold under any real blow.
Matthew turned, picked up his axe from the wall, and held it out. "Try it," he said. "Let's see how well it holds."
The grin died instantly on Quirie's lips.
For a second, the old man just stared at the weapon, then at Matthew, hesitation flickering in his eyes.
But pride wouldn't let him back down.
He took the axe, raised it high, and brought it down hard on the hanging mail.
The result was instant.
With a metallic shriek, the chain split apart, hundreds of broken rings flying like sparks across the floor.
Quirie froze. His eyes widened—and then dulled. His arms sagged, the axe slipping from his hand.
All that work—hours, a full night of struggle—gone in a single swing.
Matthew didn't bother offering comfort.
He crouched, picked up a few shattered rings, and examined the breaks closely.
There were no signs of impact damage. The links had snapped cleanly from tension alone.
That meant the material was fine—the method wasn't.
He rose and held out the pieces to the blacksmith. "The linkwork's at fault. You'll need to try a different way to fit them."
Quirie accepted the fragments, staring at them with tired eyes.
He coughed a few times, then slumped down onto a stool. "There's nothing else to try," he said, weakly smiling at the irony. "My father never taught me more, and what I learned in Haverfield… that's all there is."
Matthew sighed, rubbing his temples. "Maybe you forgot something—a step, a trick?"
The old man shook his head stubbornly. "No. I'm sure. That's exactly how they did it."
His muttering drifted into the noise of the dying fire. "Then why… why doesn't it work?"
Matthew watched him for a while, pity flickering only faintly before fading.
"You'll think of something," he said finally. "If you do, find me. I'll be staying three more days."
He clapped Quirie's shoulder once, grabbed his axe, and climbed back toward the surface.
Outside, the smell of scorched metal still lingered, faintly bitter against the dawn air.
The first light of morning spilled across the courtyard, gold and harsh on Matthew's eyes. He squinted, stretching till his back popped.
At the well, he hauled up a bucket and washed the grime from his hands, face, and hair. The cold water bit wonderfully against his overheated skin.
When he finally looked up, Ser Roger came striding hastily down from the tower, half-dressed, still fumbling with his cloak.
"Matthew!" he called. "How did it go? The forging—does it work?"
Matthew forced a polite smile and inclined his head. "Good morning, Ser."
The words didn't fool the knight; the shake of Matthew's head told the truth.
Roger's face paled. He could almost see the coins burning away in his mind.
After a few deep breaths, he managed a stiff grimace that passed for a smile. "I see. Then I'd best check on my old friend."
Matthew stepped aside. "Of course."
As he passed, the knight's composure collapsed entirely—his dignified stride turned into a frog‑legged jog toward the smithy.
Matthew stifled a yawn, watching him go. "Poor fool," he murmured. Then louder: "Time for sleep."
He made his way back into the tower. Servants scattered aside, bowing or pretending not to see him at all.
By the time he reached the fourth floor, the weariness weighed like lead.
There, at the balustrade outside, sat Fishy—head drooping between the rails, nodding in and out of sleep.
Matthew chuckled softly. "Honestly? Was that necessary?"
Still smiling, he crept up behind, scooped the boy up, and cradled him in his arms.
Fishy's eyes shot open—then softened into a sleepy grin. "You're back."
"Mm."
Matthew carried him to his room. The boy didn't resist, simply melted into the blankets like a doll. Within seconds, he was snoring again.
Grinning, Matthew tucked the blanket up to his chin and left quietly.
In his own room, Bors looked a wreck—dark circles ringed his eyes like bruises.
Matthew couldn't help but laugh outright.
Bors scratched his head sheepishly. "Hey, my lord… how'd it go down there?"
Matthew patted his shoulder. "The chain links were forged just fine—but putting them together didn't hold. One swing, and it all came apart."
Bors frowned. "Really? Maybe the joining's wrong. What if he loops them again, or uses thicker rings?"
Matthew sighed. "And how many would that take? With what metal? You think we—or this wretched place—can afford it?"
The realization hit the big man. His shoulders drooped. "So coming to Sow's Ridge… it was all for nothing?"
Matthew thumped him lightly against the collarbone, half‑amused, half‑stern. "Don't start with that talk—you'll ruin morale."
He leaned back and said more calmly, "The forging can wait. Recruiting isn't finished, and that's what matters most. Remember that."
Bors rubbed at his sore shoulder, nodding stiffly. "Understood, my lord."
Matthew waved him off toward the door.
"Go rest. When you wake, head down to the smithy. See if you and that mad old man can figure something out between you."
At that, Bors's fatigue vanished. His face lit up. "Aye! I'll do that, right after a nap. We'll have a new plan before noon, you'll see!"
Matthew couldn't help smiling as he watched him run off, stumbling down the hall with heavy steps.
So it wasn't all for nothing, he thought. At least not yet.
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