Cyan's lips curled into a familiar, unguarded smile as he took in the village settling for the night.
Lanterns burned low along the dirt paths, their amber light washing over thatched roofs and timber walls that had watched them grow up. Warm glow spilled from open windows, carrying the scent of fresh bread and thick stew—scents so familiar they barely registered anymore.
Somewhere nearby, a baker was still arguing loudly with his wife as he locked up, just as he had every night for the past twenty years.
"Try not to burn anything down tonight, Cyan."
"Randell—if the east gate's loose again, it's your fault."
"Don't go starting trouble this late."
The greetings came easily, layered with dry humor and long memory. Cyan answered with lazy nods and half-smiles. Randell lifted two fingers in a mock salute.
Randell glanced sideways at Cyan, catching the expression.
"You only smile like that when someone's bleeding."
Cyan exhaled, breath misting faintly in the cool air. "Give it time."
Crickets chirred beyond the outer fence. Far off, a wolf howled—familiar, unwelcome. Randell adjusted the strap of his pack without thinking.
"It's nights like these," Randell said, voice low, eyes sweeping the rooftops and shadowed alleys, "that almost make you forget why they keep yelling at us."
"Because we give them reasons," Cyan replied.
Randell snorted. "Minor ones."
Soft footsteps rushed toward them, reckless and unafraid.
"Cyan! Randell!"
Lyra skidded to a stop in front of them, her ponytail already coming loose. Kyle followed at full speed, barefoot and breathless, nearly slamming into Cyan before halting.
"We heard about the wolves!" Lyra said, eyes bright. "Mama said you weren't supposed to go that far!"
Kyle nodded furiously. "But you did anyway. You killed, like, a million."
Cyan crouched, resting his elbows on his knees. "First rule of survival, Kyle—don't exaggerate."
Kyle frowned. "It was a lot."
Randell scooped Lyra up with a laugh. "See? This is how it starts. They blame us, then they brag about us."
"I don't brag," Lyra protested, giggling as Randell spun her once.
Cyan ruffled Kyle's hair. "If you want to fight monsters one day, you start with balance. No blades. No stupidity."
Kyle considered this. "Can I be stupid later?"
Cyan smiled. "You already are."
Laughter followed them as they walked, the sound blending into the village's nightly rhythm. Doors closed. Shutters thudded. A baby cried and was quickly hushed. People moved with the ease of routine—routine that included Cyan and Randell fixing what they broke and guarding what others couldn't.
"Still alive because of you idiots," an old man muttered, shoving a loaf of bread into Cyan's hands before limping away.
They helped without being asked—resetting a loose beam, tying down a rattling shutter. Gratitude came wrapped in sarcasm, as it always had.
From the central firepit, Ryker straightened and fixed them with a knowing look.
"I suppose telling you not to cause trouble is pointless," he said.
Randell grinned. "Tradition."
Ryker sighed, then softened. "Come to the council before you do something else reckless." he said as he turned around to leave.
Cyan and Randell resumed their stroll, boots crunching softly against the packed earth as the village breathed itself toward sleep.
Their path curved naturally toward the blacksmith's shop—an old structure crouched at the edge of the square like a stubborn relic that refused to age. Its wooden sign creaked overhead, swinging just enough to complain, each groan stretched and tired, as though the building itself were sighing at the night.
Cyan slowed.
"You hear that?" he asked.
Randell smirked. "Alaric's shop? It complains louder than you do."
The heat hit them the moment they stepped inside.
The interior was alive—metal glowing orange, sparks snapping like fireflies, the air thick with smoke and iron. The rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil pulsed through the room, steady and merciless, like a heartbeat forged in steel.
Alaric stood at the center of it all.
Short, broad, immovable. His arms were corded with muscle, veins standing out as he brought the hammer down again and again. His beard was thick and wild, streaked with soot, framing a face carved by years of fire and stubbornness.
He didn't look up at first.
Then he did.
"Ah," he rumbled. "If it isn't the village's favorite disasters."
Randell grinned wide. "Miss us already, old man?"
Alaric snorted. "If I wanted noise, I'd drop my anvil."
Cyan inclined his head slightly. "Evening, Alaric."
"Hmph." The dwarf turned back to the glowing iron. "What do you want before you break something?"
"Three hundred arrows," Cyan said calmly. "Bronze or iron tips. Nothing fancy."
The hammer paused.
Alaric glanced sideways. "That's a lot of 'nothing fancy.'"
"We're not planning a parade," Randell added. "Just trying not to die."
Alaric grunted, hammer striking again. "Tomorrow. Noon. Bring materials like you promised."
Cyan nodded. "Monster parts. Same deal."
"And you?" Alaric asked without looking at Randell.
Randell shrugged. "Daggers eventually. When I stop snapping the old ones."
"That day hasn't come yet," Alaric muttered.
They turned to leave..
And Cyan stopped.
The armor stood against the far wall, half-hidden by shadow.
It didn't belong there.
Mail covered the chest, dark as obsidian, layered and seamless. One arm guard curved like a predator's talon, paired with leggings that looked forged to move, not restrain. Gold etchings traced the edges—not decoration, but intent. A thick leather waistbelt bound it all together, rugged and brutal.
And the mask.
Black. Ferocious. Gold-lined contours shaped into a snarling visage, eyes set with ember-like stones that caught the firelight and watched back.
Cyan's breath hitched.
"That's…" he murmured.
Alaric smiled without turning. "Leanne."
Randell blinked. "You name your armor?"
"I name my best work."
Cyan stepped closer, reverent. "It feels alive."
Alaric finally turned, pride written plain. "Scales from a cave beast I found decades ago. Tried to kill me. Failed."
"How much?" Cyan asked quietly.
"Three gold."
Silence.
Cyan sighed. "I don't even have one."
Alaric's smile vanished. "Then stop staring."
Cyan laughed softly. "Worth asking."
"Out," Alaric growled, already turning back to his forge.
Outside, The air was cool, a breather from the heat they experience in the shop.
Cyan smirked. "Come on. Council's waiting."
The council tent loomed ahead, canvas walls billowing gently. Lanternlight glowed from within, warm and tense.
Inside, voices clashed.
Maps covered the table. Papers rustled. The air was tight with worry.
Marilin stood at the center, commanding without raising her voice.
Aris leaned against the tent's edge, eyes closed, sword at her side, presence sharp even in stillness.
Cyan and Randell clasped hands together respectfully.
"Greetings to the elders."
Ryker looked up first, smiling. "Ah. The culprits arrive."
A few elders chuckled.
Alara folded her hands. "Report."
Cyan stepped forward.
No fear. Determination
Straight foward.
"Monsters from the south are thinning," he said. "The weaker ones are fleeing west. That means something stronger is pushing them."
Silence followed.
END OF CHAPTER 5