Gared shook his head with a sigh.
"You've probably got the wrong place. We don't take orders for custom-made equipment."
Ruvian lifted a brow.
"Is that so?" he replied, voice cool.
"But I've heard there's only one blacksmith shop in this plaza. The one rumoured to be under the Flaring Guild is this one, right?"
The moment the words left his lips, he caught it. Gared's shoulders tensed just slightly. A muscle near his jaw tightened before he crossed his arms over his chest.
He sighed. "There's another one, and you came to the wrong one, boy." the young boy said stiffly.
"That new shop just opened up. They take requests for personal crafts. If you're looking for something like that, head east, past the tailor's shop, then leave at the apothecary." he said it with the professionalism of someone who had repeated that line a few too many times.
Ruvian gave a nod to acknowledge the direction he provided.
"I see. Thank you."
He turned deliberately, cloak swaying softly behind him, fingers curled around the old iron handle of the door.
But then…
"Wait!"
The voice cut through the silence.
Gared paused, glancing back over his shoulder. His eyes didn't match his voice this time as if they were inquisitive, almost conflicted.
"…But what kind of equipment are you trying to craft?"
That hesitation of his said everything.
'There it is.'
Ruvian turned slightly. A courteous smile grew wider on his face. With a voice that could sweet-talk a god, he said:
"Oh. Nothing big, and nothing small. It's just… a kitchen knife."
The silence that followed was profound.
Gared blinked. "What?"
Ruvian let the silence hover, savouring it. It was also the first time Gared had ever heard such a flimsy request.
*****
The heavy curtain behind the counter swayed, dragged aside by a hand that had surely bent iron to its will.
From the dim forge beyond, a broad-shouldered figure stepped forward, thick with muscle, wrapped in the earthy scent of ash and sweat-earned steel.
The man's apron was stained with soot and scorch marks. His arms, crossed over his chest, looked less like limbs and more like blunt instruments of justice.
His eyes were a dark brown, and he wore a long beard, though the top of his head was completely bald.
Then, those eyes landed on Ruvian. The gaze of someone who could tell the weight of a blade just by how it breathed in fire.
'Hmm, he looked pissed.'
'Good. It's definitely him then. The blacksmith with a legendary disinterest in customer service. Yeah, I knew this guy.'
Ruvian felt a small, traitorous spark of satisfaction.
Dain exhaled with a sound more like a growl than a breath, and finally spoke. "A kitchen knife?" his deep, gravel-laced voice scraped the room.
"Kid, you could get one from any stall in the plaza. No need to come all the way here for something like that. Unless you're here to make fun of me?"
Ruvian waited, trying to figure out what to say here.
Well, he wasn't wrong; he would have said the same thing if he were in his place. There were plenty of vendors selling all manner of kitchenware in the bustling marketplace.
Yet, Ruvian faced the moment with admirable calm. He was not seeking an ordinary knife. His intentions were considerably more grand in scale.
He released an overly dramatic sigh. Then, wearing a mask of weary frustration, he launched into his performance.
"But sir, please, it's for my mother," he said, letting a soft sincerity slip into his voice.
"My mother loves cooking, and she also likes flowers. She always talks to them like they're her kids instead of her actual ones. I know you wouldn't understand it, but neither do I…"
"..."
"A-anyway, look," he continued quickly, realising that he had accidentally twisted his words. "I thought a knife with a delicate floral engraving would mean a lot to her."
He hesitated, subtly watching the blacksmith's expression for any reaction.
'Did I overdo it? It doesn't sound that bad, actually. A little sentimental, but still believable, he should buy it. Anyone would buy it.'
Dain's face didn't change immediately. He just stared at Ruvian for a long time, then lifted one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
Then, a low sigh rumbled from his chest.
Right after that, there was something different in the silence that followed. The irritation dulled behind his eyes was replaced by understanding.
What struck him wasn't recognition of Ruvian, but of the motive behind his words.
Beneath the soot and the stone-faced exterior, Dain Forgewell was still a father, and no father could entirely dismiss the sincerity of a son trying to honour his mother.
Ruvian knew this side of Dain accurately from the novel.
Finally, the old blacksmith shook his head.
"Alright, fine," he muttered.
"Follow me inside. If we're doing this, I'll need the details."
He turned and walked back through the curtain.
'Well, that's easier than I thought.'
Ruvian followed after him, allowing himself the tiniest, victorious smirk on his face, completely unaware that Gared was watching him with a deepening frown before trailing after them.
'Who the fuck is this guy?' Gared thought.
*****
Stepping inside the workshop, Ruvian was greeted by a blast of heat that made sweat spring across his face. Coal smoke drifted through the air, thick and stubborn, settling over every surface.
The forge burned fiercely at the back, its orange glow cutting across the stone walls, and laying bare on the long table was the clutter of tools and a few half-finished metal pieces.
Though the workshop might have seemed chaotic to him, there was an undeniable order here, where every piece and every tool had its reason for being.
Dain pulled out a chair and gestured for Ruvian to sit as he reached for a thick, well-used notebook resting beside his desk.
When Dain took a request to heart, he made sure to capture every detail himself by his hand or by listening.
And now, Ruvian had his full attention.
Dain flipped open the notebook, his fingers brushing the pages before he grabbed a charcoal pencil.
"Alright, kid. If you want a custom knife, I need to know it all. Size, balance, light, or weighted? What kind of steel do you want? Handle material? Practical, or just for show?" he paused for a moment, then his gaze sharpened.
"Heh. Don't worry, kid. Anything, even if it's some half-hearted answer. You tell me."
Ruvian, who had been idly scanning the workshop, finally returned his gaze to Dain. The blacksmith stood poised, expecting the typical vague request from a young boy.
But when Ruvian spoke, his words were clear and precise. He had already prepared for this in advance.
"Eight-inch blade. Full tang construction. High-carbon steel, preferably folded to enhance durability and edge retention. Spine thickness around 2.5 millimetres, sturdy, but not overly heavy. A distal taper towards the tip, for control—"
Dain's pencil, which had been steadily moving across the page, faltered.
"—Handles should be stabilised wood, ironwood, if you have it, if not, something dense, resistant to moisture. An ergonomic grip with a slight contour to fit the hand would be great, too, for balanced so it sits perfectly at the pinch grip—"
Dain's hand froze, the pencil suspended above the page. Ruvian's voice continued, as though the request was simple to him.
"—As for the engraving, on the opposite edge, there should be a floral pattern, not deep enough to affect the blade's integrity, just something that enhances the knife's beauty without compromising its function… and—"
Then, the room fell silent.
Gared went speechless as his mouth was wide opened, while Dain stared down at his notes, his thick brows drawn in thought. To him, this wasn't some child's fleeting whim.
No, this was a craftsman's ideal client!
'Holy nuts! What did I just hear?' Dain thought.
Dain exhaled through his nose again. He had pegged this boy as someone simply thoughtful, an adolescent trying to impress his mother with a "special" knife.
But this was something else entirely.
Dain leaned back, a hand rubbing thoughtfully at his chin, his sharp gaze still fixed on Ruvian.
"Whoa…. kid!"
Ruvian blinked in surprise. His head tilted slightly, with a hint of pride creeping into his usually flat expression.
"Did I speak too fast? Want me to say it again?"
Honestly, he didn't think he'd get much of a response. For a brief moment, the workshop buzzed with quietness.
But in the next second…
"Pwahaha!" Dain burst into laughter, a belly laugh that resonated through the room's very walls. Dain hadn't seen this coming at all.
The boy in front of him, calm and collected, was far more amusing than he thought. Dain leaned in, thick arms landing hard on the worn desk, sending a puff of sawdust floating up.
"I like you, kid. Tell me ya name?"
Ruvian looked straight at him, showing little emotion.
"Ruvian Castelor."
Dain nodded slowly, the grin around his mouth softening.
"Well, Ruvian, no need to say that again. It's all up here," he tapped his forehead with a grin.
"A request like this? Forgetting it would be impossible! Hahahaha! Unless I have dementia, which is too soon for that yet." He joked.
Ruvian's lips twitched a bit into a smile, but his silence said a lot. Dain watched him for a moment before asking softly, almost curiously.
"By the way, you interested in smithing, kid?"
'Father, what!?' Gared thought.
He was shocked to hear his father ask this of a stranger. But Ruvian's gaze swept past unfinished weapons and messy tools, none keeping his attention for long.
Then, he saw a long black sword hung on the wall, its form shattered but still somewhat dignified.
Ruvian stared at it. His gaze held a quiet power before shifting back to Dain, looking distant.
"To be honest, I don't know much about smithing…"
Ruvian spoke softly, almost humbly.
"But that sword over there."
He pointed to the broken blade.
"Even in its ruined condition, it was…."
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[Chapter 9: A Well-Made One]