Ronyn doesn’t look up.
He keeps sharpening.
“Royal Guard arriving before midday,” Orrin continues, voice full of the self-importance that comes with being the only forge in Vyrhal capable of meeting the order volume. “Not just any unit either.”
Ronyn drags the blade through the whetstone again.
Screeeeee.
“The Crown’s Blade,” Orrin says, lowering his voice like the name itself might be listening.
That gets Ronyn’s attention. He lifts his head slightly, eyes flicking to the street beyond the forge.
Vyrhal is already restless. Merchants are dragging crates off the roads. Market stalls are packing up early. People move quicker than usual, shoulders tight, voices low. Like the town itself knows something dangerous is coming.
Orrin leans closer, eager for an audience.
“Venomshade commander,” he mutters. “Thalmyr’s favorite butcher.”
The only decent thing to come out of staying at Orrin’s place is the trust the idiot now places in Ronyn.
Ronyn says nothing.
But Tarrakai shifts in the back of his mind, the dragon’s attention sharpening.
Remove yourself from the tiresome imbecile. Tarrakai grumbles through Ronyn’s mind.Find my kin, vessel, and stop playing idiotic human games.
Ronyn huffs in agitation.That’s what I’m trying to fucking do. And if I don’t, your vessel will be dead.He snaps the words, exhausted by… everyone. Every person who expects him to tolerate their mistreatment.
Tarrakai growls in response, and for once, Ronyn shoves it from his mind.
Not today.
Orrin is still fucking talking.
“Mean one too, the Crown’s Blade,” Orrin continues, enjoying the drama. “They say the Blade’s carved through three rebellions and left nothing behind but bones.”
Bullshit.
The rebellion left Virellin weeks ago, and Gellesk is the only leader they’ve had.
Not that Ronyn is about to tell Orrin that.
“You don’t say,” Ronyn comments sarcastically, but Orrin doesn’t notice, only mindlessly pours at the forge.
“Seems like an awfully big ordeal to send an entire unit to collect less than half of the weapons order, but who am I to complain about coin made in earnest?” he barks obnoxiously, elbowing Ronyn in the ribs with a decent force.
“An awfully big ordeal, indeed…” Ronyn mutters, mind spinning over the limited details he’s been able to glean from the big oaf.
Ronyn says nothing for a while, but finally sets the blade down.
“What’s the name again?” he asks.
Orrin shrugs.
“No one says it out loud. Just the title.” The old smith spits into the ash beside the forge. “The Crown’s Blade.”
“And what exactly does the Crown’s Blade look like?” Ronyn prompts.
