Page 205 of The Stars Kissed Her Feet

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Orrin’s eyes narrow with a hint of wariness.

But Ronyn recovers quickly. “You know, just in case the commander arrives and I unknowingly make a crude joke about last night’s whore,” he quips, smoothing it over.

Orrin slaps him on the back with vigor, barking a laugh that expels out of him with a wheeze.

“Oh trust me, lad, you’ll make no mistake. The fuss that this lot ride in with, you’d have to be blind not to see it,” he jokes.

Right. No visual prompts then.

The smiths and their labor hands settle into a frantic but predictable rhythm as the morning drags toward midday.

Steel moves from anvil to bench in a steady procession.

Hammer.

Quench.

Grind.

Repeat.

The forge fills with the clang of iron and the hiss of hot metal kissing water. Sparks leap into the smoky air while sweat darkens the backs of tunics and the smell of hot steel thickens in the open air.

Weapons pile up faster than they can be finished.

Spears lean in bundled rows against the far crates.

Short swords stack across the long worktable.

Axes sit in neat lines waiting for their final edge.

Ronyn has already been moved from the hammer.

Not because he asked—because they noticed.

After the first hour it became clear that he knew exactly what he was doing with a blade. His hands found balance without looking. His fingers could feel a flaw in the steel before anyone else spotted it.

So Orrin put him on final checks.

The only clever thing the man’s done all day.

Ronyn sits near the outskirts of the open air forge, whetstone in one hand, cloth in the other, finishing every weapon before it’s wrapped for delivery.

Sharpen.

Test the flex.

Oil the steel.

Wrap the blade.

Again.

Again.

Again.

It gives him something better than just work. It gives him time to think. To notice. And the more he thinks, the less sense the order makes. Because Ronyn knows exactly how long it takes to prepare a shipment like this—too long. No forge produces this volume of weapons in a single month. Which means one thing: this order wasn’t meant to be ready when the Royal Guard arrived.