The square becomes a swarm of noise and movement within minutes.
Orrin beams like a man who sees profit walking toward him instead of people. But Ronyn feels something colder coil in his chest.A pattern.
One he’s seen before.
That’s the thing when you’re raised in a place determined to keep you blind to its deceit—you learn to smell it before it even arrives. You learn to read body language, patterns of behavior, strategies in motion.
And this? This was a fucking strategy if Ronyn had ever seen one. Because soldiers don’t disperse like this unless they want eyes somewhere else. He drags oil across the blade in his hands, watching the sheen spread across the steel.
A distraction.That’s what this is.
But the people of Vyrhal are blinded by the glint of fresh coin—they either don’t notice or don’t care.
Every tavern in Vyrhal fills with Royal Guards.
Every shopkeeper busy.
Every curious eye pulled toward the spectacle.
Which leaves one question hanging in Ronyn’s mind:if the soldiers aren’t here for the weapons… then what, exactly, are they here for?
Tarrakai stirs in the back of his thoughts, groaning like he smells it too. And for the first time that morning, Ronyn smiles.
“Get ready, sunshine,” Orrin murmurs low, eyes downcast and averted. Almost like he’s… scared. Or intimidated. Or perhaps he’s… admiring?
The heavy clink of armor approaches Ronyn’s station, and Ronyn slips a mask on—the mask of the competent smith. His eyes lock on the golden helmet that sat atop the white stallion, and the commander seems different than he expected.
Imposing, yes. But smaller, perhaps.
He watches the Crown’s Blade approach—the gait, the proportions, the movement…
Something about the commander feels distinctly…female. But not soft. Not in the way men often meant it. There is something honed about her. Tightened. Like violence has been threaded through her so young it has fused with her bones.
He hasn’t seen many females in Thalmyr’s Royal Guard. Perhaps he keeps them behind The Barrier, perhaps they hide in armor and helmets like the commander. Perhaps he was always too fucking hungry to notice… or care.
“Almost finished your weapons, lad?” Orrin mutters under his breath, a too-wide smile forced onto his face as the commander approaches.
“Orrin, you left me upwards of seventy blades this morning alone,” Ronyn retorts. “No, I haven’t fucking finished.”
Orrin grunts something indiscernible, but his smile never falters.
The commander strides toward them, closing the final stretch.
“Orrin,” a female voice says from behind the helmet, clipped and level.
“Commander, it’s a pleasure to see you again. As always,” Orrin fawns, his tone sickly and saccharine.
The commander ignores him. “I’m assuming you’re not finished with the order yet? Shall we start inspecting the craftsmanship?” she asks, her head scanning across the crates where the completed weapons are lined up.
For a heartbeat, Ronyn feels her gaze on him, burning a hole through his chest. Not predatory.Curious.
“Surprised you let a new smith finish our order,” she observes, a slight hint of challenge in her tone.
Orrin opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. All signs of confidence evaporated with the slightest challenge.
Fucking typical.
Ronyn stands with vigor. “Ronyn Holt, at your service,” he says cheerily, letting his lop-sided grin pull up easily.
