The commander’s helmet tilts fractionally. Assessing.
Ronyn gets the strange impression she’s already cataloged where he keeps his weight, which hand reaches fastest, how long it would take to kill him if she needed to.
Efficient.
Detached.
Like sharpening a blade.
So Ronyn pushes forward.
“I can assure you I’m only new to Vyrhal, not to smithing. Taught by the best of the best in Virellin, actually. My work puts his to shame, if I’m honest,” he quips, elbowing Orrin good naturedly.Though he definitely means it.
The commander goes unnaturally still. Not surprised, exactly. Contained. Rigid. Muscles coiling tight.
He can’t see her eyes, but he knows they’re squarely on him, and the space between breaths tightens.
“The smith at The Black Stream Markets?”
Ronyn nods enthusiastically.
“Yep. That’s him. You know his work?”
The commander nods slowly.
“You could say that,” she murmurs.
Interesting.
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t say more on the matter. But he clocks the change of tone. Files it away to investigate later.
Her voice turns to steel then, hardening. Almost like she slips a mask in place, too.
“Commander Calira,” she introduces. “We’ll inspect the shipment and take what meets Crown standards.”
Ronyn smiles in a way he hopes looks like over-confidence. “With me on the finishes, Commander Calira, I’m sure you’ll be taking the lot.”
But she doesn’t react. She gives a curt nod to the unit of ten guards behind her, and they disperse through the forges like ants on sugar.
Ronyn knows he shouldn’t say what he’s about to say. He knows it could fuck up every precarious piece of groundwork he’s laid. But he can’t stop himself. Cannot stop the words that slip off his tongue.
“You know, Commander Calira, I’ve never actually seen any Dravari Royal Guards carrying Vyrhalian weaponry. Why is that?” Ronyn asks, trying to sound genuinely puzzled.
She’s not facing him, but her surprise is evident in her stiff muscles. The way her breaths become too steady—forced. The way she hesitates, for just a fraction of a heartbeat.
She turns slowly, clearing her throat.
“No, you’re right. Royal Guards on patrol don’t use Vyrhalian weaponry,” she says, her tone sounding rehearsed, planned. “We are stocking our reserves for our elite war battalions.”
It makes sense.
There’s logic to it, no doubt.
But Ronyn’s not buying it.
“Stocking up the war battalions? That sounds ominous,” he muses, pretending to shudder at the thought. “Are we expecting war in Dravara, are we?”
He shifts his eyes back to the weapon he’s oiling, layering it in long, smooth strokes as if he’s making conversation about the weather.
