Chapter 61 – The Weaponsmith

  The late afternoon sun slanted low through the city streets, painting the cobblestones with streaks of firelight. As Ezra and Marcel rounded a corner off the main thoroughfare, the bustle of the crowd dulled behind them, swallowed by the quieter hum of the artisan quarter. Here, the air smelled less of horse and sweat and more of oil, scorched metal, and drifting sawdust.

  “Here,” Ezra said, gesturing with a tilt of his chin.

  Nestled between a tanner’s shop and a closed-down apothecary, a squat stone building sat tucked under a sloping clay roof, its weathered wood sign swinging lazily in the breeze. The letters carved into it were simple but proud – Razor’s Edge. The paint had faded, but the metal filigree in the corners still gleamed faintly beneath layers of city dust.

  A bell chimed above the door as they stepped inside.

  The wave of heat hit them instantly. Moist, smoky, tinged with the metallic sharpness of steel. Ezra inhaled deeply. The forge-fire was still burning strong somewhere in the back, its heat giving the entire shop a haze, as if they’d been stuck out in a desert for weeks.

  Weapons lined every inch of available space. The walls were dressed with swords and battle-axes, their edges glinting like teeth. Towering polearms leaned in neat rows near the corner, and behind a thick glass counter lay an arsenal of smaller, just as deadly things, daggers, throwing knives, compact crossbows, and even a few things Ezra couldn’t immediately identify. A dagger with three blades, a bunch of strange needles. Odd, short-handled tools that looked like they were designed to gouge more than kill.

  And behind the counter stood a woman, taller than most men Ezra had met. She had the look of someone carved from stone, shoulders broad, posture straight, but eyes focused and intelligent. Her skin was sun-darkened and flecked with old burn scars that spidered along her forearms like faded ink. Her leather apron was thick and stained with soot, the surface worn and cracked from years of use.

  Her dark hair was twisted into a tight bun, streaked with silver and pinned with what looked like an actual blacksmith’s nail. Possibly due to the heat of the room, she wore no sleeves, revealing muscular arms that flexed subtly as she leaned over the counter to appraise them.

  “You two lost?” she asked, voice rough like gravel, but not unkind.

  “We’re looking for something light,” Ezra replied, stepping forward. “For forest monster hunting. Heard you were the one to see”

  Marcel wandered off to inspect a rack of blunted training swords, picking one up and giving it an exaggerated swing.

  “No kidding?” she said, already crouching behind the counter. “I’ve had four student pairs in here this week looking for the same. Guess that beast out near the border woods has made a name for itself.”

  “We’re going somewhere else. A shadowmane,” Ezra confirmed.

  At that, her brows lifted with some interest. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that.”

  “We took a contract,” Marcel called, returning to the counter. “Had our eyes on a fifty silver one, but got shouldered out of the way. So now we’re working for less and bleeding for it anyway.”

  The weaponsmith grinned and unlocked a narrow drawer beneath the counter. “Well then, if you’re gonna bleed, you might as well do it holding something that won’t snap halfway through the fight.”

  From the drawer, she lifted a tray covered in felt, atop which lay several curved daggers. Their blackened hilts were tightly wrapped in what looked like waxed hemp cord, and the blades had a subtle, rippling pattern across the surface, folded steel. Some type of script was etched into the side of the blade. Wherever it was from, it wasn’t here.

  Ezra reached down and picked one up. It was warm from the forge, the metal glimmering under the natural light from the windows.

  “They’re shadow-treated,” she said. “Tempered in night-oil, cooled under a blood moon. Makes ‘em quieter when drawn and less reflective under lanternlight. Won’t scare the prey before you’re ready.”

  “Feels good,” Marcel murmured, testing the weight of a second dagger with a few sharp flicks of his wrist.

  “These were made for scout runners and anyone wanting some fast-paced fights,” she continued, crossing her arms. “No frills. No flair. Just good old reliable.”

  Ezra held the blade to the light and admired the muted sheen. No gleam. No shine. A predator’s weapon.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “Twenty silver,” she replied, straight-faced. “Each.”

  Marcel choked on his breath.

  “That's the price,” she added with a shrug. “Plenty of cheaper toys in the bins if you'd prefer a knife that might break when your life's on the line.”

  Ezra didn’t flinch. “One will do.”

  Marcel looked like he wanted to protest, but he swallowed it and nodded, glancing toward a display of cheaper gear near the door.

  The weaponsmith slid the tray back and wrapped one of the daggers in thick cloth, securing it with a thin leather cord before sliding it into a canvas sheath.

  “Shadecats don’t always hunt alone,” she said, handing the bundle over. “Not this time of year. They’re more aggressive when they’re mating. Or nesting.”

  Ezra gave a quiet nod, accepting the warning along with the weapon.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “And if you live,” she added with a small, crooked smile, “come back for the second.”

  ***

  Outside, the sun had started to dip past the rooftops. The shadows stretched long and golden between buildings, casting the city in a quiet, burnished glow.

  Marcel walked beside him, arms crossed behind his head, the wrapped dagger slung at his hip. “She was kind of terrifying,” he muttered.

  Ezra smirked faintly. “She knew what she was talking about.”

  “Also, kind of hot.”

  Ezra gave him a look.

  “What? Leave me alone. Did you even see her in there?”

  Ezra chuckled, shaking his head as they turned a corner and made for the city gates.

  The weight of the dagger at his belt felt heavy, but comforting. Like the steady presence of a silent partner, waiting patiently for the call to action.

  "Let’s split up and grab some supplies. I’ll grab a lure, I told you I got a guy. You just... do something. I dunno. Just make yourself useful”

  Marcel chuckled before replying, “Don’t worry. I got a few ideas.”

  The streets of Siyudad changed with the setting sun.

  Gone were the scattered crowds and merchant voices that filled the daylight hours with the sharp rhythm of life. In their place came shadow and quiet, the wind slipping through alleyways like a whisper. The nightime lamps flickered to life in ornate sconces along stone walls, spilling warm halos across cracked cobblestones. Here and there, the faint murmur of conversation floated from open windows, families settling into dinner, lovers sneaking in moments before curfew, old soldiers sighing at the weight of another day survived.

  Ezra walked alone through the thinning crowds, hands tucked into his coat pockets, hood up. The city no longer overwhelmed him the way it had his first year. Back then, Siyudad had seemed a maze of noise and motion, a place impossible to navigate without a guide. Now, the rhythm of the streets thrummed in his chest like a second heartbeat. The shouts of fruit vendors, the hiss of steam from the food carts, the low thrum of the fluorescent lampposts, all of it familiar. Lived in.

  He passed a baker pulling in trays of unsold bread, the scent of yeast and flour still floating, cold, in the air. A chimney above belched out curls of woodsmoke and ash. Ezra's eyes flicked upward briefly, catching sight of a sky that had turned a soft indigo, just deep enough to show the first stars peeking through.

  Marcel had peeled off near the edge of the plaza, not saying a word about what he was doing, or where he was going. Though Ezra did hear him mutter something about "one of those loud whistles the girls in the Guild always seem to carry." Ezra had just rolled his eyes and kept walking. Marcel’s idea of preparation often included charm before practicality.

  Ezra, on the other hand, was heading somewhere far less flashy.

  The road he took dipped into narrower lanes where the stones were older, more cracked. The buildings here leaned slightly with age, propped up by beams that creaked when the wind shifted. Doorframes had been mended so many times that no two looked alike. Signs hung askew above shopfronts: potion vendors, trinket dealers, a bakery that had long since closed but still carried the ghost-scent of sugar in the air.

  Eventually, he arrived at a squat building sandwiched between a cobbler’s and an abandoned tailor’s shop. The sign above the door swayed slightly in the wind, carved with crude letters that read: The King’s Head. A single lantern, flickering erratically, cast long shadows over the doorway, making the paint seem darker than it was.

  Ezra stepped inside, ducking his head slightly.

  The interior of the tavern was dim and smoky, lit by a scattering of oil lamps that gave off more scent than light. A haze hung in the air, thick with the smells of old ale, unwashed bodies, burnt meat, and wood polish. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots, loose planks groaning as if complaining about every patron who dared to step on them.

  A few rough-looking regulars occupied the booths, one snoring with his head on the table, another nursing something black and bitter out of a chipped tankard. The fire in the hearth was little more than embers, crackling faintly.

  Behind the bar stood a man built like a boulder.

  He was tall, broad-shouldered, with thick forearms scarred and tattooed in equal measure. A sleeve of fading ink ran from his wrist to his elbow, beasts of all kinds locked in eternal battles, twisted in grimacing snarls. His broken nose bent slightly to the left, and his left eye twitched when he was annoyed.

  “Thought you were dead,” he said without looking up from polishing a stained glass. “Or worse. Trynna be a politician.”

  Ezra smirked and lowered his hood. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  The barkeep grunted, finally glancing at him. “You still bad at lying, or just greetings?”

  Ezra dropped onto a barstool, letting his satchel rest beside his foot. “Depends. You still hiding contraband under your floorboards?”

  The barkeep narrowed his eyes. “That your way of asking if I have what you want?”

  “Call it a conversation starter.”

  With a low grunt, the man turned and reached beneath the bar. There was a quiet metallic click, the kind that suggested secret compartments and locks designed for those who had something to hide. After a moment, he produced a small, square iron tin sealed with red wax and placed it on the bar with careful deliberation.

  It was unmarked, but the scent hit Ezra before it even landed, earthy, coppery, a hint of something animalistic and almost... sweet. It smelled like musk and pine, like old blood and wild instincts.

  “What’ll it be this time then?”

  “Well I'm going after a Shadowmane, so I’ll need some bait for it.”

  “Shadowmane pheromone,” the barkeep confirmed. “Female. You smear that on a tree trunk or rock, and any male nearby will come sniffin’. Especially now.”

  Ezra raised an eyebrow. “Breeding season?”

  “Started about a week ago.” He crossed his arms. “Which makes it either the best time to bait one... or the worst time to be anywhere near their territory.”

  Ezra tapped a finger lightly on the tin. “This’ll bring ‘em close?”

  “Real close. Real fast. Might bring more than one, so be careful, alright?”

  “Yea yea... how much?

  “Two silver.”

  “That’s what I paid for it,” the barkeep grumbled.

  “Then consider it me paying for your silence, too.”

  The man gave a snort of laughter “Haha, I like your confidence, but thats not how this works. We’ll go five silver, how about it?”

  “Sure. No room for haggling?.”

  “No, but if you become a regular here, maybe then I'll start giving out discounts.”

  As he tucked the tin away carefully in his satchel, the barkeep’s voice lowered, more thoughtful than before.

  “You got people waitin’ on you?”

  Ezra paused mid-turn. “What?”

  “People. Friends. Someone you owe, or someone who’d be torn up if you didn’t come back.”

  Ezra looked at him for a long moment. “Maybe.”

  “Then don’t go into those woods thinkin’ you can cheat a beast’s instincts. That thing doesn’t care about your cause. Doesn’t care you’re a good kid with a bright future.”

  He leaned in, voice flat and quiet. “It just wants somethin’ to bite down on. And you’re the softest thing walking.”

  Ezra met his gaze evenly. “Then I’ll make sure it bleeds first.”

  He stepped into the cold, city wind once more. The lantern above the tavern guttered behind him, casting a final flicker of light across the back of his cloak.

  He tightened the satchel strap across his chest and turned his boots toward the city gates.

  The hunt had begun.