Their last stop was the Artificer's Hall.
It was just as Arden expected, crowded, noisy, and full of people hunched over projects with the kind of focus that made them forget the world existed.
The air smelled faintly of metal and burnt parchment. Here, Greyhold's weapons, scrolls, talismans, and other crafted goods came to life. Even in a small town, talent had its own corner, and Arden needed the best pair of hands he could find.
He asked around, drawing a few irritated glances from artificers who clearly didn't appreciate their work being interrupted, until someone finally pointed him toward Master Belric, a short, middle-aged man whose mind, people claimed, rivaled the mythical dwarves.
Arden called to him twice, but the man didn't look up. Whatever he was working on had his full attention, right up until something went wrong.
A sharp puff sounded, and smoke curled from the blade on his bench. With a grunt of frustration, Belric tossed the dagger aside.
