Alucent's stomach gnawed at him like a wild thing caged behind his ribs. Each step along the cobblestone path felt heavier, not from exhaustion but from the clarity of need, his body, this tall, unfamiliar thing, needed food. Water. Something warm. Something real. The air was richer out here, sharp with coal smoke and something metallic that reminded him of scorched wires and engine oil. A strange comfort.
The Steamcottages became more elaborate as he pressed on, following the rhythmic clang of metal on metal. Gears clicked faintly in the wind, their whispers riding the breeze like insects. His black curls caught the morning light, brushing his face as he turned to examine each cottage he passed. Brasswork trimmed many of the structures—some with winding tubes that emitted tiny steam puffs, others etched with faintly glowing sigils. One cottage had a set of suspended chimes tuned by heat; another bore a roof shaped like the wings of an insect, gently flapping in time with wind currents. It was a strange harmony of the mechanical and the organic, and none of it looked mass-produced. Each detail was bespoke. Hand-forged. Loved.
His blue eyes tracked a particularly loud hammerfall, steady, practiced, and deep. He followed it to a larger Steamcottage situated at the end of a branching trail. Here, the brasswork was dense and functional rather than decorative. Pipes wound around the exterior like veins, pulsing with pale blue light. Vents hissed softly, and a pulley system connected an overhanging balcony to a lift platform below. Alucent's breath caught.
This was a forge.
And there, beside an anvil large enough to break bones, stood a man.
Gryan.
He was massive. Broad-shouldered and tall, easily 6'3", with a shaved head that shone in the morning light. His back was turned at first, the motion of his hammer smooth and steady. Steam hissed as he quenched the piece in an oilbath, a short puff of smoke curling into the air. Then he turned.
The first thing Alucent noticed was the arm. Polished brass, thick at the shoulder and narrowing into deft fingers, it hissed and shifted with perfect articulation. Glowing runes pulsed along its surface, some constant, others flickering as they adjusted in tune with motion. His coat was patched and worn but clean, stitched with thick black thread that spoke of maintenance, not poverty. The brass monocle over one eye hummed faintly, its lens twitching as if adjusting for detail.
Gryan saw him.
Their eyes locked. Alucent, disheveled and ghost-pale in the light, felt suddenly very small. But he didn't retreat. He raised a trembling hand and took another step.
"Hi," he said, voice raw. "Please... I—"
Gryan didn't respond. Not with words. His face was impassive, though his monocle gave a mechanical whine and narrowed its aperture. Alucent pointed to his mouth, then to his stomach. Rubbed his abdomen for emphasis. Hunger. Thirst. Need. A universal language, or so he hoped.
Gryan said something then. A single word. Low, guttural. Alien.
Alucent blinked. "I don't understand you."
He gestured again. Then, realizing it might help, he held up his left hand, the one with the ring. The moment it caught the light, the Weave Anchor Ring shimmered faintly, casting a ripple in the air like a heat mirage.
Gryan froze.
The brass monocle buzzed louder. It responded to the ring, the lenses adjusting rapidly, almost panicked. The Runetinker's mechanical arm stopped mid-movement. His human hand clenched into a fist. The air between them shifted, tension rising.
Alucent took a step back. "Okay, maybe not that."
Gryan's expression changed for the first time. Not fear, but something more cautious. Calculating. He pointed to the ring, then uttered another word, firmer this time. Warning layered into each syllable.
Alucent didn't move. His instincts flared, telling him this man recognized the ring. Not just as an ornament, but as a thing. Something that meant danger. Or power. Or both.
A long pause stretched between them.
Then Gryan exhaled. A short, sharp breath through his nose. He turned, walked toward his forge entrance, and disappeared inside.
Alucent blinked after him.
"…Cool. Very welcoming."
But before he could retreat, Gryan reemerged. In one hand: a wedge of hardtack, rough and dense. In the other: a wooden mug, its surface slightly damp, cool mist curling from the lip.
Gryan extended them.
Not a word. Just the offerings.
Alucent took the mug first. Drank. It was cold and crystalline, carrying the faint tingle of minerals and something almost floral. The moment it touched his lips, he felt it, not magic exactly, but clarity. The water came from somewhere deliberate. A Runewell, probably. The mug was simple but carved with subtle marks, tiny spirals and forked runes that thrummed softly.
The hardtack was... awful. Dry, nearly stone-like. But Alucent chewed slowly, letting saliva soften the corners. His body seized the nourishment eagerly.
"Thank you," he whispered, voice hoarse.
Gryan watched him eat, arms folded. The monocle remained active, the ring still lightly pulsing at Alucent's finger. After a while, the man returned to his anvil without another word. The rhythmic hammering resumed, slower now, as if to give the newcomer space.
Alucent sat on the edge of a nearby crate, sipping what remained of the water. The Steamcottage radiated quiet warmth, emanating not just from the forge, but from the place itself. A lived-in silence. Tools were arranged with care. A rack of blueprint scrolls hung beside the door, half-unrolled. One depicted a complex gear mechanism shaped like a heart.
He glanced back at Gryan. The man moved with the ease of long habit. Strength without waste. The brass arm caught the light, reflecting sharp glints that danced across the walls. His coat bore a faded emblem on the back, three overlapping hexagons flanked by wings. It looked militaristic.
Iron Conclave? Maybe. It sounded right. Not that he knew where the thought came from.
Alucent leaned back. His legs still felt too long. His curls blew gently in the forge-warmed breeze.
He looked down at the ring again.
The pulse was faint now. Dormant. But still there. And Gryan kept glancing at it, just once every few minutes. Enough to tell Alucent the man hadn't dismissed it.
This place, this man, knew things he didn't.
And he hated that.
After some time, Gryan muttered something in his native tongue and wiped sweat from his brow. He set the hammer down and turned. His eyes met Alucent's again. No warmth, but no hostility either. Something measured. Like one assessing a tool that didn't yet have a purpose.
He said something then. A string of words, calm but deliberate. His voice was gravel and smoke.
Alucent didn't understand a word.
But the way Gryan's gaze slid to the ring one last time, the way his mechanical fingers flexed in rhythm with the humming of the monocle…
He knew this wasn't over.
The Runetinker turned back to his forge. The hammer fell again.
Alucent sat quietly, chewing the last corner of the hardtack.
Whatever the ring was…
Gryan had seen it before.
And that changed everything.