The blacksmith raised a brow, voice dropping low for the first time since they met.
"How about Adamantine… Mithral… Cold Iron?"
He didn't just say them — he offered them like a priest offering relics: reverent, mythical.
Velza blinked. "You have those?"
Instead of answering, he reached beneath the counter, retrieved three velvet-wrapped objects, and laid them gently on the bench. The air in the shop shifted. Even the forge's crackle seemed to hush.
Velza leaned closer.
The first — Adamantine — swallowed light whole. Black, solemn, and sharp-edged. A metal that promised endings.
The second — Mithral — shimmered pale-blue, weightless as mist but held a glint of death behind the beauty.
The third — Cold Iron — was dull, brutish, unnaturally cold. The kind of metal that snarled at magic and meant it.
The blacksmith turned to Vaelen. "I thought you'd be impressed."
"Do I look like it?" Vaelen didn't flinch.
The smith raised a brow, perhaps insulted — until Vaelen continued:
"How about Veyrathium? Rose Iron? Nihlglass? Gloamsteel?"
Velza tilted her head. "What are those?"
The smith paused. Then scoffed, softly. "Those are fairy tales."
But before the moment could settle, Vaelen pulled something from his coat.
A coin.
He set it gently on the counter. Flat. Silent.
Everything stopped. Even the birds outside.
The blacksmith stared. His hands trembled.
"Is that… what I think it is?" he whispered.
"You got eyes, don't you?" Vaelen said, calm but sharp. "Look closer."
The smith dropped to one knee. "Forgive me, sir — I didn't know. I thought you were adventurers. I made you wait. I spoke out of place. I—"
"Stand up," Vaelen said. "I didn't come here to be worshipped. I came to show you this."
"May I… may I touch it?"
Vaelen nodded.
The blacksmith's fingers hovered, then closed around the Veil coin.
It was warm.
Heavier than it looked.
Faintly pulsing.
His face changed.
The lavender scent of an artist's forgotten garden.
The weight of grief folded into a disc.
The sound — barely there — of a blade whispering from its sheath.
He pulled his hand back like he'd touched a memory too deep.
"What… what is this?" Velza asked, eyes narrowed.
The blacksmith swallowed hard.
"Not a coin. Not really. It's war… legacy… and sacrifice… burned into metal."
"What do you mean?" Velza asked, her voice low but edged with curiosity.
"It's just a coin," he shrugged. "The top-tier coin of our kingdom."
"Greater than Suns?"
"Yes." He nodded, eyes not leaving the two figures. "Much greater."
Then, a shift.
"What do you do, by the way?"
"I was a soldier at the kingdom border," Velza began. "Now I am—"
"Now she's my guard," Vaelen cut in, quick. "Adventurer. Watchful. Good with a blade."
The blacksmith blinked. "I'm confused… You've never seen ritual magic on a battlefield?"
"I have," Velza started, but—
"Don't have time," Vaelen interrupted again, tone sharper. "Let's stick to the weapons."
"Right," the blacksmith said. "So, those metals? I don't have them now — rare stuff. But I can get 'em ordered in."
"Speak your price," Vaelen said.
"Two Veils, sir."
Without pause, Vaelen held up two coins between his fingers — thin, heavy things that shimmered unnaturally in the firelight.
"I make a contract," he said formally, "by the two Veils I hold — and the weight they carry— to commission two swords crafted to my specification, using the metals I demand and the jewels I'll provide. You will tell no one what happened here. Do you accept?"
"I accept," the blacksmith said, extending his hand.
The moment the coins touched his palm, something shifted.
A deep clang echoed through the air — not from the forge, but from somewhere deeper.
The metal glowed crimson, veins of red pulsing through the Veils like blood reacting to an ancient pact.
Velza stepped back instinctively.
The air was thicker, iron-scented, like rain hitting rust. Her skin tingled. Her heartbeat slowed.
Sharp hissing sound hissssssss, followed by a low hum that vibrated in her jaw.
The coins dimmed. The glow vanished.
"Thank you," the blacksmith whispered, eyes reverent, "for blessing me with these two coins."
Velza stared, trying to keep her face neutral.
"What just happened? I know contract magic… but that… The Veils lit up. They reacted. That wasn't just magic — it felt like the kingdom itself was watching."
Velza didn't speak aloud, but her fingers curled tighter around the grip of her old sword. Her body still hadn't stopped buzzing.
Vaelen turned back to the blacksmith. "Give her a sword she can use until the new ones are forged. I'll leave you two alone so you can talk freely."
"You shouldn't go alone," Velza said, frowning.
"I'm heading straight to the library on 106th Street," he replied, already halfway to the door. "See you there."
"But—"
"No buts," Vaelen interrupted, not even glancing back. "You need time to find a weapon that suits you. That'll take longer than I've got."
He was gone before she could argue again, the heavy door swinging shut behind him.
Now it was just her and the blacksmith.
The forge hissed. The coins had stopped glowing.
But the air still hadn't returned to normal.
Velza stood silent, head lowered slightly.
"Why does he act like this…" she muttered, mostly to herself.
The blacksmith gave her a side glance — not unsympathetic, but businesslike. "Come. Let's see if we can find a weapon that fits your hand."
He walked to a wooden rack against the wall, its iron pegs bristling with blades. Not all were polished. Some still bore hammer marks. Some had nicks, like they'd tasted real combat. Others gleamed like promises yet to be tested.
He ran his fingers along the grips, pausing at one.
"This one's light. Narrow profile. Balance favors speed over brute force."
He pulled it free — a short curved sword with a single fuller carved down the middle. The blade caught the forge-light, flickering orange across its edge.
Velza took it, tested the weight. Too light. Too... polite.
She shook her head. "No. This feels like a dancer's blade."
"Good eye." He set it aside. "You're not the first soldier who needed something with more... weight behind the will."
He picked another — slightly broader, with a reinforced spine. "This one's tempered in wyrm-oil. Holds its edge like a grudge."
Velza held it. Swung once. Twice.
Her shoulders relaxed, just a little.
"Better," she admitted.
He grinned. "She's not perfect, but she'll watch your back until your real girls are ready."
Velza turned the blade slowly in her hands, then asked, "Can you tell me about the Veil?"
The blacksmith blinked. "The coin?"
She nodded.
"What do you wanna know?" He scratched his jaw, smearing a bit of soot. "Shouldn't you be off guarding your…"
"Client," Velza said. "I'm curious."
He exhaled, but there was a quiet pride in his eyes now. "Alright, alright. It's not exactly a tavern tale, but I'll bite."
He leaned back against the workbench, arms crossed.
"Some blacksmiths — not just any, mind you — can take the Celestium Exam. It's a brutal process. Theory, forging, history. Only the best families get the chance to apply, and even then, most fail. If you pass, you're licensed to forge state currency."
"Veils?" Velza asked.
"That's the first level. After ten more years of monitored work, if you're clean — no scandals, no faulty metals, no politics — you get evaluated again. That's when you might get cleared to make Suns for the nobles."
"You did all that?"
He chuckled. "I was lucky. Got a mentor who believed in me, slapped me across the head every time I tried to cut corners. It's why I know more than just how to beat metal into shape."
He looked at her, eyes narrowing.
"So what do you really want to know, Velza? The exchange rate? The magic inside them? The blood they cost?"
Velza tilted her head, watching him. "How much can you tell?"
He smiled faintly. "History's long. I'll tell you the rest when you come back for your swords."
He turned, pulling a battered stool closer to the forge. "For now… I'll tell you how they are made"
Velza nodded, slowly. The flames in the forge didn't seem so distant anymore.