Their "absolutely routine, not-at-all secretly intelligence-gathering" tour commenced at the forge of Master Ilvar — the same metalworker whose apprentice Sharath had happened to overhear talking about bad dreams regarding subterranean passageways.
Master Ilvar was a presence to behold: a wide-shouldered giant with a beard of steel cable-like braids, granite-like forearms, and a permanent soot-tan obtained only by working a forge for decades. He carried the confident air of a man who didn't merely craft tools — he crafted history, hammer blow by hammer blow.
His workshop was, to Sharath's joy, a masterclass in applied medieval industrial design. The roof sloped just right for maximum ventilation; the anvils were set in a slick workflow triangle; the quenching trough sat in a precise location to reduce wasted steps between cooling and forging. The floor was swept — not clean, because no self-respecting smith had an unused forge spotless, but clear of detritus that could trip a worker in mid-strike.
[🐧 STRUCTURAL REVIEW: "Ah yes, finally — a workspace arranged by someone who's actually met the concept of efficiency. Heat dispersal? Correct. Workflow? Smooth as butter. Safety measures? Better than half the 'modern' factories I've seen. And that's saying something, considering the last one had a vending machine that tried to eat me."]
Master Ilvar gave Lord Varundar a polite bow — respectful, but not servile.
Hello, my lord," he saluted, "an honor to receive you and the young master. I hope he won't mind a spot of smoke and hammer-song?" He looked over at Sharath with a flash of mirth in his eye. "He's got the air of a man who'd enjoy honest toil more than gossip at court.
[🐧 PERSONALITY SCAN: "Confident, proud of his work, not afraid to tell nobles what he thinks. Ah yes — a fellow whose handshake likely serves also as a structural integrity test."]
Sharath gurgled at what he hoped passed for baby joy, internally running a silent memo of the metallurgy process used at the forge.
If you only knew I'm here conducting a mental review of your assembly line.
[🐧 OBSERVATION: "You use the term 'infant wonder,' yet your eyes shout 'secret factory inspector.' If you continue looking at his tongs like that, he will begin charging consultancy fees."]
Master Ilvar embarked upon his demonstration — and oh, did he demonstrate. He explained the nuances of extracting bog iron, the ideal balance of charcoal to ore, and the precise timing of folding metal for the greatest strength. His hammer clanged with a beat as sure as a heartbeat; sparks skipped through the air like fireflies attempting to create constellations.
The charcoal blend? Precisely measured to generate maximum heat with minimal waste.The folding technique? Uniform and precise — clearly muscle memory honed over years.The cooling intervals between hammer strikes? Perfectly timed for optimal crystalline structure formation.
[🐧 EFFICIENCY REPORT: "78% optimal for current tech level. There's room to improve, but considering they don't have automated heat sensors, this is impressively good. Also, his hammer swing form? Chef's kiss. I'd put it in a training manual."]
Tool ergonomics? Astoundingly sophisticated. Safety precautions? Careful and efficient. The entire process was like entering a living, breathing work of engineering history — and Sharath enjoyed every moment.
[🐧 META-ANALYSIS: "If the rest of infrastructure in this kingdom is this way, you may have to extend your 'I can revolutionize their tech' deadline. With this pace, they'll be constructing magical steam engine before you even finish teething."]
But Sharath was not here to merely appreciate steel. His acute hearing, honed like the keen eyesight of a hawk, was surveying the room for other types of information. It did not take long to discover it.
In a dark corner, two miners — dust-begrimed, rough-faced, and clearly ill at ease — were conferring in hushed tones with one of the smith's journeymen.
"Swear on the Mother's Anvil," one of the first miners whispered, "we were nowhere near the bottom. Sixty feet down, perhaps seventy. Tracking a copper vein. Then… we broke through."
"Through what?" the journeyman inquired, attempting to be skeptical but leaning forward nevertheless.
"Into something else," the second miner replied. "A room. Walls as smooth as glass. Covered in… symbols. They moved. Not wind or water, but like they'd sensed we were there."
The journeyman snorted, though his gaze darted nervously toward the door. "Light tricks. Torch shadows.
The lead miner violently shook his head. "No tricks. And there was… a noise. Humming. Like a choir, but what was sung was not words — not words at all. It was sweet, but… off. Like it wanted you to lean in and listen forever. My teeth ached for two days afterward."
[🐧 WARNING: "Oh yes, humming walls with moving symbols. Completely normal mining hazard. Next you'll say the rocks served you a cup of tea and inquired into your childhood trauma."]
Sharath stopped dead — not in body, but mind. Moving symbols? Harmonious but incorrect voices? That was no ordinary cave.
[X] CROSS-REFERENCE: "Matches known patterns of either incredibly advanced magical wards or technology so old and bizarre that it's effectively indistinguishable from magic. Either way, 10/10 on the creepy-meter.
The first miner looked around before continuing under his breath: "Guild was there within hours. Mages in royal robes. Top-level ones. And they were scared. Had the chamber sealed. Told the public 'unstable rock' but we watched them bring it down with enough explosive magic to demolish a fortress."
"What did you see before it collapsed?" the journeyman asked, his voice growing tense.
The face of the second miner paled. "Something in the symbols. Looking at us. Not like a man, not like an animal. Old. Older than kingdoms. Older than time."
[🐧 DATA TAGGED: "Ancient intelligence that responds to observers? Yeah, that's okay. Let's just hope it's the 'benign cosmic library' sort and not the 'hello, I consume planets for breakfast' sort."]
The journeyman swallowed hard. "You shouldn't be discussing this here.
"Doesn't matter," the lead miner growled. "It's still down there, whatever it is. And the Guild's acting like entombing it will cure it."
Master Ilvar, who had been listening hard despite appearing engrossed in his smithing work, suddenly stiffened and slapped his hands together.
"Work! Guests don't require ghost tales," he barked, voice resonating with finality.
The miners complied, but there was still heavy air from unspoken fear.
Sharath had heard quite enough. Ancient halls. Movable, sentient glyphs. Tech or magic that could distort perception. And worst of all to tell — the authorities opting for destruction rather than inquiry.
[🐧 THEORETICAL MODEL: "Current hypothesis: you've got either remnants of an ancient civilization with advanced magical-tech, or… something that makes ancient civilizations look like toddlers with sticks. Either way, the adult humans seem more interested in not asking questions. Always a great sign."]
Lord Varundar's face hadn't escaped notice either. Throughout the conversation, he'd been hearing but not appearing to, his brow furrowed in consideration. When their eyes met, he gave Sharath a thin smile — the sort designed to reassure a child. But it didn't touch his eyes.
Even Dad's concerned. This is larger than they're willing to accept.
[🐧 PRIORITY UPDATE: "Advise urgent strategic intelligence collection. Side note, too: if walls do begin speaking to you, perhaps refrain from humming along."]