A few days had passed since the agreement.
For Cassian, these days were an endless cycle.
A stretch of time where moments flowed like sticky mud, and boredom tightened around his throat like a noose.
He spent his days either wandering aimlessly through the labyrinthine, muddy, and crowded streets of Veythral…
…or standing before the blacksmith's forge, where the city's noisy heart beat.
Each time, the same scene repeated itself.
He would step inside.
He'd approach the blacksmith—a man who stood like a mountain with his massive frame and muscular arms.
"How is my sword?" he'd ask.
And each time, the soot-faced master would bring his hammer down on the incandescent iron one more time, sending sparks dancing through the air.
Then he would turn to him and scold him in a booming voice.
"Patience, son, patience!"
"Good steel, like good wine, takes time."
"Try to rush it, and all you'll have left is a bent piece of metal."
"Now get out of my sight and let me focus on my work!"
