Chapter 6: A thoughtful Request

Gared shook his head with a sigh.

“You’ve probably got the wrong place. We don’t take orders for custom-made equipment.”

Ruvian lifted a brow. “Is that so?” he replied, voice cool and untouched by emotion.

“But I’ve heard there’s only one blacksmith shop in this plaza.”

The moment the words left his lips, he caught it. Gared’s shoulders tensed just slightly. A muscle near his jaw tightened before he crossed his arms over his chest.

“There’s another one,” the young boy said stiffly.

“A new smith just opened up. They take requests for personal craft. If you’re looking for something like that, head east, past the tailor’s shop, then left at the apothecary.”

It was said with the professionalism of someone who had repeated that line a few too many times.

Ruvian gave a quiet nod to acknowledge the direction he provided.

“I see. Thank you.”

He turned deliberately, cloak swaying softly behind him, fingers curled around the old iron handle of the door.

But then…

“W-wait!”

The voice cut through the silence. Gared paused, glancing back over his shoulder. His eyes didn’t match his voice this time as if they were inquisitive, almost conflicted.

“…But what kind of equipment are you trying to craft?”

That hesitation of him said everything.

‘There it is.’

Ruvian turned slightly, a courteous smile grew wider on his face. With a voice that could sweet-talk a god, he said:

“Oh. It's just… a kitchen knife.”

The silence that followed was profound.

Gared blinked.

“…What?”

Ruvian let the silence hovered, savoring it. It was also the first time Gared had ever heard such a request.

…

Then, the heavy curtain behind the counter swayed, dragged aside by a hand that had surely bent iron to its will.

From the dim forge beyond, a broad-shouldered figure stepped forward, thick with muscle, wrapped in the earthy scent of ash, and sweat-earned steel.

The man’s apron was stained with soot and scorch marks. His arms, crossed over his chest, looked less like limbs and more like blunt instruments of justice. His eyes landed on Ruvian. The gaze of someone who could tell the weight of a blade just by how it breathed in fire.

‘Why does he seem pissed?’

Closed to hostility like the exhausted energy of a craftsman who’d been pulled away from his real work to deal with whatever nonsense the outside world was serving him today.

‘Hmmm. Judging from his face… I am a nuisance to him. Perfect! So it's definitely him. The blacksmith with a legendary disinterest in customer service.’

Dain exhaled, a sound more like a growl than a breath, and finally spoke.

“A kitchen knife?” his deep, gravel-laced voice scraped the silence.

“Kid, you could get one from any stall in the plaza. No need to come all the way here for something like that.” he said with the matter-of-fact authority of a man who had absolutely better things to do.

Ruvian sighed, trying to figure out what to say here.

‘Well, he wasn’t wrong, I would have said the same thing if I was in his place. There were plenty of vendors selling all manner of kitchenware in the bustling marketplace….’

So, Ruvian approached this situation calmly.

Because he hadn’t just come for any knife.

Ruvian let out an exaggerated sigh. Then, with a look of resigned, theatrical frustration, he began his acting.

“But please… It’s for my mother,” he began, voice softening.

“My mother loves cooking and has a real soft spot for flowers too, she talks to them like they're her kids rather than her actual kids...”

‘Fuck. That last line was not what I intended to say.’

“....A-anyway, I thought, it’d be nice to give her a knife engraved with something delicate like floral. Y-you know?” He paused, watching his expressions carefully.

‘Did I over do it? It doesn't sound that bad, actually. A little sentimental, but still believable… He should buy it.’

Dain’s face didn’t change immediately. He just stared at Ruvian for a long time, then lifted one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

A low sigh rumbled from his chest. Still, there was something different in the silence that followed. The irritation dulled behind his eyes, replaced by something else.

What struck him wasn’t recognition of Ruvian himself but of the motive.

Because Dain Forgewell, beneath the layers of soot and stoicism, was still a father, and no father could entirely ignore the sincerity in a son trying to honor his mother.

Ruvian knew this side of Dain accurately from the novel.

Finally, the old blacksmith shook his head.

“Alright, fine,” he muttered.

“Follow me inside. If we’re doing this, I’ll need the details.” He turned and walked back through the curtain.

‘Heh? That's easier than I thought.’

Ruvian followed, allowing himself the smallest happiest smirk. Unknowingly to him, Gared was watching him with a frown before following them from behind.

…

The forge radiated heat as coal smoke clung to everything. At the far end of the room, the forge blazed fiercely, casting an orange glow that danced over the stone walls.

Scattered about the space were metal scraps, abandoned projects and shattered blades—all resting on weathered workbenches.

Though the workshop might have seemed chaotic to an outsider. There was an undeniable order here, where every piece and every tool had its reason for being.

Dain pulled out a chair and gestured for Ruvian to sit as he reached for a thick, well-used notebook resting beside his desk.

When Dain took a request to heart, he made sure to capture every detail himself. And now, Ruvian had his full attention.

Dain flipped open the notebook, his fingers brushing the pages, before he grabbed a charcoal pencil.

“Alright, kid. If you want a custom knife, I need to know it all. Size, balance, light or weighted? What kind of steel do you want? Handle material? Practical, or just for show?” he paused for a moment, then his gaze sharpened.

“Heh. Don't worry, kid. Anything, even if it's some half-hearted answer. You tell me.”

Ruvian, who had been idly scanning the workshop, finally returned his gaze to Dain. The blacksmith stood poised, expecting the typical vague, half-formed request from a young boy.

But when Ruvian spoke, his words were clear and precise.

“Eight-inch blade. Full tang construction. High-carbon steel, preferably folded to enhance durability and edge retention. Spine thickness around 2.5 millimeters, sturdy, yet not overly heavy. A distal taper towards the tip, for control—”

Dain’s pencil, which had been steadily moving across the page, faltered.

“—Handles should be stabilized wood, ironwood, if you have it, if not, something dense – resistant to moisture. An ergonomic grip with a slight contour to fit the hand, balanced so it sits perfectly at the pinch grip—”

Dain’s hand froze, the pencil suspended above the page. Ruvian’s voice continued, unwavering, as though the request were simple to him.

“—As for the engraving, on the opposite edge, a floral pattern, not deep enough to affect the blade’s integrity – just something that enhances the knife’s beauty without compromising its function…”

The room fell silent.

Gared was speechless and Dain stared down at his notes, his thick brows drawn in thought. To him, this wasn’t some child’s fleeting whim.

No, this was a craftsman’s ideal client.

Dain exhaled through his nose again. He had pegged this boy as someone simply thoughtful, an adolescent trying to impress his mother with a “special” knife.

But this was something else entirely. Dain leaned back, a hand rubbing thoughtfully at his chin, his sharp gaze still fixed on Ruvian.

“Whoa, whoa, whoaa…. hey, you're insane!”

Ruvian blinked surprisingly. His head tilted slightly, with a hint of pride creeping into his usually flat expression.

“Did I speak too soon? You want me to say it again?”

Honestly, he didn’t think he’d get much of a response. For a brief moment, the workshop buzzed with quietness.

Then…

“Pwahaha!” Dain burst into laughter, a belly laugh that resonated through the room's very walls. Dain hadn’t seen this coming at all.

The boy in front of him, calm and collected, was far more amusing than he thought. Dain leaned in, thick arms landing hard on the worn desk, sending a puff of sawdust floating up.

“I like you, kid. What's your name?”

Ruvian looked straight at him, showing little emotion.

“Ruvian Castelor.”

Dain nodded slowly, the grin around his mouth softening.

“Well, Ruvian, no need to say that again. It's all up here.” he tapped his forehead with a grin.

“A request like this? Forgetting it would be impossible.”

Ruvian’s lips twitched a bit, but his silence said a lot. Dain watched him for a moment before asking softly, almost curiously.

“You interested in smithing, kid?”

Gared was shocked to hear his father ask this of a stranger. Ruvian's gaze swept past unfinished weapons and messy tools, none keeping his attention for long.

Then, he saw it.

A long black sword hung on the wall, its form shattered but still somewhat dignified. Ruvian stared at it. His gaze held a quiet power, before shifting back to Dain, looking distant.

“To be honest, I don’t know much about smithing…”

Ruvian spoke softly, almost humble.

“…But that sword over there.”

He pointed to the broken blade.

“Even in its ruined condition… It was a well made one.”