The town never truly sleeps, but this hour belongs to merchants, blacksmiths, and traders, not drunkards or mercenaries.

The forge is exactly where I remember it, nestled near the market square, thick plumes of smoke curling into the cold air. The rhythmic clang of metal on metal echoes from within, a steady, relentless hammering that reminds me of marching feet. I step inside, rolling my shoulders to ease the stiffness from the long trek back.

A hulking man stands over the anvil, forearms like tree trunks, sweat already gleaming on his skin despite the chill. His face is lined with old burns and soot stains, his beard short and coarse. He barely glances up as I enter, focused instead on shaping a glowing bar of iron into something sharp and deadly.

"You're early," he grunts, not stopping his work. "I don't usually deal with blades before noon."

I drop my pack onto the heavy wooden table near the entrance. The weight of it lands with a satisfying thud. "I'm not here for a blade. I'm here to sell."

That gets his attention. He lifts his hammer, resting it against his shoulder, and finally looks at me. "Sell what?"

I reach into the pack, pull out a slab of Spidrae chitin, and set it on the table. The thick, dark material gleams under the forge's light, its surface ridged and sturdy. He frowns, setting down his tools, and moves closer.

"Where in the hells did you find this?" He picks it up, running thick fingers over the surface, testing its weight. "Looks like demon-carved chitin."

"Spidrae. Big one. North of town."

The blacksmith whistles low. "No one's seen one of those in years. Thought they were all gone."

"They're not."

He grunts, flipping the chitin over, inspecting its underside. "You killed it?"

"I did."

His lips press into a thin line. "Not many can."

I pull out the rest—three more slabs of chitin, one intact venom gland, and a length of a leg joint that might be reforged into something useful. Even though a lot of it is burned. The blacksmith studies each piece, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he exhales through his nose. "Chitin like this, reinforced with the right metals, could make damn fine armor. Better than the scrap most of these mercenaries wear. And the venom gland," he taps it, thinking. "Could be worth something to an alchemist if they can salvage it. Dangerous stuff, but useful."

"How much?" I ask.

He eyes me, weighing the goods against whatever calculations run behind those soot-darkened eyes. "Depends. You want coin, or trade?"

I cross my arms. "Depends what you're offering."

He strokes his beard, glancing toward the weapons lining the forge's back wall. "You handle a spear, yeah?"

"I do."

"I've got a reinforced shaft made from ironwood, good balance, strong as hell. Could bind some of this chitin to it, make it near unbreakable. Throw in some coin on top, and we've got a deal."

It's a fair offer. The Spidrae chitin is valuable, but not priceless. But the spear I have is actually priceless.

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I step back and pull the weapon from my back, unwrapping the thick cloth that covers its length. The moment the last layer falls away, the runes blaze to life, faint light along the shaft.

The blacksmith's expression hardens. He doesn't touch it. He doesn't even move closer. "How in the hells do you have that?"

"Gungnir," I say. "Runebound. Moonmetal. A monster killer."

The silence stretches between us, thick with the weight of old ghosts. The blacksmith stares at the spear, then at me. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. "I was a Kingsman to the Prince. Before…"

I don't finish. I don't have to. The words hang between us, unspoken but understood. Everyone knows what happened. How the Prince fell to poison, his own men helpless to stop it. How his uncle took the throne in the aftermath.

The blacksmith looks at me sadly. "Yeah. That would explain how you ended up in these parts." He spits on the floor, his scowl deepening. "Long live the king and all that."

We both know the truth. The Prince's uncle killed him for the crown.

I wrap the spear again, securing it against my back. The blacksmith shakes his head, muttering. "No need to trade, then. If you've got that, you don't need anything from me."

I meet his gaze. "I still need armor. And coin. The spear doesn't change that."

He exhales through his nose, then nods. "Alright. Let's talk numbers. Say 30 coppers, a silver, and repairs on me to all equipment but that."

He points to Gungnir.

He leans forward, running his hands over the chitin again, his fingers drumming lightly on its ridges. "For this much raw material, I could give you forty silver. Maybe fifty if I find the right buyer. The venom gland is trickier—dangerous to store, difficult to refine. Twenty silver at best."

I shake my head. "Seventy for the chitin, thirty for the venom gland."

He snorts. "Fifty for the chitin, twenty-five for the gland. You're not the only one who needs to make a living."

I cross my arms, meeting his gaze. "Sixty for the chitin, twenty-five for the gland, and you throw in an ironwood sheath for my spear."

The blacksmith narrows his eyes, chewing over the numbers. He glances at the spear on my back, then grunts. "Fine. Sixty and twenty-five. But the sheath'll take a day."

"I can wait."

He extends a hand, and I clasp it. His grip is solid, calloused from years of shaping metal. "Deal."

I step back as he counts out the coins, sliding them into a small leather pouch before passing it to me. The weight is satisfying, but money was never my true aim. The real reward is the armor, the upgraded sheath—the means to keep moving forward.

He wipes his hands on his apron, giving me a hard look. "You're not just passing through, are you?"

I shake my head. "Not yet."

The blacksmith nods, as if that answer was enough. "Then stay sharp, Kingsman. Greyhaven's got more ghosts than just yours."

I sling the coin pouch onto my belt, adjusting the weight. The forge burns hot behind me, but outside, the air is crisp, filled with the sounds of the waking city.

I have what I need. For now.

I head to the tavern next, not for drink but for information. The Hollow Oak is as it always is—warmth and noise, the thick scent of ale and roasting meat, the low murmur of people trading stories and secrets.

Vren is waiting for me.

He sits in the corner, watching the door like he expected me to walk in. When I do, he waves me over, his expression unreadable.

I drop into the seat across from him. "You look like you've seen something."

"I have," he says. "But not half as much as you, I reckon."

He gestures to my arm, and I glance down. The cursed mark—it must have flickered again. I roll down my sleeve, concealing it, my expression hardening.

Vren doesn't push. "Things are shifting," he says instead. "Folk are uneasy. The farms that were struggling yesterday might not be left tomorrow."

I nod slowly.. The Spidrae had been only the beginning.

"What's next?" he asks.

I lean back in my chair, considering. I had come here for land, for coin, for something simple.

But the world doesn't care for my plans. It's changing, and I need to change with it.

I exhale. "I need to know what's coming."

Vren smiles, humorless. "Then you'd best start looking."

I need answers.

"Where would I even start?" I ask, half to myself.

Vren exhales, tapping a knuckle against the table. "Scholar's Hollow. It's a sorry excuse for a library, but if you're looking for something strange, old Harlan might know a thing or two."

I frown. "Harlan?"

"Caretaker. Knows more about dusty old texts than anyone else in Greyhaven. Not that it's saying much." He shrugs. "If you're serious about finding answers, that's where I'd start."

"It's on the far side of Greyhaven, past the market and the blacksmith. If anyone can help you figure out what's happening, it's the old scholar who keeps to the candlelit halls of that place. He deals in forgotten knowledge, the kind most men are too afraid to seek."

I nod.