When Jasper finally left S̆arrābī’s study, he was surprised at the feeling of relief that washed over him. He had been dreading seeing his uncle again. He resented the Djinn thoroughly - for forcing him to work for him, for risking his life by feeding him the gis̆ātu leaf, even for forcing him to work with Annatta, although now that the worst of their disagreements had been ironed out he really didn’t mind having the pretty Djinn around. But the discussion had gone better than he expected. Perhaps it won’t be so bad working with him after all, he admitted to himself.

Annatta was waiting for him outside the door. He half-expected her to pounce on him with questions, but she held her peace instead as they headed back out to their horses. Hopping up on Dapplegrim, Jasper was about to start down the road toward his home when he remembered the note his uncle had given. Why not? "Annatta, can you take me to wherever the palace smithies work?"

"Of course, my lord. Looking to buy something?" She led them down a path he hadn't been on before that curved away from the As̆rukkat back towards the heart of the city.

Jasper just shrugged, "Maybe. S̆arrābī gave me some sort of note for them. Said they could help with a weapon."

"Lord S̆arrābī," she corrected him, trailing off with a sigh. "Why do I even try," she muttered to herself.

Jasper ignored her, as his thoughts drifted back to the discussion he and S̆arrābī had had. It had been a few weeks since he'd discovered that his mother might have been a Djinn. There was a part of him that still struggled to believe it. His inability to remember her ever doing anything strange had been a sort of protective shield, a final barrier that prevented him from fully accepting the Djinn's claims. But the realization that his memories had been altered had blown that shield to pieces. Where did she go all those times? What sort of magic could she do? Did she even try to rescue me? The painful thoughts buzzed through his mind like pesky flies, obstinately refusing to leave no matter how hard he tried to shoo them away. Did I ever really know her? Was it all a lie?

Consumed by his doubts, Jasper didn’t even notice they had arrived at the smithies until Annatta shook him by the shoulder.

“Lord Yas̆peh!” He blinked, surprised at the slightly peeved tone in her voice. Annatta, for all her faults, was generally extremely careful to be obsequious in public.

“Yes?” He snapped sullenly.

“The groom is waiting to take your horse.”

Glancing down, he realized a servant was waiting for him. Sliding out of the saddle, he slipped Dapplegrim a sugar cube or two before handing the reins over to the servant. As the groom led her away, Jasper surveyed his surroundings.

The palace smithies were a surprisingly large complex. Rows of bulky warehouses flanked every side of a central square and a steady stream of smoke spiraled from their chimneys. Hidden from sight by the forests, the work buildings made no attempt to use the blue stone of the As̆rukkat or imitate the strange, almost futuristic architecture of the palace, but they certainly weren’t plain either. Faced in fine brownstone and guarded by rows of statuesque pillars, the warehouses would have been the envy of many a lesser noble.

But instead of posh finery, the relentless clank of metal against metal and the scent of sawdust and oil filled the air. He followed Annatta as she led him across the square toward the building on the left flank of the plaza. A large sign hung above the door, marked with the familiar symbol of a hammer and anvil. His guard opened the door for him with a stiff curtsy, and he slipped past her into the building.

The inside was a bit more modern than he expected. Rather than stepping directly into the workplace, he found himself in a clean, if sparsely decorated, waiting room that, if it had a cheap TV and some very outdated magazines, might not have felt too out of place on earth. A large ebony desk was manned by two young women. One was a rather typical Djinn, whose Jasper’s eyes passed over with barely a second glance; the other, however, was far more exotic, with pale blond hair and milky skin, unusual for a Djinn, clashing with a pair of short, black horns.

He approached her with a smile, holding out the paper S̆arrābī had given him. “I was told you could help me replace a broken weapon?”

A brief flicker of surprise flit across her face, but it was gone as soon as it came. Taking the paper from his hands, she scanned it idly, before placing it flat on the desk. She grabbed a seal from the desk and, dipping it in a small, bubbling bowl of red wax, stamped the top of the paper before handing it back to him. “Very well,” she responded, her voice simmering with subdued amusement, “your request has been approved. Please have a seat, Yas̆peh, and I’ll summon someone to help you.”

The clarion tinkle of a bell echoed in the small room as he took a seat along the wall. The fact that the receptionist had called him by name - not ‘my lord’ - didn’t escape his attention, and he shot a few cautious glances at her as he waited. I wonder what’s up with her. A low table ran in front of the row of chairs, stacked high with a variety of unfamiliar treats, and he snatched one up, nibbling at it absentmindedly. If elevator music had begun to play right then, he wouldn’t even have blinked in surprise.

But he didn’t have long to savor his treat. With a bang, the door behind the receptionist's desk flew open with enough force to smash the handle into the wall. A tall woman stepped into the room, and stopped at the desk, running her fingers playfully through the receptionist’s hair. “We have a request from Abī, batīya?” she asked, in a low tone.

Even if Jasper hadn’t heard her words, he would have understood their meaning immediately. The tall woman was as lithe as a deer, and if her light hair and pale skin weren’t sufficient evidence, the twin pairs of antlers that rose above her left no doubt that she was an elf. The receptionist - her daughter, Jasper suddenly realized - pointed to him, and the woman waved her hand carelessly in his direction.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Come, follow me,” she said, turning to the door without waiting to see if they would follow. He heard a surprised gasp from Annatta but had no time to question her as the woman disappeared through the door. Bolting to his feet, Jasper hurried after her, with the Djinn close on his heels. The walls of the waiting room must have been enchanted with noise-muffling runes, for as soon as they stepped foot through the door, the sounds of work rose to meet them - the steady clank of hammer against steel, the sizzling of hot iron in water, the hum of powerful furnaces.

The elf led them across the warehouse floor, past rows of craftsmen bent low over their work. She stopped at a station a bit larger than most, surrounded by tables stacked high with weapons and armor in various states of repair. She hopped up on a stool by one of the tables and beckoned for them to join her.

He took his seat slowly, his mind running overtime, as he inspected the elf. There was a certain timeless beauty to the woman, but when he met her ice-blue eyes he could feel the weight of years in her stare. “So, tell me,” she spoke with a soft, almost-exaggerated drawl, “what can I help you with?”

Annatta tugged sharply on his sleeve, but Jasper ignored her. He had already figured out what she wanted to tell him. “Well, my lady, I was hoping you could either fix a broken weapon for me or, if it can’t be fixed, craft me a replacement.”

Annatta’s frantic tugging ceased as a grin broke across the elf’s face. “Did Abī tell you about me, or are you just that clever?” She asked, with her accent all but gone.

Abī? It took him a second to put the pieces together, but he spoke up quickly, hoping he hadn’t jumped to the wrong conclusion. “I’m guessing you’re Lord S̆arrābī’s wife?” He ventured, his voice strong with a confidence he didn't entirely feel.

She grinned again, clicking her tongue. “No, Abī wouldn’t tell you, would he? He likes to have his little games. So, I guess you’re just clever.” She leaned her head to the left in the elven gesture of respect. “I’m Lady Kaṣîtūma but you,” she winked, “can call me Auntie Kaṣî.”

“She wasn’t a receptionist, was she?” Jasper blurted out abruptly.

The elf burst out laughing. “No, S̆anukkat was on her way out after visiting me. But don’t worry - I’m sure she’s only a little offended.”

He was glad, for once, that his ruddy cheeks hid his embarrassment. At the same time, though, he didn’t think his assumption was that unreasonable. “Lord S̆arrābī failed to mention he was married. Or had a daughter,” he explained.

“You did fine,” she said graciously. “Not great - you probably should have realized sooner that a half-elf was unlikely to be working the desk, but you caught your mistake quickly.”

He nodded, as a sudden curiosity bloomed within him. “So you are a smith? Are the other craftsmen here also nobles?”

“Selene’s grace, no,” his ‘aunt’ replied with a laugh. “But it’s not like Abī was going to tell me ‘no’ to anything.” Her voice sobered. “Not after what happened to your mother,” she explained, with a suddenly apologetical tone. “He’s always blamed himself for her death or…” She didn’t finish the sentence, jerking her head pointedly in the direction of the other workers, and he understood. His mother’s death - or rather her lack thereof - was apparently a bit of a secret. “There are few wishes he would deny me or S̆ani needlessly.”

In a more subdued mood, she grabbed his hand in hers. “But come, tell me what it is you want, and I promise, you will not get a finer weapon from these halls.” Against the blazing heat of the forge - for the Djinn, immune to the fire felt no need to cool the room - her hands felt cold as ice, and he couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran down his spine. But ignoring it, he turned to Annatta. “Can you grab my glaive, please?”

The Djinn fished the broke weapon out of her bag of holding, and he laid the pieces reverently on the table. “I had a quest that I hoped would be able to fix this, but S̆arrābī told me I couldn’t complete it. I guess the man I was supposed to find is dead.”

Kaṣî tapped the shaft of the blade with her fingernails, listening intently as the metal vibrated, and weighted in her hands, giving the broken shaft a few experimental swings. Her form was immaculate and Jasper realized her talents extended to more than just smithing. Placing the shaft back on the table, she turned back to him. “Honestly, I’m surprised you manage to break this,” she admitted. “Whoever crafted this did an excellent job, although,” she said as she pointed to a few blemishes in the metal, “the piece was clearly never fully finished. Perhaps there was a fault in the metal somewhere. What were you fighting?” She inquired, curiously.

“A Mwyranni’s champion.”

The elf’s laughter tinkled above the noise of the workshop. “No, really. What were you fighting?”

“A Mwyranni’s champion,” Jasper repeated.

Her laughter died out as she studied his face. After a moment, she nodded her head, apparently satisfied with whatever she had seen. “My apologies - now I’m the one with egg on my face. Abī never mentioned you were such an accomplished mage.”

Jasper shrugged. “It was before I met him, or her” he pointed at Annatta, “so perhaps he didn't know about it.”

She smiled, good humor sparkling in her eyes. “I’ll go easy on him then.” But she swept up the broken pieces of the glaive from the table and thrust them back at Annatta. “I could fix this glaive for you, but it would be a waste. It’s a fine weapon for fighting bandits or even your average monster, but if you’re fighting opponents like a Mwyranni’s champion, the quality of the metal simply isn’t sturdy enough for such powerful beings. Tell me about your class, and I will craft you the perfect weapon,” she insisted.

The minutes passed quickly as she quizzed him about every detail of his class, stats, spells - she even demanded he read the class’ description to her, explaining that if she was going to make a weapon from scratch, she might as well customize its appearance to his class. When the last of her questions were exhausted, several pages of notes and hastily scrawled sketches were sprawled out on the table before her.

“I’m not sure the glaive is the best weapon for you,” she finally said. “On horseback, a lance is the best weapon for your fire charge spell, with a saber to back it up - once you find yourself caught in a melee, you may not have the space to adequately wield a glaive. It’s not a bad choice on foot,” she mused “although, again, at a range, your spells are your greatest weapon and, up close, the glaive’s length turns from a boon to a liability.”

“Normally I’d suggest you just carry two weapons, but since you’re family, I suppose I can do a little better.” Flipping over one of the pages, she hastily sketched out a new design and thrust it out to him. “Consider it a gift from Abī and me.”