Grim groaned at the sound of boots padding past his face and his eyes flickered open, banishing pleasant dreams of dubiously proportioned women. The pleasant curves were replaced by row upon row of his father’s soldiers packed like sardines in the tight confines of one of the castle barracks. With the overflow of refugees, the soldiers were confined to a quarter of their usual quarters. Grim had yet to hear a single complaint.
Around him, men dressed in mail failed to sneak through the hundreds of men lining the floors between the bunks, doing their best not to step on anything too sensitive. The morning shift relieving the night shift. Grim grumbled under his breath, supposing that this was as good a time as any to rise. He cursed the fading of the pleasant dream and staggered his way to the door, having no belongings to collect.
A fog had seemed to settle over the city today, obfuscating the heights of the castle far above. As he stepped into the courtyard, a horn blared from the seaward wall. Another joined it. Soon there was a chorus of horns echoing from the castle. A moment later, bells began to toll from the city below and for a moment, the perpetual din of the city fell silent. A heartbeat later, the sounds returned to normal. For most of them, it meant nothing.
Grim took off at a jog to the seaward wall. He wasn’t the only one. everyone in the courtyard was heading to the stone stairs leading up to the parapets. Behind him, men had decided this was worth rising for and poured from the barracks.
Refugees from the Outwalls peeked nervously from the doors and windows of the Barracks, watching the frenzy of the soldiers in the courtyard. Grim gave them a friendly wave as he passed, hoping to set them at least somewhat at ease.
He soon clambered up the steps of the seaward wall, and on reaching the top, Grim leaned out over the ramparts, peering into the fog. Dozens of men were joining him, gathering across the length of the wall.
Then he saw them, closer than he ever had before. He could pick out the individual men on the red-hued longboats, their black sails billowing in the wind. Five of them circled a large merchant vessel like sharks. Poor souls. He watched the men on the deck get cut down by arrow fire from the circling ships. Those who didn’t die from the volleys hunkered down, awaiting the inevitable.
Grappling hooks flew from the circling ships, and as one they closed in for the kill. Grim glanced at the tower to his right. It should be ready about now-
A crack sounded, followed by a whoosh. A flaming ball of pitch launched from its heights and sailed across the sky toward the ships. The guardsmen around him started making bets as everyone held their breath, watching its descent. Another ball of fire appeared from the tower far to his left.
The first ball of pitch began its descent. It looked to be on target. Grim grinned, anticipating the ensuing explosion. People lined the docks far below, all watching and some cheering as the ball fell the final stretch. Grim held his breath and a hush fell across the wall.
The ball of fire crashed into the water next to one of the longships, the ensuing wave nearly capsizing it. The Sorrowmen on board stumbled back to their feet and shot rude gestures at the castle as a collective groan sounded from the wall. Money exchanged hands and then all eyes were on the second ball of fire which had now begun its descent.
The Sorrowmen were onboard the vessel now, hewing their way through the crew and carving a bloody swath to the cargo hold. A crack sounded, and the first tower launched another fireball.
The second ball missed by a wide margin, falling into the bay in a puff of steam. The Sorrowmen were emerging from below decks, their bloody business concluded. As the ball disappeared, many pulled their breeches down and shook their asses at the castle. The guardsmen roared in indignation and yelled encouragement to those manning the catapults.
The Sorrowmen leapt back to their ships, leaving the grappling hooks attached. They took up their oars and rowed with all their strength. The third ball of fire approached and Grim knew this would be the last. The ships would soon disappear into the fog now that they had their prize. The longships fanned out, pulling the ropes of their hooks tight. The merchant vessel picked up speed, beginning to soar over the waves.
The last shot went high, but a cheer sounded as it glanced the sails of the merchant ship, lighting them aflame. The fireball itself disappeared into the sea, but the sails blossomed in flame. The fire traveled down the mast and engulfed the ship. The Sorrowmen let out curses loud enough to be heard from the shore as they cut their ropes. The merchant ship drifted loose, a burning pyre gliding across the waves. As they faded into the fog, the Sorrowmen shook their weapons at the castle.
Grim grinned. They didn’t get a longship, but damn was it satisfying to deny them their prize. He leaned against the wall, watching the longships disappear. As the attackers fled, dozens more ships emerged from the fog and made a beeline for the docks. They’d doubtless heard the horns and sought to avoid a similar fate to the crew of the late merchant ship. Soon, even the flames of the burning ship disappeared as it drifted into the fog.
Grim pulled himself from the wall with a grin, glad he’d been here to see the show. It was rare that the northerners ventured this close to Bleakridge, and these incidents only happened a couple times a year. He joined the buzzing crowd of soldiers as they descended the steps back into the courtyard. Hundreds of people were up and about, investigating the outcome to settle bets and to ensure all was well.
Grim snaked his way through the crowd. One of the advantages of being rather large was that people naturally sought to get out of your way. Some kind of primal instinct. He was surprised to realize he was a little excited to begin the day. He was being let in on whatever secret his father had been keeping and refused to speak of, though it grated a bit that his sister was apparently already well aware.
As he returned to the courtyard, he was surprised to find Ilyena already awake and standing by the Keep doors, an ermine edged jacket hanging loosely around her shoulders over a black riding dress. Her eyes found Grim as he neared. “They catch anything today?”
Grim shook his head. “The prize was burned, the men aboard dead.” He shrugged and she returned the gesture. “Surprised you’re up,” he said.
“We have business to attend to,” she said, stepping down to the courtyard. “Besides, it’s impossible to sleep through those damned horns in any case.”
Grim conceded the point with a shrug, following her as she walked past him toward the stables.
“We’re riding?” he asked.
Ilyena nodded, maintaining course.
The long wooden stable was split into two distinct sections to separate the goats from the horses. The smell of manure grew stronger as they drew closer and the stableboys soon came into sight, currently set to the task of mucking the stalls. Upon catching sight of Ilyena, they both straightened, setting their tools to the side.
The older hand looked between Grim and Ilyena. “It’ll be Pearl and Rodger then, eh?”
Ilyena smiled at the man. “Yes. Thank you, Baldur.”
The man smiled in return before turning and sending the younger stable hand off toward the goat pens on the far side as he walked into the stable. Grim and Ilyena waited as their respective mounts were saddled. “Think we ought to bring a guard?” Grim asked.
Ilyena shook her head. “Safer that we don’t.”
Grim wasn’t so sure about that, but he wasn’t willing to play the coward and contest the point. A few moments later, the older groom appeared with a white mare in tow. The man handed Ilyena the reins then knelt beside the saddle, hands laid across his knee. Ilyena stepped onto his hand, and he helped lever her into the high saddle such that the flaps of her riding dress wouldn’t cause a scandal.
While Ilyena settled onto her mount, Grim looked to the goat pens to see the younger stable hand emerging with a massive Wargoat in tow. The thing was almost as tall as Grim and had to weigh near ten times as much. The curved horns atop its head were longer than his arm, and Grim had seen the damage they could do to a man when angered.
Rodger seemed in fine spirits today, only trying to bite the stable hand a single time. As the boy passed Grim the reins, Rodger brayed and Grim yanked hard on the reins. The goat bristled but quieted. Grim skirted around him and climbed in the saddle, hoping Rodger wouldn’t try to buck him today. That was how he’d broken his first bone as a boy.
The goat was blessedly compliant as Grim tested putting him into an amble and drew the reins to slow him. So far so good. With any luck, he wouldn’t try taking a bite out of any passersby in the city.
Ilyena watched Grim. He met her gaze with a nod, and she launched Pearl into a canter toward the city gate. Grim matched her pace, drawing alongside her as they drew closer to the open portcullis. A supply wagon was being pulled through by a pair of draft horses, filled to the brim with sacks of grain. Grim supposed there were more mouths to feed in the castle than usual.
They crossed the threshold and descended the switchback to the city below. At the foot of the cliff, a barricade had been set up to prevent refugees from clogging the relatively narrow passage to the castle. At their approach, the guards shifted the barriers out of their way. The clearing beyond the barricade was clear. Grim assumed the Greencloaks had cleared out any stragglers after the curfew had begun. Where those people had ended up, Grim didn’t want to think about.
Not thinking about it proved fruitless as within a few blocks, bodies started to appear. Some had clearly been beaten and left behind to freeze in the cold. Others were simply too old or young to carry on. Thorne soldiers were already set to clearing out the bodies as pedestrians nervously skirted the scenes.
Grim felt a tightness in his throat at the sight that he could see was shared by Ilyena. Their tension was mirrored by the city around them. Grim released a deep breath as she led them onward, snaking through the neat lanes of the Inner City. People along the streets glanced in their direction as they passed, but the gazes rarely lingered. Everyone had bigger concerns these days than wondering what the Earl’s daughter and her bastard brother were up to.
As Ilyena led the way, the ever-present ringing of the smithies grew louder. This section of the Inner City was a strange beast. The closer you drew to the forging guild and their foundries, the more the buildings began to resemble the Outwalls, More respectable folk tended to want to live far from the sounds of industry and heavy foot traffic of the foundry workers.
There soon seemed to be a Venaran patrol on every street corner, eyeing the sweaty, soot-stained workers making their way to the foundries for their next shift. The houses on this side of town were still a fair cut above what one could find beyond the wall, but graffiti covered the wooden walls, some of it depicting important figures in the city in compromising poses. Grim was rarely featured, but Ilyena seemed to be a crowd favorite, often depicted on her knees in front of various Southerners. She pretended not to notice as they continued on their way, galloping down the boulevard.
The Forgers Guild headquarters was more of a sprawling compound than a single building. A huge stone complex dominated the yard, surrounded by vast wooden canopies supported by thick stilts. Beyond the canopies and before Grim was a wrought iron gate leading into to the complex beyond. The unwalled area opened the yard for viewing through the iron fence. However, the other half of the complex was barred from public view, likely to avoid prying eyes.
Hundreds of men worked outside, beneath the canopies, operating various pieces of forging equipment from anvils to iron blooms, to the newer blast furnaces. Thick stacks of smoke rose into the air, darkening the fog. The ringing of hammers was deafening this close to the compound. A handful of guards employed by the guild itself stood at the main gate, searching those leaving the premises to ensure no valuables were removed from the premises. Pure bronze could fetch a decent price at market if one were desperate enough to steal from their employer, and desperation abounded.
As they drew near Ilyena yelled over the clanging of hammers, “Ilyena Thorne, here to see Master Renfield.”
One of the guards heeded her words, waving her forward as his companions managed the crowd.
Ilyena used her steed to push through the entry line. Anyone who balked at that, practically ran out of the way when they saw Rodger following on Pearl’s heels. As they emerged into the yard, the air grew a few degrees warmer, heated by the flames of the forges.
The guard who waved to them approached Ilyena. “Welcome, we got word that your ladyship would be arriving to have your brother fitted for some armor.”
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“As you say,” Ilyena said
The man gestured for them to follow him and set off down the cobblestone path with Ilyena and Grim in his wake.
On either side of the path, sweaty, tired looking men performed a variety of tasks beneath their shelters. Grim watched as a man pulled a white-hot ladle from a crucible forge with iron tongs. He poured the molten liquid from the ladle into the top of a long rectangular mold. Next to him, another man ground an iron file against a rough looking bronze sword.
Beyond that pair, a dozen more were hard at work drawing thin, heated strips of iron through draw plates and creating wire. A sweat-stained apprentice collected their work into a wheelbarrow and carted it inside the stone building. The guard followed the boy inside, holding the door open for Grim and Ilyena.
Grim stepped inside and found that indoors was little different from the outside. The first floor seemed to consist solely of a single high-ceilinged room made entirely out of stone. Giant stone pillars supported the upper levels.
Hundreds of men in the shabby clothes common to the Outwalls stood in lines alongside iron tables cutting wire, hammering it into rings and riveting it shut into sheets of mail. The sound was even worse within the confines of a building. Ilyena covered her ears with her hands while Grim grimaced at the sound. The guard they followed barely even seemed to notice. The man must have left his hearing by the wayside a long time ago.
As they were led along the edges of the work area, Grim noticed a dramatic increase in the number of guards he saw. Few had bladed weapons like the one he followed but instead carried iron truncheons at their hips as they watched the ironmongers.
Wide iron arches were set into the walls far to the right and left. Through them, Grim could see into the east and west wings of the manufactory. What he glimpsed intrigued him. Iron gears buried in the ground seemed to turn of their own accord. The cogs of the gears levered massive hammers into the air which slammed into the iron bars held beneath them with tremendous force, over and over.
His gaping was soon cut short as the guard opened a door set into the wall leading to a stairwell. “Second floor,” he said.
Grim led his sister up the stairwell which was only slightly more comfortable than the tight spirals in Bleakridge castle. He stepped onto the second-floor landing and opened the door. The sounds from below and outside were dulled, but still made his ears ache. He emerged into a small stone room consisting solely of a reception desk. A pretty, bored looking girl stood behind it and perked up when Grim and Ilyena entered.
“Name?” she asked.
“Grim Thorne.”
She smiled as if that were the best news she’d heard all year, “This way please.”
Grim followed her through a door beside her desk.
“How on earth do you stand this racket every day?” Ilyena asked.
The girl looked over her shoulder. “When you don’t live in a castle, it’s amazing the things you can get used to.”
Grim’s eyebrows raised, and he grinned at the wide-eyed expression that elicited from his sister.
The hall she led them down was also formed by unadorned stone, torches lighting the way every dozen or so paces. Many of the doors on either side were open and Grim could see dozens of scribes sifting through sheaves of parchment and making notes. Most of all, he noticed the small wax plugs in their ears. Grim grumbled under his breath. He wasn’t about to bring that to the attention of his sister.
The girl they followed stopped outside a large double door and knocked. A muffled “Come in,” sounded from the other side. She pulled the door open and gestured for them to enter. The room beyond the door was made of the same utilitarian stone but was furnished with some of the most beautiful weaponry Grim had ever seen. Intricate designs ran along the blades of the swords. A series of axes resembled the moon in various stages of waxing. Spears with tips of gold were crossed under shields better painted than most portraits. A large bronze desk, etched to resemble wood, dominated the center of the room.
The grandeur stood at odds with the man leaning back in his chair behind the desk, resting his feet on a chipped, rusty anvil. He wore an old linen shirt that was more grey than white and had been stitched back together several times. One sleeve was folded and pinned to the shoulder where his left arm was missing. The scuffs on the boots atop the anvil betrayed their age and heavy usage.
His eyes flicked across the piece of parchment in his hand, not so much as looking up while they entered. Grim didn’t mind. He was content to gawk at the ostentatious display of craftsmanship. After a moment, the man put the parchment on the desk and cleared his throat. “Ah, welcome. Sorry to make you wait, I was almost done going over that damned expense report.” He rose to his feet and walked around the desk. Grim met him halfway and they clasped arms.
“Master Renfield at your service.”
Grim nodded in recognition. He knew the name. Miles Renfield was the Guildmaster of the Forgers, and probably the richest man in the Rills.
Renfield turned to Ilyena and fell into a deep bow. “Lady Ilyena, a surprise and a pleasure.”
Ilyena held out her hand and Renfield kissed her ring before rising. He turned his gaze back to Grim. “I saw you looking around. See anything you like? Everything is for sale.”
Grim let his eyes drift across the walls covered in weapons that more resembled art than the tools they were. “It all seems very- impractical.”
Renfield chuckled. “Ah. You got me hopes up when I saw your eyes wandering. Some fops who get brought up here shell out good money for a pretty weapon.”
Ilyena stepped forward. “Speaking of fops, why in the Divines would you keep your office right above that racket? I can still feel my teeth shaking.”
“That god-awful racket you hear is the sound of money. I can’t think of anything more soothing. Besides, after so many years at a forge, it’s comforting to hear. I may not be a smith anymore because of me arm, but I’ll be damned before I turn me back on the art. The same way a commander should be close to the battle, a guild master should be close to his work.”
Grim shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy.”
Renfield looked to Ilyena. “Are we to show him what we’ve been cooking up?”
Ilyena nodded.
“Well come on then,” Renfield said, walking past Grim to the door.
Ilyena sighed, moving after Renfield. Grim followed in her wake as they returned the way they’d come. As they passed the receptionist, she gave Grim an appreciative look up and down. He flushed as she winked at him and he focused his eyes ahead, wondering if there’d be time for him to come back up after whatever tour Renfield had in mind. Probably not. He sighed as they descended the narrow stairwell once more.
They walked past the door to the first floor, descending beneath the earth. The walls quickly shifted from quarried stone to rough-hewn rock resembling something you would find in a mine shaft. The stairwell dead-ended in a small room with a huge vault-like door. A small hammer hung from a nail on the wall next to the door.
Renfield grabbed the hammer and smacked it on the door one, twice, three times, and then once more.
A responding clang came from the other side.
Renfield reached into his pocket, pulled out a key and stuck it in the door. As he twisted it, the lock opened with a clank. He waited a moment, making no move to open the door. A second clank sounded from the other side of the door. Then it began to open outwards. Grim stepped back as the heavy door swung wide.
A burly man in a smith’s apron grinned at them from the other side. “Master,” he said with a nod.
“Good morning, Karl. Go ahead and keep the door open. This shouldn’t take too long.”
“Yes, sir.”
Doors made of wrought iron bars lined either side of the corridor beyond the door. Each cell had an inscription next to them that was a permutation of ones and zeros. In the distance, Grim could hear running water and the sound of machinery.
Grim glanced through the bars of the doors as they passed. One room appeared to simply be a forest of spears standing straight in their racks. The next was filled with dozens of crates leaving him wondering what was inside. Another room had rows and rows of axes lined up on wooden racks. The one after that, swords.
“What is all this?” Grim asked.
“Storage.”
Grim fought the urge to smack the man with the haft of his axe. “And why do you have an entire armory in storage?”
“Your father commissioned it years ago, but never came to pick it up.” Renfield shrugged. “He pays the storage fee.”
Grim frowned at the dozens of rooms. “Why?”
Renfield stayed silent a long moment. “It’s not my place to speculate. I’m just an old smith.”
Grim didn’t bother to continue questioning him. The sound of running water grew louder. It sounded almost as if he were on the banks of a river. Then, the left side of the corridor fell away. Grim’s eyes widened as he took in the cavern, the swift current of water running through it, and the twelve grand waterwheels spinning in a line. The thick planks of the wheels interlocked with the large iron gears he had glimpsed upstairs. They kept the gears turning at a steady pace and he could hear the giant hammers above clanging in time. Thick, stone pillars lined the underground river with the adjoining waterwheels riveted into the pillars, holding both them and the high ceiling aloft.
Grim looked up at the high wheels. “Wow.”
Even Ilyena’s eyes drifted across the scene in wonder, though she’d likely seen it before. It was a marvel of engineering.
As Grim stopped to gape, Renfield turned around. “I’d ask you not talk about this widely.” He turned to look at the apparatus. “We call them trip hammers because the hammer up there keeps falling on its face over and over.”
Grim grunted in appreciation, gaze drifting to the underground river. “Where does the water come from?” he asked, looking to where it seemed to gurgle straight out of the stone wall.
Ilyena answered, “It branches off the Bleakcreek, tunnels into one of the hills, flows under the city, and empties beneath the castle. Most wells draw from it or a tributary.”
Renfield chuckled. “We were expanding our storage down here, and the miners damn near shat themselves when they found it.”
Grim noticed a net peeking out of the water near the side of the cavern where the river emerged. A barrel bobbed up and down, snared by the net. “What’s that for?” Grim asked, nodding toward it.
Renfield glanced where he was looking. “Ah. Debris sometimes gets sucked in from upriver on the Bleakcreek. The net is just there to keep the wheels safe. They’re a right bitch to fix.”
Grim could only imagine. “Is this what we’re here to see?” he asked.
Renfield waved his hand. “Just the tip of the iceberg.”
Renfield continued down the corridor. Branching halls began to appear, making Grim wonder how large this place was. It had to take up at least as much space as the complex above them. Renfield turned down one of the side passages and stopped at the third door. He pulled out the key he used to unlock the vault. Grim raised an eyebrow as he pulled the tip of the key and it clicked. Renfield then glanced at the inscription next to the door and began rotating the six teeth of the key. He looked from the key to the inscription, grunted in satisfaction, and unlocked the door.
The gate swung open on greased hinges. Grim walked around the corner into the room It was far smaller than the rest. Only one object stood in the center, torchlight reflecting off the burnished metal. He stared at the suit of armor with the Briar etched into a solid plate of metal running across the chest. It somewhat resembled the design of the Venaran coat of plates, but instead of overlapping plates of metal, it consisted of large plates that would entirely cover a man’s chest and the exterior of his arms and legs.
“What is this?” he asked.
“New armor,” Renfield said, “Meant to go over chain and can stop an axe or sword dead in its tracks.
Grim snorted. “To do that, the damn thing would have to weigh as much as I do.”
Renfield waggled his finger. “If it were made of Iron, yes.”
Grim looks at the armor again, realizing the hue was – off. “It’s sure as shit not bronze, so what is it? Hardened tin?” he chuckled.
Renfield’s eyes narrowed. “It’s an alloy we’ve taken to calling steel, boy.”
Grim raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Renfield put his one arm on his him. “Well do you have the courage to test it out or are you going to keep spewing shit?”
Grim bit his lip, approaching the suit of armor. The plates were thinner than the bronze plating on Venaran armor, and he’d seen a well-placed blow shear through those.
He looked to Ilyena, “Help me with the straps.”
Grim grunted as he loosed the sling, his injured shoulder burning with pain as he slowly lowered the arm to his side. Ilyena helped him encase his torso in the steel shell and sinch the straps tight about him, creating a solid metal carapace around him as if he were a beetle. He was surprised by how well it fit about him, as if it were designed for his dimensions.
While Grim was getting suited, Renfield had fetched an axe from one of the other rooms. He held it out to Ilyena, “Would you like the honors my lady?”
Her eyes lit up and her hands reached for the axe.
“Wait a minute-”
Grim was cut off as Ilyena grasped the axe with two hands and slammed it into the center of his chest.
Grim winced, the force of the blow driving him back a step. His hands leapt to his chest, expecting to find a gaping wound. Instead, he found a light scratch along the metal. He gasped in relief. “Divines, woman,’ he said, looking down at the narrow line where the axe had struck.
He looked to Renfield, “Impressive, but it won’t be women these need to fend off.”
Renfield nodded his agreement, reaching for the axe with his good arm.
“Wait-”
Grim was cut off once more as the axe crashed into his chest with twice the force. Unprepared, the blow sent him staggering to fall on his ass. The hand of his good arm shot to his gut where the blow had landed and found only a small dent in the metal.
“Holy shit,” Grim said, “What is this made out of?”
“I told you,” Renfield said, “Steel. Any details beyond that are a Forgers guild secret.”
“How much of this have you made?” Grim asked, staggering to his feet.
“About a tenth of the stored material is made from steel. We uncovered the secret about three years ago. Two years ago, we found it could be applied to make new styles of armor,” he said, eyes drifting to the breastplate Grim wore. “Expensive as all hell, but the moment it’s put to the field, it will revolutionize warfare.”
Grim’s hand unconsciously ran across the scratches in the metal. He had no doubt Renfield was right. The armor felt almost too comfortable around his shoulders, and it bothered him. “Who was this made for?” he asked.
Renfield met his gaze. “It was the first set the Earl commissioned nigh on- two years ago?” He scratched his chin. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” He shook his head. “Said it was for his son.”
Grim sighed softly, a lump growing in his throat. It seemed his father was full of surprises lately.
“May we have a minute, Master Renfield?” Ilyena asked.
The old smith nodded. “Aye. I’ll be down the hall when you’re ready to head out.” Renfield’s eyes drifted to the armor. “Earl said the armor is yours. He thought you may need it in the days to come. If anybody asks, it’s just fancy iron.”
With that, the smith turned from him and left Grim and Ilyena together in the room. She stepped forward and began undoing the straps of his armor. Grim eyed her. “Did you know it’d stand up to the axe?”
She chuckled. “Of course. Renfield put on several demonstrations for father. You should have seen the look on your face.”
Grim narrowed his eyes then laughed. “I think you enjoyed that a little too much.” He shook his head. “So, what is all this for?” he asked, “There’s enough weapons stored here to arm most of the Rills.”
She paused in undoing the straps. “Preparations, should our situation become untenable.”
“Untenable?” Grim asked, eyebrow raised.
She shrugged. “He’s also trying to set up trade with Tara across the Meridian Bay to reduce our reliance on Venaran food, but that is a long, slow, and expensive transition. Though, it has been made easier by the Marshal doing the same.”
“Why would Longreen want that?” Grim asked.
“The less reliant he is on the King and the Heartlands, the stronger his position. All of Longreen’s power is derived from Venar itself. Not even his title is hereditary. It’s part of why he’s so keen to bind me to his house,” she said, nose shriveling in distaste.
Grim ran a hand across his chin. “At what point do things become untenable?”
“The moment our hand is forced or the potential for gain becomes worth the risk.” She shrugged. “Time will tell,” she said, uncinching the final strap and pulling the armor from Grim.
He watched as she set it to the floor by the armor rack, his eyes drifting over the scratches in the burnished steel. “Untenable,” he muttered.