Chapter 7 : Blade to The Bones

Night unfurled its dark mantle over Alaric City, veiling the city beneath a sky dusted with stars. Along the crooked alleys of the Rutter-Slide—the city’s most squalid quarter—the silence grew heavy, taut with the kind of stillness that warned of danger. For when night came to this part of the city, it never came alone. Trouble always followed close behind.

Long had the tales been told: in Rutter-Slide, nightfall was a signal, not for rest, but for vigilance. The streets—cracked, narrow, and stained by decades of poverty—became the stage for criminals, drunks, and desperate souls. Robbery, brawls, and bloodshed were not uncommon, and for the weary residents too poor to live elsewhere, sleep came only in fits—always with one eye open.

Doors were bolted tight, shutters sealed, and fires snuffed to avoid drawing attention. Only a fool—or someone with no choice—would wander the night freely in Rutter-Slide.

Yet tonight, one home remained alive with sound and flame.

Clang!

The sharp ring of iron striking iron shattered the stillness, echoing through the alley like a challenge. Sparks flew in bursts, lighting the cramped workshop with fleeting flashes of orange. Within, the air was stifling—thick with smoke, sweat, and the tang of molten metal.

A young woman stood before the forge, her silhouette outlined by the roar of the flames. Sweat beaded across her brow, glistening against her soot-streaked skin. Her blonde hair—normally free-flowing—was now pulled back in a loose, messy tie, though strands had slipped loose, sticking to her face and neck. She pushed them back with an annoyed huff, smearing ash across her cheek.

Despite the heat and exhaustion, there was a strange calm in her movements—a rhythm born of purpose. She lifted her hammer once more, eyes narrowed with fierce concentration, and brought it down against glowing steel.

Clang!!

She wasn’t working for coin. Not tonight. There was something personal in her focus, a quiet determination that defied fatigue. While the rest of Rutter-Slide locked themselves away in fear, she stood by her anvil, shaping metal beneath fire and will.

The rhythmic clang of hammer against steel paused, hanging in the thick, smoke-tinged air. Maggie stood frozen, her hand still gripping the cooling hilt of the half-forged blade on her anvil. There it was again—a knock, faint but deliberate, at her front door.

She scowled, her face contorting into an expression that promised little in the way of hospitality. Whatever soul dared to disturb her at this hour, while she was neck-deep in the kind of work that required both patience and fury, was likely to regret it.

With a grumble under her breath, she seized the blade she’d been shaping and slung it over her shoulder, ignoring the heat that still radiated faintly from the metal. Her boots thudded heavily across the wooden floor as she stomped toward the entrance, each step echoing her growing irritation.

The door creaked open—more by her aggressive pull than by any courtesy—and before she could say a word, a figure stepped inside uninvited.

A half-orc stood in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, with a loosely tied ponytail hanging over one shoulder and a purplish bruise blooming around his left eye like spilled ink. His smirk was lopsided, equal parts smug and familiar.

Maggie’s eyes narrowed at once. “Jurard,” she said dryly, crossing her arms over her soot-smeared apron. “How wonderfully inconvenient.”

The half-orc’s eye twitched at her tone, but his grin widened all the same. “Maggie,” he purred, drawing out her name like honeyed venom. “Just dropping by to check on our order. My master’s been pacing holes in the floor. Seems he’s rather... antsy about the delay.”

Maggie’s jaw tensed, though she refused to let her discomfort show. She lifted her chin defiantly, voice clipped but steady.

“I told you two nights ago—what your master’s asking is unrealistic. I work alone. You don’t get to change the deadline out of nowhere and expect me to conjure a rack of blades by morning. That’s not how the forge works.”

Jurard chuckled low in his throat, the sound thick with mockery. “Oh, Maggie...”

He stepped closer, just enough to make the air between them feel tighter. His shadow stretched across her workshop, brushing the half-finished weapons that lined her wall like quiet sentinels.

“You always were stubborn,” he said, his voice slick as oiled leather. “But I’d reconsider, if I were you. Deadlines have a way of... becoming personal, especially when important men are kept waiting.”

Maggie’s grip tightened around the sword hilt, her knuckles paling beneath the grime. She could practically feel the weight of the anvil calling to her—an urge to launch it straight into Jurard’s smug, insufferable face. That grin of his, all teeth and malice, was designed for one thing only: to provoke. And it was working.

Jurard tilted his head, catching the tension in her shoulders. “Oh? What’s this I see?” he drawled, stepping closer with exaggerated curiosity. “Is that... anger? Are you really thinking of hitting me with that thing?” His laughter was low, mocking, laced with wicked delight. “Heh. Go on, then. I’d love to be the first half-orc in history to be bludgeoned by a noble-born blacksmith.”

Maggie said nothing, her jaw set tight, though her body was coiled with restrained fury.

Jurard’s eyes gleamed with venom. “Come now, little girl. Isn’t it in your blood? To hurt anything you think beneath you? That’s what your kind always does—look down on us like we’re nothing but ash and refuse.”

He took another step, lips curling into a snarl. “You called us worthless, garbage. But the true filth of this realm... is you.”

A heartbeat passed in taut silence. Maggie’s grip twitched. The forge behind her hissed and cracked, echoing the storm rising inside her. She was seconds away from losing it—and she knew it.

So she pivoted.

Her voice came out level, clipped, betraying just a thread of concern beneath the iron. “What happened to your eye?” she asked suddenly, her gaze flicking to the purplish bruise marring his face. “That looks nasty.”

Jurard blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. He took a few casual steps back, then began to pace the room, his fingers trailing over the edge of a rack of spears, as if admiring the craftsmanship.

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“What, this?” he said, gesturing to the dark bloom on his cheekbone. “Tavern brawl. Some dumb brute thought I was eyeing his coin purse. Turns out I was eyeing something else.” He chuckled darkly. “Didn’t go as planned.”

Maggie let out a faint, crooked smirk. She’d struck a nerve—she could feel it—and in the fiery haze of her forge, she was feeling just bold enough to prod a little further.

“A Horn Raider, beaten bloody?” she said, her tone deliberately casual. “Doesn’t exactly scream ‘formidable,’ now does it? Maybe your guild’s bark is louder than its bite after all.”

Jurard’s expression shifted in an instant. The playful sneer vanished, replaced by something much darker. His gaze turned razor-sharp, full of simmering malice. He stepped toward her slowly, every inch of him radiating danger.

“Careful, little girl,” he growled. “You may work for us, but that doesn’t make you unexpendable.”

Before she could respond, he was behind her.

Cold steel brushed her skin.

The flat of a blade met her cheek, not cutting, but close—threatening. Maggie froze, her smirk gone, breath catching in her throat.

“I’ve had a miserable day, Maggie,” Jurard whispered, his voice low and cruel. “And your little quips? They aren’t doing much to lift my spirits.”

The pressure against her cheek increased. Her bravado dissolved into stillness, awareness dawning that she may have pushed too far.

“I’ve always wondered…” Jurard hissed near her ear. “Do highborns really bleed silver and gold?”

The blade pressed a fraction deeper.

“Shall we find out?”

But before the steel could bite—

Slam!!

The shop door burst open, wind howling briefly through the room before two figures stumbled inside. One slammed the door shut behind them with a thud, bolting it as the cold night wind flurries in.

Jurard recoiled slightly, blade lowering just an inch, his eyes flicking toward the intrusion.

A man in a hood leaned against the door, breathless, scanning the room with sharp, alert eyes. Behind him, a young woman in a massive blue hat clung to his cloak, her face pale and wide-eyed.

“Fhew… okay,” Elliot muttered, trying to catch his breath. “I think we lost them.”

“You think?” Serena snapped, her voice a sharp whisper lined with panic. “There’s an entire battalion of angry half-orcs out there!”

“Yes, I think,” Elliot shot back, equally breathless. “And could you lower your voice? Maybe try not to announce our location?”

“How am I supposed to be calm when we’re being hunted?” she hissed, her voice still loud enough to echo slightly through the cluttered forge.

Their frantic exchange carried on as if the rest of the world had fallen away—until a very unamused throat cleared behind them.

“Ahem.”

The pair froze.

Maggie stood several feet away, a raised brow framed by strands of her sweaty, grease-matted hair. Her hand still gripped hard on her weapon. Behind her, Jurard lingered close, the glint of steel still far too near her cheek for comfort.

“I know the forge light’s still on,” Maggie said coolly, “but I’m fairly certain the closed sign is hanging right there on the door.”

Serena and Elliot turned sheepishly, both suddenly very aware of how loud and uninvited they were. Guilt washed over Serena’s face first.

“Oh—gods, yeah, sorry—we didn’t mean to barge in. We were just trying to—well, we didn’t realize you were…” Her words trailed off as she took in the scene fully.

Jurard. A blade. Maggie. Far too close.

“…doing that,” she finished flatly, pointing a gloved finger toward the unmistakably hostile stance. “Im sorry, what exactly are you—whats happening here?”

And then it hit her.

Serena’s eyes locked onto the half-orc, recognition flashing like lightning behind her gaze. That pony tail, and that stupid little grin of his, that’s the guy who almost assault him in Barrel Hound this morning. Her finger shot out.

“YOU!” she shouted, voice shrill with surprise and indignation.

Jurard turned at the sound, narrowing his bruised eye—and bellowed back with equal volume, “YOU!!”

“YOU!!!” Serena shouted again, now more confused than furious.

“YO—”

Jurard never got the chance to finish his rebuttal. In a blur of motion, Elliot moved—faster than anyone in the room could register—and drove a powerful boot straight into Jurard’s face. The half-orc’s words were cut off by the crack of impact and the startled grunt he managed before his body was launched across the forge like a sack of grain.

He slammed into the far wooden wall, knocking down a hanging rack of unfinished blades and sending sparks flying from the forge’s edge.

And just like that, the blade never touched her.

Maggie stood frozen, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat. One second, the half-orc’s blade had been pressed against her cheek—and the next, he was airborne, flung across her shop like a rag doll.

Her gaze darted sideways, where the pale-haired stranger now stood at her side, seemingly having appeared out of thin air. His presence hadn’t been there a moment ago—no footsteps, no warning. Just a blur of motion and a thunderous impact. It made no sense.

Silence lingered like dust in the air.

Maggie stared at Elliot, trying to piece together what had just happened. Serena, equally stunned, blinked at her companion in disbelief.

“…Nice kick,” Serena said at last, lifting a shaky thumbs up. Her face clearly read: He had it coming.

Elliot gave a wordless thumbs-up in return, his expression unreadable. Then, turning to Maggie with a calm sincerity, he asked, “Um… miss, are you alright?”

Maggie didn’t answer right away. Instead, she slowly turned her head, eyes drifting to the back of the forge. Her mouth parted slightly as she took in the damage. The rear wall was splintered and cracked—so violently warped that she could see the dull orange glow of the furnace flickering in the next room, like the fire itself was peering back at her.

“…My shop,” she whispered, the words heavy with dismay.

Elliot stepped carefully toward Maggie, palms half-raised in a gesture of peace. She was clearly still shaken—or so he thought.

“I... I don’t know what that guy was to you,” he began gently, “but I can assure you, he’s bad news—”

“Who’s going to pay for the damage to my shop?” Maggie interrupted, her glare sharp enough to shear steel.

Elliot blinked. “Uh…?”

Not quite the response he expected.

“That wall won’t fix itself,” she said flatly, pointing at the splintered wreckage behind her. “And lumber doesn’t grow free in this frozen hellscape.”

He opened his mouth, searching for words—but none came. He glanced helplessly toward Serena, silently pleading for rescue.

Taking the cue, Serena stepped forward with a nervous smile. “Right—um—miss, we really didn’t mean to—”

“My wall is broken,” Maggie snapped again, her voice cold and unyielding. She leveled her unfinished sword at Serena, not aggressively, but with the casual threat of someone who knew exactly how to use it. The calmness in her tone only made her more terrifying.

“I’m down to my last grish,” she continued, eyes still burning with unspent rage. “And you just sent flying the one man stupid enough to overpay for my work.”

Serena stared at her, bewildered. “Wait—but… with all due respect, he was about to carve his way into your cheekbone!”

Maggie didn’t flinch. “And now he’s carving through my wall. That doesn’t exactly make things better, does it?”

A long pause followed. Elliot rubbed the back of his neck. Serena looked between the broken wall, the soot-covered floor, and the sword still pointed her way.

“Alright, alright—everyone just calm down,” Serena said quickly, hands raised in a show of peace. “We don’t want any more trouble. We’ll pay for the damage.”

Elliot shot her a sharp glance, his eyes practically screaming, We will?

She returned the look without flinching, her calm smile betraying nothing. The silent exchange was brief—but clear. The promise was a bluff, and a bold one at that.

“So please, miss,” Serena continued, her voice steady and her expression disarmingly sincere, “put the sword down. You have my word—we’ll make this right.”

To Elliot’s astonishment, Maggie bought it.

The blacksmith narrowed her eyes at Serena, as if weighing the truth in her tone. Then, with a reluctant sigh, she lowered the sword.

“You better be good for it,” she muttered. “If I find out you lied, you’re leaving here in pieces.”

“Understood,” Serena replied sweetly.

Just as the tension began to settle, fate—cruel as ever—decided to snap it back into chaos.

“There they are!!” came a voice from outside—a harsh bark, unmistakably orcish.

Elliot barely had time to turn before the door exploded inward, shards of wood flying across the room like shrapnel. Half-orcs flooded in with snarling aggression, axes and iron clubs gripped tight in their fists.

“The one in the silver cloak! And the girl with the giant blue hat!” another roared.

In an instant, the humble forge was no longer a place of business but a battlefield, crowded wall to wall with Horn Raiders—the very kind of scum Maggie despised most.

Her gaze swept the room, taking in the broken door, the spilled tools, the smoke curling from the still-burning forge, and the wave of unwelcome muscle now trampling her floorboards.

And then, with the weight of her frustration pressing down like a blacksmith’s hammer, Maggie let out the most exasperated sigh imaginable.

“Wonderful,” she groaned, rubbing her temples. “Someone please kill me already.”