As it turned out, neither Astrid nor Bak had heard of such a thing. Bak insisted on taking Azmond to rest, opening his mouth several times to ask questions. Thankfully, he noticed Rael’s sour expression and let them be. Astrid was more stubborn, but Rael had to insist that the old woman stay behind. Rael explained through grit teeth that Smith Gault was using Azmond’s strange gift from the first Dragonneedle and fae to answer a bunch of questions of his own, to Azmond’s detriment. Rael needed to confront him about it. Nevertheless, the Norn followed Rael as they pushed through the noon crowds towards the crafter’s district. Rael pointedly ignored the crone, even when the throngs of people made way for her. Astrid hid a smile and followed Rael quietly.

Rael asked around the district for Smith Gault, and after a few tries, someone pointed them in the right direction. People filled the streets, bustling over each other to get a view of the larger forges.

“What the Hells is going on?” Rael heard someone ask as they shoved themselves between pointy elbows and smelly cuirasses.

“You haven’t heard? The Jarls are competing by having their smiths forge the best piece they can. There’s only about an hour left.”

Rael grunted, pushing themselves through people bullheadedly. They couldn’t fight against so many people, though. One of their shoves was repaid by a stronger push, pressing their faced against the wall of a building. Grumbling, the Dragonward gripped the cobblestone wall and pulled themselves above the crowd. There were a few slim Faulk on the roof sharing small barrel of mead, riggers like Rael who’d climbed above the streets to get a better look. One of them offered Rael a flagon, but Rael shook their head politely. They found Gault easily enough.

He was among the many blacksmiths at the large smithy that had garnered so much attention, the only man without a beard. Twelve of the eighteen forges were lit bright, worked by sweaty men and women beating metal into shape. Gault hammered metal precisely and hurriedly, glancing every few moments to the giant hourglass stationed right outside the smithy. There was a garrison of Faulk puffing the bellows to keep the fires hot. Each time they pushed down on the bellows, a wave of hot air would wash over the audience, embers pirouetting out of hearths and over their heads. Analyzing the people below, Rael grimaced at the sight of Norn Astrid casually making her way towards the smithy, a bubble of space opening for her. She shot Rael a mischievous smile.

There wasn’t much of an option for Rael. They could continue back down and try to push through the crowd, join Astrid and allow her to ask all sorts of questions Rael wasn’t sure about answering…or jump from building to building.

The Dragonward looked down into the crowd of bustling people, small lines of pedestrians shuffling through the mire at a glacial pace. They took a few steps back. The riggers on the roof with them poked each other and pointed at Rael. They took a running start. With a mighty leap, Rael soared across the road…

“Ooomph!”

And caught the lip of the roof in their gut. They slowly slid down, their arms waving wildly for any purchase on the roof. They grabbed a solid frond and slowly pulled themselves up, the cheering of the riggers ringing in their ears. Rael stood up, nursing the bruise that was no doubt forming on their stomach. They smiled and winced, waving at the riggers…and the roof fell underneath them. A shower of splintered wood and dried fronds rained on the people below. A few of them had a chance to look up before Rael landed on them.

Rael blinked woozily, resting uncomfortably on a tangle of limbs. The area around them cleared, a silhouette looming over them. Astrid leaned on her staff, a tight smile on her thin lips.

“Always in a rush, dearie.” She tutted, poking at Rael’s bruise. “Always so eager to rely on no one but yourself.”

“What can I say?” Rael groaned as they sat up. “I’ve never let myself down before.”

Astrid prodded at Rael’s bruise again, harder this time.

“It seems you ‘let yourself down’ after all.” She pointedly looked at the broken roof.

Rael grumbled and dusted themselves off. They helped one of the Faulk they landed on get back up, the woman shaking herself from her confusion as she was pulled to her feet. Her eyes widened when she saw Norn Astrid and bowed deeply. The others got up quickly, a mixture of scowls and confused expressions disappearing the second they noticed the Norn. Soon, Astrid and Rael had more than enough room to move around.

“Come along, Dragonward. Smith Gault is just a hop away.” Her dry laughter caused Rael’s ears to burn in embarrassment. “Go with the flow.”

The old woman hobbled through the dense crowd far easier than Rael had, leading them to the smithy. Gault, ever focused on his work, did not notice Rael until they were standing right by the hourglass.

“Rael!” He dropped his tools, leaving a glowing metal rod on the anvil, to hug the Dragonward in a deceptively strong embrace. “Thank Xythael you’re here! I need all the help I can get!”

“Actually, I need to talk to you about something.” Rael tried to say as the smith pulled them into the smithy.

“We can talk while we forge.” Gault shoved a hammer in Rael’s hand and held the metal rod with the tongs over the anvil. “The others have apprentices or assistants, but I’ve been doing most of the work myself. Help me flatten the blade.”

“Hey, you can’t conscript someone to help!” One of the smiths yelled over the din.

“Shaddap Prug!” Gault snarled with a ferocity Rael had never seen before, whipping his head towards the massive blacksmith and waving his tome-hammer wildly. “You clearly have three apprentices doing all the work for you, you moss-bearded goat prolapse!”

The smith wisely backed away and continued ‘working’. Gault returned to his anvil, a spark of madness dancing wildly in his eyes.

“Sorry about that, Rael. I can get competitive when it comes to smithing.” His gaze darted between the competing smiths, the hourglass, Rael, and the metal he was working.

He held the metal steady and slammed his hammer on the rod, flattening it slightly. Rael paused under his expectant stare. ‘Go with the flow.’ The youth swung their hammer onto the rod, the dissonant ‘clang!’ chasing away their thoughts. The two worked together in practiced tandem, one pummeling the steel as the other readied their strike. The blade cooled under their ferocious strikes, Gault putting it back in the forge and pulling out another. Rael cocked their head in confusion, curious as to why he was forging two blades at once. Gault smiled knowingly, striking while the metal was still glowing yellow. Rael followed along, intent on finding out what Gault was doing. After a few minutes of continuous hammering, Gault pulled the other blade out of the forge, laying both rods parallel to each other on the anvil. A glance at the hourglass made him frown.

“What are you trying to do?” Rael crossed their arms. “Trying to impress the judges with your speed by making two weapons?”

“Azmond has helped me determine what makes the best steel.” He continued, oblivious to Rael’s glare. “By using the subpar steel as a flexible spine, I can fold the higher quality steel around it to retain a sharp edge. If we can work together, we may have enough time to make the hilt.” He was quiet, waiting for Rael to give their input as they usually did while smithing together. He looked up, finally noticing Rael’s glare. “What?”

“You need to stop that.” Rael growled, surprising Gault. Before he could ask Rael why, they continued. “Az may have been hurt because you kept using him for information. About making swords, no less.” The Dragonward shook their head angrily.

“Az is hurt?” To his credit, Gault was mortified, his attention completely driven away from his work.

“He fainted when we tried to visit the Dragonneedle. Apparently, someone’s been using the ‘insight of the dragons’ too much.” Rael’s pointed jab made the smith deflate. He collapsed onto the stool by his forge.

“But…how?” He cradled his head in his arms. “No, I should have realized. All magic has a price, and the bounty of information seemed so easy to get…”

Rael would have been content to let him stew in his misery, but…Gault was a friend. He never intentionally hurt Azmond, and Rael was equally responsible in the matter. Neither Rael nor Gault could have known about the consequences, and any strangeness on Azmond’s part was explained away as another one of his quirks. ‘This would be so much easier with a book about parenting scaled children. Something like ‘How to train your Dragonborn.’’ It was an easy mistake, since Azmond tended to bounce back from things easily and hid his negative emotions well. He hated making Rael worry.

The blades were cooling quickly on the anvil, not yet completely flat. The sand in the hourglass trickled down. There wasn’t much time left.

“He’s okay, Gault.” Rael sighed. They didn’t want to ruin Gault’s chances in the contest, even if he was mostly responsible for Azmond’s condition. “Shaman Bak is taking care of him.”

“Really?” Gault peeked an eye, reddened by dust or tears, Rael could not know.

“Yeah.” Rael said in a voice far more confident than they felt. “Now do you want to kick some ass or sit there, wallowing in your past mistakes?”

“I dunno…” Gault sniffled. “We won’t have enough time to sharpen the blade after folding the two pieces together.”

“For goodness’s sake.” The Dragonward summoned their dagger in one hand and held the tongs in another. They pushed the two pieces of cooling metal together. “Which one is the hard steel?”

“The one on my left but—”

“[Synthesis].” The spell pulled the two blades together, melding them together.

Rael felt like the spell ‘wanted’ to finish there, but the result would have been a hunk of fused metal rather than the complicated structure Gault described. The Meta pushed the spell to continue, mixing layers of the two metals together in such a way that the softer metal stayed inside the blade whereas the harder steel stayed outside. ‘Then again, I could keep making rolled layers, like a billet.’ The spell kept going, starting to drain Rael’s reserves. They kept focusing on mixing layer after layer of the metals until they were nearly homogenous.

“Rael!” Someone shook their shoulder. “That’s enough, more than enough.”

Gault shook Rael out of their concentration, breaking their spell. The steel they worked glimmered oddly in the light of the smithy. Wavy patterns like fingerprints twirled up the steel.

“Wow.” Gault whistled, running his hand down the hot blade, his sweat sizzling off his finger. “This is quite unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Now we just need to temper it properly, sharpen it, and hilt it.” Rael wiped the sweat from their brow with a smile.

“That’s a weird bit of steel!” A smith jeered from behind them. “Is it for decoration?”

“Shut your trap, Mostruk!” Gault jumped up, hammer at the ready. “There’s a reason your husband only warms your bed after finishing a whole barrel of mead!”

The rest of the process went well, the pair sharpening the blade after Gault quenched it using magic. They carved a decently sized hilt, making sure the pommel wasn’t too heavy so that the sword was more balanced towards the blade. They had enough time to joke with each other as they pressed the edge into the grindstone, finishing the sword with a few grains of sand to spare.

Other smiths were not as lucky, groaning dejectedly when one of the Norn guards slammed their weapon into a large cymbal. A table was brought before the smithy, at which sat Norn Thurid. Whereas Astrid was long and willowy, Thurid was much like Thorgrim and Halbrand in that she still had a lot of muscle despite her advanced age. Every time a weapon was brought before her, she bade her Tome-warrior to take it.

“Will it cut?!” She roared to the audience, holding a thick log of wood in front of her tome.

The throngs of Faulk cheered. The tome swung and one of two things would happen. The weapon would dig into the log, cutting through wood before stopping partway through. The audience would scream in excitement.

“It cuts! It cuts!”

Thurid would break the rest of the log over her knee and toss the two pieces in a pile, picking out another and starting again.

The other happened rarely, the metal shattering into pieces once it hit the wood, sending bits of metal shrapnel everywhere. Some fragments would shear into the crowd, causing small injuries among any unfortunate enough to be close. The Faulk being Faulk, loved it even more when a weapon failed.

“It broke! It broke!” They’d holder, the (un)fortunate injured picking out shrapnel from their wounds and showing it off to their friends.

It turns out the ‘splash zone’ was a coveted spot in these competitions. There were only three weapons left. An axe made by Jarl Erikar’s personal blacksmith, a greatsword made by Jarl Moryn’s team of craftsmen, and Gault’s strangely-patterned sword.

Norn Thurid’s hands hovered over the last three weapons, tantalizingly close to the sword Gault and Rael made together.