Darwin wiped the sweat from his brow with a grimy forearm and spat to the side.
"Again," he muttered. "Another noble here to complain."
The carriage door opened. First—a boot. Well-crafted leather, gleaming so brightly it hurt the eyes. Then—the owner himself.
Valdes scanned the square. Mud. Soot from the forge. The smell of cheap soup. His face twitched with disgust.
"Where is your lord?" Valdes’s voice was even. "Or the mage who runs this... settlement? Fetch him. Quickly."
Silence. Only the roar of the fire in Darwin’s forge broke the pause.
A creak came from the shadow of the warehouse. The irritating screech of ungreased axles. A wheelchair slowly rolled out toward the carriage.
Iron looked terrible. His hair was tangled, shadows hung under his eyes from sleepless nights, and a fresh smudge of grease stained his cheek.
Valdes looked down at him. He waited a second. Two.
The king exhaled, trying to keep his patience. "Get out of the way. Call your father. Or whoever is in charge. I don't have time for games with the local kids."
Iron looked up. Who does he take me for? the thought flashed in his mind.
"I am Iron. The leader of Dornheim."
"Are you trying to say that this town, these blueprints, and these subordinates are your doing? Do not lie to me. I know what leaders look like. Where is the real master?"
Noah stepped out from the shadow of the gates. "He isn't lying," Noah said, his voice quiet.
Darwin came out of the forge, dropping his heavy hammer onto the anvil. "Iron said he's the boss," he grumbled, wiping his hands with a rag. "Any other questions, 'Your Majesty'?"
Marek and a dozen other workers silently took a step forward.
Valdes shifted his gaze from Iron to the crowd. "So, it is true," Valdes slowly removed one glove. Well... this will be easier than I thought, he mused to himself.
The workshop greeted them with the smell of rosin, machine oil, and dried mint.
Iron poured boiling water into three clay mugs. "Have a seat, Your Majesty," Iron smiled softly and pushed a mug toward his guest. "It's nothing fancy, but the tea is hot, and with mint. It's good for easing the exhaustion of a long journey."
Valdes silently removed his heavy helm, placing it on the edge of the workbench. Beneath the armor was a man of about forty-five, with short, graying hair and deep wrinkles around his eyes. He sat down, carefully straightening his travel cloak.
"Thank you," Valdes took a sip, closed his eyes, and nodded with satisfaction. "A good blend. You know, Iron... I know how to admit my mistakes. To your people, you are the person who gave them a second chance. That commands respect. I would like to speak without the diplomatic fluff. So you can call me simply Valdes."
"Gladly," Iron inclined his head politely. "I appreciate that approach. So... why does the Crown need Dornheim?"
The king set his mug on the table. His gaze became deathly serious. "We need your ore. One hundred percent of what you extract from the lower veins. In exchange, I offer conditions that no province has ever received in the entire history of our kingdom."
Valdes bent one finger on his hand. "First. Dornheim receives the status of an absolutely free city. No taxes to the royal treasury. You answer only to your own laws, and none of my officials will set foot here."
He bent a second finger. "Second. Every two weeks, a caravan from the capital will arrive here. Grain, cured meat, fabrics, tools."
A third finger. "Third. I will send a battalion of the Royal Guard here. Two hundred of our best veterans. They will man the walls and clear the perimeter of forest beasts while you quietly build and invent. We take full responsibility for your safety. We give you sustenance, protection, and absolute freedom. In return—just the ore."
Valdes leaned back on his stool. Noah, standing by the door as a guard, even stopped twirling his dagger.
An offer as good as it is foolish. First, Dornheim is already an independent city; second, free food roams everywhere, so that's not an issue; and third, we have Elyria and Noah, Iron thought to himself. A warm, genuine smile played on his face.
When Valdes finished, Iron took a small sip from his mug, carefully set it down, and looked the king dead in the eye.
"Valdes, you are very kind to us," Iron said softly. "Your conditions are the dream of any ruler in my position. Honestly. Anyone in my place would sign this treaty right now."
Iron paused briefly. "But I must refuse."
Valdes froze, his hand extended toward his mug. Then he slowly lowered it onto the workbench, never breaking eye contact with Iron for a single second. A heavy silence fell over the workshop.
"And why is that?" the king asked shortly.
"You offer perfect conditions. Your food, a guard on our walls. My people would simply stop thinking about survival."
Iron tapped his finger against the mine blueprints. "Ten years will pass. The ore in the upper layers will run dry. Or a new king will take your place, one who holds no obligations to Dornheim. And what then? My town, having unlearned how to feed and defend itself, will be destroyed in a matter of seconds. We can talk about thirty percent. Or forty. But control over Dornheim remains mine."
Valdes was silent for a long time. "Sober calculation," he said, slowly rising from his stool. "A rare quality these days. I will give you time to think, Iron."
Meanwhile, Iron looked out the window. "It is already late, Your Majest... I mean, Valdes," Iron said. "I suggest you and your retinue spend the night with us, in the secured sector of the bunker. And in the morning, with a fresh mind, we will continue."
"Very well," Valdes agreed. "I accept the offer."
At that moment, the workshop door creaked quietly. Clara walked in, wiping her hands on her apron. "Iron, the food is ready. Invite the guests."
They sat in the bunker's small dining room. At the table were Iron, King Valdes, and three of his personal guards. The atmosphere was outwardly calm, but tension practically vibrated in the air.
When Clara placed a bowl of stewed meat before the king, one of Valdes's subordinates—Arian—silently stepped forward. He pulled out a small silver spoon, scooped a little broth from the king's bowl, and swallowed it. Satisfied that it was clean, Arian gave a short nod and stepped back behind the king.
They ate in silence. Only the sound of utensils could be heard.
Iron finished first. He pushed his empty bowl aside, lowered his hands to his knees, and made a brief movement. With two fingers—his index and middle—he quickly, sharply tapped out a rhythm against his kneecap. Once, twice, a third time.
Standing by the door, Noah caught the gesture instantly. His pupils narrowed for a second. It was their private code. The signal: "We need to talk alone. Now."
Ten minutes later, they were in a dark, narrow cul-de-sac in the corridor, well away from the guest quarters.
"What happened?" Noah asked quietly. "The king seemed reasonable enough to me."
"Noah, listen to me carefully," Iron said in a barely audible whisper. "You and Elyria. Tell her immediately. All night, until dawn, you don't take your eyes off Valdes and his men. Total surveillance. Watch their every move."
Noah raised an eyebrow. "You think they'll try to run?"
"I have... a bad feeling."
"Alright. It'll be done. Just..."
"No, you're going to be with her, period," Iron said, as if reading his thoughts.
"Damn it..." Noah muttered, dissolving into the darkness.
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