With two weeks to go until the Shadowfen raid, Clive decided to visit Garrett again. The memory of his fight against the shadowknights was still fresh in his mind. To avoid that situation again, he needed to improve his arsenal of weapons.

  On reaching the forge, Garrett greeted him with a broad smile. "Aye, you came just in time. I'm about to deliver the commission the church asked for. Come with me."

  The blacksmith was already loading a hand-drawn cart with wrapped bundles.

  "Could use an extra pair of hands," Garrett said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Besides, might do you good to see what became of our work."

  Clive nodded, helping to arrange the final bundles. "Did you finish everything on the list?"

  "Aye, with days to spare." Pride colored Garrett's voice. "Those daggers of yours were a godsend. Freed me up to focus on the more complex pieces." He patted Clive's shoulder with a heavy hand. "You've got a gift, lad."

  They set off through the cobblestone streets of Marblehaven, Garrett pulling the cart while Clive walked alongside. The morning air was crisp, carrying the first hints of autumn. Townsfolk nodded respectfully as they passed, many eyeing the cart with curious glances.

  "Town’s been on the edge since the incursion," Garrett explained in a low voice. "Everyone’s expecting a big retaliation by the church. They’ve probably heard of the Mythril mine expedition by now."

  "Are they afraid?" Clive asked, noticing the apprehension on the faces they passed.

  "Aye, and hopeful too. Mythril could change everything for Marblehaven. Not just weapons, but tools, building materials... even medical instruments. They say mythril can hold enchantments that steel could never dream of.”

  As they neared the church, the streets widened into a broad square dominated by the imposing structure. The Church of Divine Light stood three stories tall.

  "They've renovated since I was last here," Garrett commented, nodding toward fresh stonework around the entrance. "Church coffers must be filling nicely."

  They approached the massive oak doors, where two guards stood at attention. Upon seeing Garrett and the cart, one guard stepped forward.

  "Master Garrett," he acknowledged. "Are those the weapons commissioned by His Radiance?"

  "The very same," Garrett confirmed. "Finished as promised."

  The guard signaled to his companion, who disappeared inside. Moments later, he returned with a robed attendant who carried a ledger.

  "Father Michael is conducting morning prayers," the attendant informed them. "But he instructed that the weapons be brought to the Blessing Chamber immediately upon arrival."

  They followed the attendant through the church's main hall, where rows of benches faced an ornate altar. A service was in progress, with about fifty townspeople seated in rapt attention. At the altar stood an elderly man in white robes. His back was to them, but his voice carried clearly through the space.

  "...and so we must embrace the Light, letting it burn away all darkness within us. For darkness is the refuge of the Devil, and light the weapon of the Divine."

  The attendant led them through a side door and down a narrow corridor lined with smaller chapels. Eventually, they reached a chamber at the rear of the church. Unlike the decorated public spaces, this room was stark and functional. A long table dominated the center, surrounded by weapon racks and storage chests.

  "Place the weapons here," the attendant instructed, gesturing to the table. "His Radiance will inspect and bless them after the service."

  Garrett and Clive began unpacking the cart, carefully arranging each weapon on the table according to type. The attendant made notes in his ledger, counting each piece with meticulous attention.

  The door swung open, and another man walked into the room. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore expensive clothing that seemed at odds with the calluses on his hands. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Garrett.

  "Blackwell," Garrett said, his voice suddenly cold.

  "Garrett," the man replied with a thin smile.

  "Surprisingly, you still have an apprentice after how many you've lost," Blackwell remarked, his gaze shifting to Clive.

  The church attendant shifted uncomfortably. "Lord Blackwell, perhaps this isn't the place—"

  "I'm simply making conversation," Blackwell interrupted, picking up one of the swords. He tested the edge with his thumb. "Hmm. Functional, if uninspired. Lacking the soul of true craftsmanship."

  Clive felt a flash of indignation but remained silent. This wasn't his battle, and he sensed a history between these men.

  Garrett finished placing the last of the halberds on the table. "The church seemed satisfied with our work. That's all that matters."

  "For now," Blackwell agreed, setting the sword down. "But I wonder how long that satisfaction will last when they realize the mythril mining expedition requires equipment of higher caliber than this." He gestured dismissively at the assembled weapons. "Mountain beasts don't fall easily to common steel, no matter how well-crafted."

  "That's rich coming from someone who doesn't even touch a hammer anymore," Garrett shot back. "How long has it been since you forged something yourself, Blackwell? Ten years? Fifteen? You're a merchant, not a blacksmith."

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  Blackwell's smile vanished. "I built something greater than myself. A legacy that won't die with me, unlike your little shop." His eyes narrowed. "Tell me, when the stone curse finally claims you, as it did your apprentices, what will remain of your life's work? Nothing but rusting tools and forgotten techniques."

  The attendant cleared his throat loudly. "Gentlemen, please. This is a house of worship."

  Blackwell turned to the attendant. "I've submitted my proposal to Father Michael regarding the mass production of specialized equipment for the expedition. Twenty smiths working in concert can produce in a week what a single craftsman requires months to complete."

  “Mass-produced works will only produce low-quality junk.” Garrett countered. “Our equipment are produced with the finest care. Each piece is balanced, tempered, and honed to perfection.”

  "By hand," Blackwell said with exaggerated patience. "One at a time. Charming, really, like watching someone carve a boat with a spoon when galleons exist."

  The attendant interrupted again. "His Radiance is considering all options."

  "Of course, he is," Blackwell smiled, turning back to Garrett. "The church needs reliability, consistency. Quality that doesn't depend on one man's health or... mental state."

  Garrett stiffened. "What are you implying?"

  "Nothing at all," Blackwell said innocently. "Though I understand you've had difficulty coping since your apprentices' unfortunate transformations. Drinking during work hours, forgetting orders..." He sighed with theatrical sympathy. "Perfectly understandable, given the circumstances."

  Clive watched Garrett's face darken with rage. The accusations were false. Clive had never seen Garrett anything but completely professional.

  "That's enough," Clive intervened, stepping between the men. "Garrett's work speaks for itself. These weapons were completed ahead of schedule and exceeded the specifications requested."

  Blackwell's eyebrows rose. But before he could reply, the door opened again.

  Father Michael entered. The elderly priest surveyed the scene, immediately sensing the tension.

  "Lord Blackwell," he greeted, "I wasn't expecting you until this afternoon."

  Blackwell smoothly shifted his demeanor, offering a respectful bow. "Your Radiance. I happened to be passing and saw Master Garrett's delivery. I thought I might save you time by presenting my proposal now."

  Father Michael nodded. "I see. Well, first things first." He approached the table, inspecting the weapons. "Excellent work as always, Garrett. Captain Auron spoke highly of your work, and it does not disappoint. The church is pleased."

  "Thank you, Your Radiance," Garrett replied, pointedly ignoring Blackwell.

  "Now, Lord Blackwell, I understand you have a proposal regarding equipment production?"

  Blackwell produced a rolled parchment from inside his coat. "Indeed, Your Radiance. A comprehensive plan for outfitting the entire expedition force with standardized, high-quality equipment. My forges can produce three times the output at two-thirds the cost."

  "At what cost to quality?" Garrett muttered.

  Father Michael accepted the parchment but didn't immediately unroll it. "I'll review this carefully. The expedition's success is crucial not just for Marblehaven but for all surrounding communities."

  "The mythril will change everything," Blackwell agreed eagerly. "And my facilities are uniquely positioned to process it once extracted. I've already designed specialized smelters based on historical records."

  Garrett's jaw tightened. "Mythril requires a master's touch. It can't be processed like common ore."

  "Old superstitions," Blackwell dismissed. "With proper methodology and scale, anything can be systematized."

  Father Michael held up a hand to forestall further argument. "These are all matters to be decided after the expedition succeeds. For now, our focus must be on properly equipping our brave volunteers." He turned to Garrett. "The payment for this commission will be delivered today. And yes, we will likely need additional weapons as more volunteers join the cause."

  "My forge is at the church's disposal," Garrett said firmly.

  "As are my facilities," Blackwell added quickly.

  Father Michael nodded. "The church appreciates both offers." He gestured to the attendant. "Begin the blessing ritual preparations. I'll return shortly."

  "One moment, Your Radiance," Blackwell called out.

  Father Michael halted mid-stride. The chamber fell into silence as Blackwell advanced.

  "The Light's generosity has always... illuminated my path," Blackwell declared, executing a theatrical bow. He produced a small tribute box of ornate gold from his cloak. "As have those who channel its divine will."

  Garrett's hand clamped on the table edge beside Clive. "Watch this snake shed his skin," he whispered.

  The bishop flipped open the clasp. Nestled within lay six diamonds that pulsed with an inner fire.

  "Quite... impressive," Michael remarked as he held the diamonds in his hands.

  Blackwell's lips curled upward. "Merely the prelude, Your Radiance."

  He pivoted on his heel and raised one hand. The chamber doors groaned inward, and through them glided three young women. Their garments were made of silk that clung to their figures while maintaining the illusion of modesty.

  One blew a kiss toward the bishop, her painted lips offering a private smile. Another adjusted the neckline of her gown, drawing attention to her collarbone and the suggestion of what lay beneath. Their giggles wove through the sacred space, promising pleasures kept vague.

  A collective intake of breath rippled through the room. The attendant fumbled the incense censer, sending aromatic smoke billowing across the floor. Clive's insides coiled with revulsion as the full scope of Blackwell's enterprise crystallized before him.

  "Freshly gathered," Blackwell whispered, "From villages beyond the mountains. They are ignorant of the light and seek your Radiance’s guidance on the lord’s benevolence."

  The boldest among them separated from her sisters, sashaying up to Father Michael. "They told us you were the one who brings the Light," she purred, looking up to the father with innocent eyes.

  Michael remained stone-faced, but his gaze was transfixed on the offerings before him. Beneath his serenity flickered a shadow of hunger quickly masked by will.

  Another girl drifted forward, capturing the priest's hand between her own. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "We've traveled so far to learn how to... properly venerate the Light."

  Michael extracted his hand from her grip though with slowness that suggested reluctance. Clive observed the battle raging behind the priest's eyes. Righteous indignation warring with temptation.

  "Your entourage comes with... considerable training," Michael observed.

  "They come with the most desirable quality of all. Absolute discretion. An increasingly scarce commodity in these... uncertain times."

  "Find them appropriate accommodation," Michael commanded. "Somewhere... removed from public scrutiny. And Blackwell, come with me. I have questions about your proposal.”

  Victory blazed in Blackwell's eyes. "Your wisdom continues to inspire, Your Radiance."

  The bishop thrust the tribute box toward his attendant, then turned to Garrett and Clive. "Your services are no longer required today. The church acknowledges your contribution. May the Light guide your hands, Master Garrett."

  Blackwell gave Garrett one last contemptuous glance before following Father Michael out of the chamber.

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