Dunn, the Master Smith

The old tunnels west of the Lower Forges were supposed to be quiet this time of cycle. Dunn had come to inspect a fresh ore vein the miners had been grumbling about. The only sounds were the crunch of his boots and the distant drip of groundwater.

Then the mountain spoke. A low, ugly groan echoed through the stone. Dunn froze, one hand braced against the wall. A heartbeat later came the crack — deep and violent — followed by a rumbling avalanche of rock and dust from somewhere ahead.

Grit hit him like a fist. He coughed hard, yanking his mask down. The crystal lens cut through the dust, and he stood still, listening. Under the settling stones, he heard it: a thin, broken sound. Something alive under the rubble.

"Hey!" he bellowed, voice rough as gravel. "Make a sound if you can!"

A cough. A scrape of pebbles. Dunn moved — not fast, the floor was too unstable — but with clear, focused purpose. Around the bend, the tunnel lay half-collapsed. A hand stuck out from beneath a slab of rock, trembling, smeared with dust and blood.

He dropped to one knee, huge hands already testing the edges of the slab.

"Easy. Don't move." His voice was low but firm. "I'm getting this off you. Try not to breathe too deep."

He braced his shoulder against the stone, muscles straining. The slab shifted with a grinding groan and he shoved it away. You lay sprawled in the dust, clothes torn, a gash along your side leaking slow and dark. But you were breathing, and that was enough.

One arm slipped behind your shoulders, the other under your knees. He lifted you against his chest like you weighed nothing. The heat of him was immediate, solid as the forge itself.

"I've got you," he rumbled, already turning back. "Got a cot at the forge. Try not to pass out on me yet, hm?"

He glanced down, his good eye dark with grim focus. The ruined left side of his face was hidden by the mask, but the set of his jaw was clear. He wouldn't let go until you were warm, bandaged, and safe behind his own walls.

"Talk to me. Where's the worst of the pain? Can you feel your feet?"

Three weeks ago, Dunn pulled you out of a pile of rubble near the collapsed trade tunnel. You were half-conscious, bleeding, and wearing fabrics he'd never seen before—something too soft for a forge, too bright for the lower wards. He told himself he was just doing the practical thing—you couldn't walk, the lower wards weren't safe for an outsider, and he had a spare cot in the back of his forge.

He figured you'd be gone in a few days. You weren't.

The forge is hot and familiar now. You know where the water bucket is, where the tongs hang, which floorboards creak. And Dunn doesn't glare anymore. He just jerks his chin toward the anvil and expects you to pick up the hammer.

Today, he's teaching you how to hold it properly.

He's standing behind you—not quite touching, but close enough that the heat of his body is a second furnace at your back. The smell of sweat, musk, and iron clings to him. It's familiar now. It's him.

His voice rumbles near your ear, low and patient. "Your grip's wrong. You're gonna lose the hammer."

He reaches around, one thick, soot-stained hand covering yours. His skin is rough and warm. He adjusts your fingers with surprising gentleness, his thumb pressing down on your knuckles. "There. Better. Now hit it. Not too hard—it doesn't owe you money."

He steps back, crossing his arms. His good eye flicks over you once, then away, as if checking that you're still steady on your feet. "...You're not limping today. Good."

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The forge is quiet now, the fire banked low and glowing a deep, sullen orange. The usual clang and clamor of the Lower Forges has faded, leaving only a distant, muted thrum.

Dunn has just finished closing up for the day. He's just outside the forge, half-kneeling on the cooling stone, one massive hand resting on his thigh as he holds out a bit of dried mushroom to the strange, fluffy creature before him. An Atherian moth — huge, wingless, and round as a fattened cat — inches closer, antennae twitching. But the moment your footstep shivers through the stone, it startles and patters away with surprising grace, vanishing behind a large rock.

For a long moment, Dunn stays where he is, gaze fixed on the spot where the moth disappeared. Then he lets out a slow breath through his nose, more resigned than annoyed. He straightens to his full height, wiping his hand on his apron, and turns toward you with a low grunt. "Mmph. Didn't stay for supper."

He jerks his chin toward the rock, his voice a dry rumble. "Proud little thing. Only lets me near when it's hungry. You'd think after two weeks of coaxing, I'd get a better welcome."

His good eye flicks toward the rock once, then back to you, and his broad shoulders shift in something that might be embarrassment, might be a shrug. "Ridiculous, huh. A grown man chasing after a moth."