Indulgence.
Not the kind I found in Dunskar—
measured, curated, deliberate.
This one is… closer.
Warmer.
It lingers in the body, not the mind.
—
The first thing I noticed
was not the taste.
It was the heat.
Not from the forge—
but from their hands.
They hold iron plates without hesitation.
Lift cups that should burn.
No flinch. No pause.
As if their skin has learned
what the rest of the world still resists.
—
I was given a bowl.
Bloodforge stew.
The surface shimmered faintly—
a red-brown that caught the light like something alive.
I hesitated.
Only for a moment.
The first taste was heavy.
Not unpleasant.
Just… grounded.
Earth. Salt.
Something metallic beneath it,
subtle, but persistent.
It stayed longer than it should have.
Not on the tongue—
but lower.
A warmth that settled
and refused to leave.
They told me it helps the body recover.
I believe them.
—
The bread came next.
Flat. Thin.
Edges crisped from direct iron.
Rustcrust.
It cracked softly when torn,
then resisted slightly as I bit into the center.
Oil. Grain. Heat.
There it was again—
that faint metallic note.
Not foreign anymore.
Just… part of it.
—
I saw them eat while working.
No pause in their rhythm.
A dumpling lifted.
A bite taken.
Back to the hammer.
Veinroot dumplings.
Soft enough to disappear quickly,
yet filled with something that lingered—
a sweetness that turned, gently, into bitterness.
Balanced.
Like everything else here.
—
The drinks came later.
After the fire had dimmed
and the air began to cool.
Sanguine brew was passed between them.
Dark. Thick.
It caught the light the same way the molten ore did.
The first sip was deceptive.
Sweet. Almost inviting.
Then it shifted.
Sour. Earthy.
That same quiet metallic presence, returning once more.
It warmed the throat.
Loosened something in the chest.
Laughter followed more easily after that.
—
I preferred the tea.
Rustwhisper.
Served in iron, still too hot—
and yet, no one seemed to mind.
It began bitter.
Dry. Almost sharp.
But it did not stay that way.
It softened.
Turned inward.
A warmth that did not burn—
only settled.
I found myself holding the cup longer than necessary.
—
At night, the city changes.
Not quieter.
Just… different.
They gather.
An anvil placed at the center.
And then—
the sound begins.
Forge resonance.
One strike.
Then another.
Then another.
Not in unison—
but not random either.
A pattern forms.
Breaks.
Returns.
People sit around it,
humming softly.
No words.
Just… sound.
It feels less like music—
and more like listening.
As if they are answering something
that only they can hear.
—
There are games, too.
Simple ones.
Iron dice.
Heavy in the hand.
Imperfect.
They do not roll cleanly.
They tumble, hesitate—
as if deciding.
The others laugh when I notice.
They say the iron has memory.
I am not sure if they are joking.
—
Earlier this week, I saw a marking.
A young crafter.
Nervous, though he tried to hide it.
A heated tool pressed briefly
against his forearm.
The scent came first.
Then the mark.
A thin line.
Red. Raised.
He did not cry out.
Only exhaled.
The others acknowledged it—
not loudly.
But enough.
They called it a beginning.
—
At sunset, everything stops.
Not slowly.
All at once.
The hammers fall silent.
No one speaks.
For a brief moment, the city listens.
To the wind.
To the cooling metal.
To something that exists
only when nothing else does.
Silent forging hour.
I did not understand it at first.
I think… I still don’t.
But I stayed.
—
Before larger work begins,
they talk.
Not about price.
Not immediately.
They exchange something else first.
Small things. Personal things.
A gesture. A favor. A memory.
Only then does the work start.
They say the iron remembers.
I have heard that more than once now.
—
This place does not indulge the senses
for pleasure alone.
Everything here returns to the body.
Heat. Taste. Sound.
Weight.
Repeated, until it becomes familiar.
Until resistance fades.
—
I did not expect to grow used to it.
But tonight,
I held the cup a little longer.
And it did not burn.
—
I am not sure
when that changed.
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