A few days had passed since the attack on the Caravanserai, and Garrok Halforcen had kept his hands busy. Repairs were needed—nails to be hammered, broken tools to mend, wagon wheels to reset. His forge burned hot each day as he worked, sweat on his brow, the rhythmic clang of metal on metal drowning out any lingering thoughts of the raid.

  When the last horseshoe was finished and the final payment tucked away into his belt pouch, Garrok wiped the soot from his hands and leaned back against his wagon. It was time to see what work lay ahead.

  The market streets buzzed with life as Garrok wove through the crowd, his eyes drifting across the bustling stalls and colorful banners. Vendors hawked their wares, and children dashed between carts. At the notice boards, dozens of job postings fluttered in the breeze, tacked to weathered wooden planks.

  His gaze caught on one that seemed almost too good—a long-term contract with an Orcish caravan, running supplies between outposts. They needed a blacksmith to keep their gear in shape, with decent pay promised for steady work.

  Garrok frowned. Orc caravans meant Orc politics. Bad blood had a long memory. He trusted his gut—and it told him that trouble would follow if he signed that paper.

  He moved on.

  At the Caravanserai, a familiar face greeted him. Elysia, the half-elf receptionist, waved him over with her usual soft smile. She had a warm, easy manner about her—medium build, sharp eyes, and the kind of voice that could settle even the rowdiest merchant.

  "Good to see you, Garrok," she said, gesturing toward a table set with a small stack of contracts. "You’ve got a bit of a reputation now, you know. Several caravan masters have asked for you by name."

  Garrok raised a brow. "That so?"

  "That’s so," Elysia confirmed with a grin. "Here, let’s take a look."

  She spread out the contracts before him, pointing first to one marked with the seal of a Goblin merchant prince—an elaborate green sigil of intertwined coins and flames.

  "This one’s from the Goblin cartel," she explained. "Trade run to the coast. They lost guards in the raid and need replacements. They’re offering good pay, room, board… even a brand-new blacksmith’s workshop if you join them. But you’d have to leave your wagon and forge behind."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Garrok leaned closer, reading the fine print. The offer was tempting—but he knew Goblins. "‘Trade goods,’ huh? Did they say what kind?"

  Elysia’s smile thinned. "They didn’t. And we both know what that probably means. Alchemic contraband, maybe slaves. Could be anything."

  Garrok grunted. "No thanks. I’m not looking to get dragged into that mess."

  "Didn’t think you were," Elysia replied, sliding the contract to the bottom of the stack.

  She pointed next to a scroll stamped with the emblem of a human university—an open book flanked by laurels.

  "This one’s cleaner," she said. "University expedition. They’re headed into some old ruins for research. They need a scout and guide. Good pay. Mostly scholars and students—plus a few hired swords."

  Garrok nodded slowly, reading the terms. "Interesting," he murmured. "I’ll keep it in mind."

  Finally, Elysia placed the last contract in front of him—a sturdy parchment, marked with the seal of the Dwarven Rangers: a long gun crossed with a battleaxe.

  The weight of it felt different. Serious. Solid.

  "The Rangers lost one of their smiths—badly wounded during a raid. They need someone to fill the gap," Elysia said. "It’s not the highest pay on the board, but they’re rebuilding one of their outposts near the trade routes. Full run of your own forge. You’d keep your wagon. Bring your wolves."

  Garrok’s fingers traced the edge of the parchment. The chance to work alongside Dwarven rangers, learn from their craft, see their gear up close? Hard to say no to that.

  Just as he was weighing the decision, a familiar voice rang out from behind.

  "Garrok! There you are!"

  He turned to see Tink striding up, her goggles perched on her forehead, her ever-present grin lighting up her face.

  "Tink," Garrok greeted, and though his voice remained steady, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "What brings you here?"

  "I’m part of the Ranger expedition!" she chirped, bouncing on her heels. "Me and a few other gnome engineers are setting up semaphore towers and relay stations. I may have… recommended you to the captain."

  Garrok raised an eyebrow. "You put in a word for me?"

  "Of course!" Tink beamed. "Figured you’d fit right in. Plus, they could use someone with your skills."

  Garrok glanced back at the contract, then at Elysia, who nodded encouragingly. He didn’t need more convincing.

  "Alright," he said, signing his name across the bottom of the page. "Looks like I’m heading out with the Rangers."

  Elysia smiled as she collected the papers. "Good choice. They’re leaving in a few days. I’ll make sure you get the details."

  With the contract sealed, Garrok spent the next few days preparing. His wagon—a broad, white-topped hauler with his traveling forge hitched behind—was stocked and ready. His wolves, Nyx and Fang, ranged ahead as usual, ever watchful.

  When the Dwarven Rangers finally set out from the Caravanserai, another wagon joined their ranks—drawn by a pair of wild oxen, flanked by a pair of dire wolves, with a redheaded gnome girl perched atop the canvas cover, goggles gleaming in the morning light.

  And so began the next chapter of Garrok Halforcen’s journey—one step deeper into the forge-smoke, the powder-fire, and perhaps, into something more than just survival.