A few hours had passed since the portal closed, and the fort buzzed with activity. The newly arrived staff wasted no time and dove straight into their assigned tasks. Trees surrounding the fort were swiftly cut down to clear the area, walls were reinforced, obstacles were created, and a moat began to take shape. Supplies were carefully stored in the warehouses, while barrels of water were prepared for the upcoming days. Construction of elevated gun towers for the 6-pounders was already underway, ensuring a strong defense for the fort.

  In the midst of the organized chaos, Garrok and Tink, escorted by Sgt. Ironheart, were summoned to the Citadel. Upon entering the meeting room, Captain Firebeard greeted them with a nod and gestured to a tall, lanky dwarf standing near the table—a striking figure by dwarven standards. He wore a green apron emblazoned with the crest of the Dwarven Gunsmith's Guild: a pistol crossed with a long-gun atop a sturdy anvil. His well-groomed light blonde beard and shoulder-length hair gave him a youthful yet dignified air, and a pair of dark tinted goggles rested casually on his forehead.

  "Ah, there they are!" the captain announced. "Garrok, Tink, meet Engvyr Gunnarson II, son of the Lord Commander of Fort Gunnarson and scion of the Gunnarson clan."

  Sergeant Ironheart gave a crisp salute. "Welcome to the Frontier, Lord Gunnarson!"

  Engvyr waved the formality away with a chuckle. "None of that now, Sergeant. Save the stiff backs and salutes for the parades. Call me Engvyr. Titles only make my boots feel heavier."

  Tink, wide-eyed, blurted out, "So... you’re nobility? Like an actual dwarf lord?"

  Before the captain could respond, Engvyr held up a hand, grinning. "Aye, technically. But I've always found the forge more comfortable than a throne room. My grandfather made his name inventing the pistol. Earned the right to found our clan, Gunnarson. My father commands Fort Gunnarson, and I'm supposed to follow the path—but I spent my guard years in the workshops and on the ranger trails, not behind a desk."

  He turned to Garrok, extending a firm hand. "And you must be the famous Gunsmith Halforcen. I’ve heard the tales—storming into an orc camp and walking back out with your friend alive. Impressive work."

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  Garrok shook his hand, nodding respectfully. "I just did what had to be done."

  Engvyr’s eyes twinkled as he shifted his gaze to Tink. "And you’re the lass? The one he rescued?"

  Tink nodded, cheeks pink. "Engineer Tinker Gearlocke. Garrok’s assistant."

  "Assistant, eh?" Engvyr leaned back, stroking his beard. "Tell me, did you swear your life oath to him?"

  Tink’s eyes widened as she nodded slowly. "I did."

  Garrok, misunderstanding the weight of the question, answered without hesitation. "And I accepted."

  The room fell silent for a moment. Sgt. Ironheart pressed a hand to his mouth, the captain turned away to stifle a grin, and Engvyr let out a hearty laugh. "Well then, congratulations to the happy couple! Didn’t know I’d be officiating a wedding today."

  Garrok blinked in confusion. "Wait—what?"

  Tink squeaked, her face flushing scarlet as she covered it with her hands. "Nooo!"

  Engvyr, barely containing his amusement, explained, "In dwarven tradition, a life oath from a lass to a lad, when accepted in front of a nobleman of rank... well, that’s a proposal. And your acceptance makes it binding. You’re married now—at least by dwarven law."

  Garrok’s jaw dropped. "What?!"

  "Happens more often than you’d think," Ironheart muttered, smirking. "He’s got a habit of stumbling into proposals."

  Engvyr gave a playful shrug. "Ah, love finds a way, they say. But there’ll be time for feasting and teasing later." He pulled out a sealed scroll and handed it to Garrok. "For now, business. This is your formal invitation as a probationary member of the Dwarven Gunsmiths Guild."

  Garrok’s brow furrowed. "Probationary?"

  "Aye," Engvyr confirmed, serious now. "Normally, membership requires a presentation before a full panel. But considering the state of things and the clear quality of your work, the Guild is granting you probationary status immediately. This also registers your patent for the paper cartridge design."

  Tink, recovering from her embarrassment, nodded. "That means your invention is officially recognized. Any gunsmith wanting to produce those cartridges will need Guild certification—and you’ll earn your rightful cut."

  Garrok’s frown deepened. "Wouldn’t that create a monopoly?"

  "Not forever," Engvyr said. "Patent lasts twenty years. After that, it becomes public domain. Fair, but it gives you the credit—and the benefit—you deserve for your innovation."

  Garrok weighed the offer for a moment before nodding. "I accept."

  Engvyr clapped him on the back. "Good man! Now, I’ve brought a team of smiths and apprentices with me. We’ll need you to show them how to craft these cartridges properly. With your help, we can keep the whole army supplied."

  Garrok nodded, determination settling on his face. "Then let’s get to work. We’ve a war to win."

  Engvyr grinned. "That’s the spirit, Master Halforcen. And don’t worry—we’ll save the wedding toasts for later."