Chapter 8: Forging the Hinge (and Annoyance)

  Right. Materials acquired, survival instincts tested (and found wanting, mostly relying on bizarre hammer curses), medicinal ale consumed (thanks, Frida!). Time to actually make this hinge.

  First step: transforming that sack of reddish-brown rocks I hauled back from Iron Hill into something resembling usable iron. Because apparently, 'ordering supplies' isn't a thing here. Smelting low-grade ore in this glorified campfire pit they call a forge is less 'skilled craft' and more 'brutal endurance test'.

  It involves crushing the ore into gravel (hammer, flat rock, much swearing), making charcoal by slow-cooking wood scraps in a sealed pot (smoky, tedious), layering it all in the forge, and then spending what feels like geological time pumping the leaky, wheezing bellows to get the fire hot enough. It's hot, sweaty, fume-choked work, and by the time I have a small, somewhat refined lump of wrought iron – barely enough for the hinge straps – I feel like I've personally wrestled the iron out of the rock through sheer force of will and exhaustion. My arms are noodles, my ears ring, and I'm pretty sure I've sweated out my own body weight.

  "Did you melt the rocks?" Brynn asks, peering into the smithy later that day as I contemplate the lump of hard-won iron. She must have seen the smoke. "Sort of," I grunt, wiping grime from my face.

  "Convinced them to stop being rocks, anyway. Now I just have to turn this into a hinge for Frida." "The wobbly one?" she asks.

  "Will it be magic too?" "Hopefully not," I say fervently. "Trying for strong and silent this time."

  Now for the hinge itself. Two long straps, loops for the pin, holes for bolts. And the pin itself from that heavy oak branch.

  Crucially: no curses. Focus on the physical. Strong.

  Smooth movement. Hold the door. Keep it mundane.

  Keep it mechanical. No thinking about Frida's firewood threats. No thinking about complaining doors.

  Just function. I explicitly state this internal focus to myself, trying to channel the mundane. Heating and shaping the iron straps goes surprisingly well.

  Maybe the sheer physical exhaustion has dampened the hammer's enthusiasm for chaos? Or maybe my intense focus on 'be normal, damn it' is actually working? The metal shapes cleanly, I punch the holes without incident, form the loops.

  It looks… like hinge straps. Solid. Unremarkable.

  Brynn watches from the doorway, occasionally offering commentary like "That bit's really glowy!" or "Sparks!". Next, the pin. Carving wood isn't my strong suit, but compared to smelting ore, whittling feels like a spa day.

  I carefully shave down the end of the heavy oak branch with my pocketknife, checking the diameter against the strap loops constantly. Snug, not binding. After a while, I have a thick, sturdy pin that looks capable of holding up Frida's ridiculously heavy door.

  "Looks like a big peg," Brynn observes. "Basically," I agree. A very important peg.

  Assembly time. This is where it gets dicey. I fit the straps together, slide the oak pin through the loops.

  It moves smoothly. Feels solid. I hold my breath, checking it over meticulously.

  No hum? No weird cold spots? No sudden urge to yodel or turn left?

  It seems… okay? Maybe? The relief is tentative but palpable.

  Did I actually manage to forge something completely normal? "Is it done?" Brynn asks. "'Believe so,' I say, feeling cautiously optimistic.

  "Time to see if Frida agrees." I gather the finished hinge, the slightly-itchy-but-probably-fine bolts, and head over to Frida's tavern, Brynn trailing curiously behind me at a safe distance. Frida is there, wiping down the bar.

  "Hinge?" she asks immediately, her voice booming. "Presenting one sturdy, non-opinionated, guaranteed-shanty-free door hinge," I announce, holding it up. We head outside.

  Frida summons her burly farmer backup squad. Together, we wrestle the massive oak door off its one remaining hinge and prop it precariously against the wall. Removing the old, busted hinge is a pain, but eventually, it's off.

  I line up the new hinge. Drill pilot holes with the slightly musical auger. Bolt it securely to the door and frame.

  Everything fits. It looks solid. Professional, even.

  We lift the door back into position, slide the hinge knuckles together, slot the pin home. Moment of truth. Brynn watches, wide-eyed.

  I give the door a push. It swings open. Smoothly.

  Silently. No wobble, no groan, no complaints. Success!

  Pure, unadulterated, non-cursed success! "Ha!" Frida booms, clearly delighted. She gives the door a hefty shove herself, testing its sturdy swing.

  It moves beautifully, closing with a satisfying, solid thud. "Good work, smith! Solid as a mountain root!

  No wobble at all!" She beams, then pushes it open again, admiring the smooth, silent action. And that's when we hear it.

  Faintly, almost imperceptibly at first, but definitely there. A tiny, high-pitched sound accompanying the door's movement. Not a creak of metal or wood.

  More like… a cheerful little hmmm-hmmm-hmmm? Like someone humming contentedly to themselves? Frida freezes mid-swing, her smile faltering.

  "What in the nine hells was that?" "Uh," I stall, my stomach plummeting. Oh no.

  Not again. How? "Wind?

  Just the… the air moving?" She pushes the door again, slowly this time. Hmm-hm-hm-hmmmmmm.

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  A definite, quiet, rather pleasant humming sound, perfectly synchronized with the door's swing. "It's humming!" Brynn whispers excitedly from behind me. "The door's humming a happy tune!"

  "My door," Frida says slowly, danger creeping into her voice, "is humming?" She glares at the hinge, then at me. "Is it happy?

  Is my door happy?" "Look," I say quickly, backing away slightly. "It's strong, right?

  Holds the door? No wobble? Silent, mostly?

  The humming is… uh… subtle? Maybe it just appreciates good craftsmanship?" I try a weak smile.

  "Positive reinforcement?" My internal commentary screams: Happy? I focused on functional!

  Where did HAPPY come from?! The hinge offers another quiet, contented hmmm-hm-hm as Frida glares at it. She stares at the humming hinge for a long, tense moment.

  I brace myself. Firewood, here I come. Then, unexpectedly, she starts to chuckle.

  A low rumble at first, then building into her usual booming laugh. "Happy!" she roars, slapping her thigh. "My door is happy!

  First, Gudrun's plough gets stubborn, now my door hums! What next, smith? Will the anvil start telling jokes?"

  She shakes her head, tears of mirth in her eyes. "Gods, you're a strange one. But the hinge works!

  It's strong! And maybe," she adds, pushing the door again, listening to the faint hum, "a happy door brings happy customers, eh?" She claps me hard on the back, nearly sending me face-first into the dirt.

  "Fine! Good work, weird-smith! Coin inside!

  And the first round's on the house – the happy house!" I follow her into the relative darkness of the tavern, weak-kneed with relief. Brynn trails after us, giggling about the happy door.

  Apparently, a subtly happy, humming hinge is acceptable where directional prejudice was not. My cursed creations continue to baffle and terrify me in equal measure. But hey, I got paid.

  And maybe, just maybe, 'happy humming' is a step up from 'hates left turns' on the curse severity scale. Progress?

  Chapter 9: Reputation and Request

  Life in scenic Medieval-ville settles into a peculiar and occasionally unnerving routine. I'm the village smith, sort of. Word of my arrival had spread – the outlander whose repairs left tools with minds of their own and whose basic nails behaved in ways that defied logic.

  My presence was usually marked by suddenly hushed conversations or wary eyes following me across the square. Brynn is my only regular, non-suspicious visitor, often visiting the smithy to chat or see what I'm working on. "Gudrun says her plough still hates turning left," she informs me one morning, perched on an upturned bucket near the doorway, watching me try to sharpen a woodsman's axe.

  "But she says it cuts straighter than ever before, so she's not too mad." She pauses, then adds, "And Finn Sr. says his sickle is handy for findin' North, but makes hidin' from rock-cats tricky!" "That's… good?" I grunt, focusing on getting a clean edge on the axe without accidentally making it, say, afraid of trees.

  My niche was becoming clear: Alex the Smith, the one you went to when you needed something functional, but didn't mind if it also developed a personality. Many villagers steer clear of me, occasionally making warding signs when I walk past (charming). Yet others seem captivated by a wary curiosity, peeking into the smithy like it's a sideshow attraction.

  And a few… a few begin to specifically request my... unconventional creations, embracing the chaos. The requests get stranger. Even got paid silver by a weaver to make a needle that only sewed crooked stitches and apparently hummed off-key lullabies.

  People were starting to want the weirdness. One afternoon, a lanky young farmer named Finn Sr. approaches hesitantly, holding a broken latch from his sheep pen gate. "Smith?" he asks nervously.

  "Brynn said… well, folks say you make… interesting things." "Interesting is one word for it," I sigh. "What's the problem?"

  "Gate latch," he says, showing me the simple broken iron hook. "Wolves been sniffing around the pens at night. Scaring the sheep something fierce."

  He lowers his voice. "My gran, she says you made nails that draw flies? And Gudrun's plough hates turning left?"

  "Guilty as charged, mostly," I admit warily. Where is this going? "Well," Finn Sr. says, shuffling his feet.

  "Was wondering… could you make a latch… maybe one that makes wolves sneeze?" I blink at him. "You want a gate latch… that induces allergic reactions in canids?"

  "Aye!" Finn Sr. nods eagerly. "Just a little achoo! you know?

  Enough to scare 'em off without hurting 'em proper. Give the sheep a bit of peace." This is officially the weirdest request I've ever received.

  But it's work. Paying work (Finn Sr. offers two plump chickens). "'Alright, Finn,' I say thoughtfully, trying to frame it as an experiment in my head.

  "Maybe if my intent is irritation ...? A wolf-sneeze latch. I can… try.

  No guarantees it won't make the sheep sneeze instead." He beams. "Worth a shot!

  Thanks, smith!" I spend the afternoon attempting to forge the latch, focusing on irritation and mischief. The resulting latch looks fine.

  Later, Finn Sr. reports back, looking puzzled. "Latch works fine, smith. Strong.

  But… the sheep seem awful sniffly lately. Oddest thing." Close, but wrong species.

  He still gives me the chickens. Apparently, sneezy sheep are still better than terrified sheep. I'm becoming the go-to guy for slightly cursed solutions to niche problems.

  It keeps me afloat, even if coin is rare. Life is weird, but marginally less desperate. But even as I handle these odd jobs, I overhear more anxious murmurs around the village square, hushed conversations about dwindling supplies in the communal grain shed.

  Spilled grain found near the door. A sack gone missing entirely. Talk of locking it up properly before real hunger sets in closer to winter.

  The background hum of anxiety in the village is rising. Then comes the summons I was subconsciously dreading. Not Brynn this time, but a different, solemn-faced boy sent to fetch me.

  Elder Torsten requires my presence at the well. He sits like a grumpy monument on his usual stone perch, stroking his beard, his pale eyes troubled. The air feels heavier around him today.

  "Smith," he begins, skipping pleasantries. "We have… a problem. A growing problem."

  "Problem?" I echo cautiously, my stomach tightening. "Not the sneezy sheep, I hope?" "Worse," he says grimly.

  "Theft. From the village grain shed." Ah.

  So the whispers were true. "Someone's stealing grain?" "Small amounts, at first," Torsten confirms, his voice low and grave.

  "But it is persistent. Almost nightly now. We cannot afford such losses.

  We suspect youths from Oakhaven," he gestures vaguely south, "stirring up trouble. Or perhaps… something else driven by hunger." "Okay," I say slowly, already knowing where this is going.

  "And you need…?" "We need a lock, smith," Torsten says, his gaze intense. "For the grain shed's door.

  A strong lock. Stronger than the simple bar it has now." "I can make a strong lock," I say.

  "Probably. Might end up only opening on Tuesdays or humming opera, but strong, sure." "We need more than strong," Torsten says, leaning forward slightly.

  "We need a lock that… discourages thieves. One that makes them… unwell. If they try to pick it or force it."

  I gape at him, the blood draining from my face. He wants me to weaponize a curse. Intentionally.

  "You want me," I clarify, my voice barely a whisper, "to make a lock that makes people sick?" "Sick enough to abandon their task," Torsten says calmly. "Sick enough to perhaps be identified later."

  He holds up a hand. "Nothing permanent. Nothing lethal.

  Just… discouraging. A harsh lesson, perhaps, but necessary. The village stores must be protected, smith.

  Winter is long." This feels fundamentally different. Darker.

  "Elder," I say carefully, "I don't exactly control these… side effects. You know that. I can't guarantee a 'makes thieves puke' lock.

  I might make one that turns their hair blue, or summons mildly aggressive squirrels." "But you might succeed," Torsten presses, his voice firm. "Your… talents… are unique.

  Potent. The village needs protecting. Your work holds.

  Can you try? For the good of the village?" The pressure is immense.

  Refusing feels like abandoning the only place that's offered me grudging shelter. But agreeing feels like stepping onto a dark path. I look at Torsten's stern, pragmatic face.

  I think of the worried whispers about the grain stores. "I…" The word catches in my throat.

  "I can try," I hear myself say, the words tasting like ash. "But no guarantees, Elder. None at all.

  And if it goes wrong…" "We will deal with the consequences," Torsten says, looking weary but resolute. "Do your best, smith.

  The village depends on it." Great. Just great.

  Now I'm not just the weird smith; I'm the guy trying to weaponize cosmic misfortune and induce vomiting via enchanted hardware. This cannot possibly end well.