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Even though it looked like it'd rained until an hour ago, the back alleys of Grassmere were remarkably clean.
Was it Chandler? The lord must be doing his job properly.
The scenery stood in stark contrast to Yublam or Erast. No thugs lurked around to prey on travelers. Perhaps it was because the blacksmiths were striking heated metal with their muscular arms in the open storefronts.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Every alleyway had at least one forge. I peeked inside one of them and saw three men who were hard at work. A boy was stoking the furnace with a rod. A man in his thirties swung a massive hammer down onto the heated metal.
Clang!
A white-haired elderly man held the metal in place with tongs, carefully refining the edges with a small hammer between the heavy blows of the larger one.
The three men shared similar facial features. It was three generations of blacksmiths. The forge probably hadn't changed much from fifty years ago. That white-haired old man had likely once been the boy by the furnace.
Fifty years from now, the scene would be entirely different. They'd all be gone. Even if they survived the flames of war, the Demon Kings would descend. Only a few...
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