"I do not comprehend why my face has altered so drastically... yet, in a way... am I handsome? Was I truly so hideous before that the old bastard, Joe, deemed it necessary to fully reconstruct my features? But truly... when was the last time I beheld my own reflection? I cannot even recall what I used to look like! No matter. I must focus now; my mind feels entirely crystalline, and I must join the negotiations."
Harten stood up, turning to leave the well, but he was startled by a presence he had least expected.
Nora was standing directly behind him, monitoring his every movement. Harten panicked for a fraction of a second, but swiftly reclaimed his chilling composure, striving to mask any emotion. He ignored her entirely, as if she were a ghost, and brushed past her to continue on his way.
Suddenly, her serene voice anchored him:
"Why are you avoiding me?"
Harten was struck with internal shock, but he turned toward her, forcing his expression into a semblance of normalcy. With water still dripping from his structured face and long, pitch-black hair, he spoke in a hesitant tone:
"Avoiding you? How so?"
She tilted her head, her gaze piercing and direct. "Well, perhaps 'avoiding' was a bit out of context... I mean, you treat me with such stark coldness and dry aloofness compared to the rest."
Harten replied, fighting to maintain his equilibrium: "Really? I know not what you perceive, but I am merely acting as I always do."
She took a deliberate step forward, scrutinizing him. "Is that so? I think you become rattled whenever you see me, don't you?"
What occurred next was a forbidden, hazardous slip of the tongue—an inadvertent lapse. Perhaps it was a byproduct of the violent biological transformation wracking his body, or the residue of internal anxiety. Harten uttered what should have remained locked away, entirely without conscious thought:
"I suppose... it is because there was another who looked precisely like you, whom I was with before."
In that exact millisecond, the atmosphere inverted entirely. Nora's innocent countenance vanished in the blink of an eye; her face grew deathly pale, and her eyes darkened into a terrifying, soulless void. She demanded in a sharp, glacial voice, brimming with malice and a complex matrix of emotions he had never witnessed in her before:
"Where is she now? What happened to her? And how did you meet her?!"
Her voice resonated through his skull like a physical blow, jolting Harten back to reality and snapping him out of his cognitive anesthesia. He recoiled a step, opting for evasion:
"Where is who? What are you talking about?"
She pressed forward, her hollow eyes boring into his soul. "Are you playing the fool with me now?!"
Harten realized instantly that he had committed a catastrophic blunder. Panic clawed at his inner thoughts: "Damn it! What did I just do? Why did I say that? My thinking feels heavily compromised... What do I do now? Breathe... regulate your breath and remember who you are... Yes, I am him, I am the offspring of... the..."
His train of thought fractured once more. "What? The offspring of what? What was I just deliriously babbling about in my own mind? Offspring of what?! Hell, I must focus on explaining this away to Nora... Blast it, since when did I truly care about the reactions of mere humans?!"
Summoning his regal, chilling aura, Harten glared at Nora with absolute, cutting finality. He spoke in a commanding, unyielding tone:
"I will tell you about her another time, but do not address me in that tone ever again. Who do you truly think you are?"
Those harsh, definitive words instantly snapped Nora back to her usual self. The darkness retreated from her eyes, and her face flushed crimson with a mixture of embarrassment and profound regret. She murmured in a hushed voice:
"I am truly sorry... I did not mean to. The words simply slipped out by accident."
He replied with stark detachment, without sparing her a backward glance:
"It matters not. I have a meeting to attend."
Harten walked away, leaving her stranded in his wake, even as he felt a violent, rapid thumping hammering inside his chest.
"What is this? My heart is racing? Heh... Am I experiencing fear? No, impossible! I am Harten—I do not fear anything... But what is this wretched sensation?"
He meticulously analyzed this alien emotion as he marched toward the stone table, where the assembly had already commenced. Harten stepped forward and took his seat; instantly, the usual barrage of whispers and locked gazes shifted toward him. He looked at Arshia, who sat with literal sparks of fury dancing in her eyes, and asked tersely:
"What is happening here?"
Morgos turned to him, his voice thick with suppressed rage:
"Oh, Harten... these bastards surrounding the table wish to abort the negotiations entirely!"
Harten knit his dark brows together. "And why is that?"
Arshia interjected sharply, "Because the blacksmith failed to show up to the meeting."
Harten scoffed, his tone dripping with cold sarcasm:
"And does this blacksmith possess such monumental gravity that his absence warrants canceling a council of village elders? Furthermore... we were the ones who requested this audience with them in the first place, so why are they seeking him out and fussing over him?"
Morgos exhaled a heavy sigh. "There is but a singular reason... and that is their desire to poach the blacksmith for their own settlements. At their core, they possess zero interest in a rebellion against Kinkepi; they haven't even given it a passing thought. The sole reason they honored us with their presence today is because they caught wind that we were negotiating with that artisan."
Harten shifted his gaze to Arshia, speaking in a calm yet spine-chilling register that made everyone present shudder:
"Arshia... what if I were to pluck out their eyes right now? Would that not alter their perspective?"
Arshia flashed a sinister, wicked smirk. "Haha, I would honestly love to see that... but we are not in a position to squander potential allies at this stage."
"Then what is the countermeasure?"
Arshia pivoted her entire torso toward him, locking her feline eyes squarely onto his. She spoke with absolute gravity:
"You."
Harten raised a single eyebrow. "Me? What am I to do?"
She continued with unshakeable confidence: "You are the solution, Harten. Insert yourself into the debate, utilize your intellect and your unyielding demeanor... Do to them exactly what you did to the blacksmith's courier previously."
Harten took a deep, measured breath and surveyed his surroundings. There stood a colossal, ancient tree, adorned with mounted fire torches that illuminated the adjacent stone table. Suddenly, amidst the encroaching darkness of the periphery, a short, blurred silhouette began to materialize, approaching with agonizing slowness.
With every step forward, the stranger's features crystallized into stark clarity: a human body of short stature, yet heavily burdened and weighed down by massive gear and iron tools that emitted a faint, rhythmic metallic clinking. The stranger closed the distance until he rested a massive, calloused hand against the tree trunk, releasing a scorching, heavy exhale as he muttered in a weary tone:
"Ah... my back! It seems I have grown too ancient to traverse these rugged wilderness paths."
At that precise second, an absolute vacuum of silence enveloped the area. The entire assembly froze dead in their tracks, paralyzed by sheer astonishment. Harten failed to grasp the catalyst for this sudden dread and the stunned gazes directed at the newcomer. He leaned toward Arshia and whispered:
"Arshia... why this sudden, absolute silence?"
She snapped her head toward him, her eyes flashing with renewed fury, and hissed in a sharp, hushed whisper:
"My name is Arshia! Why do you persist in calling me Arsha?! And secondly... shut your mouth. That is the blacksmith himself!"
Harten contemplated him, his thoughts shifting: "What? The blacksmith? I never envisioned him looking like this."
The blacksmith stood relatively short, possessing short, vibrant red hair and a tanned, swarthy complexion scorched by furnace fires. His features were profoundly stern and grim, bearing the indelible marks of immense hardship—resembling a block of raw iron forged beneath heavy hammers. A thick, dense red beard adorned his face, and he possessed a massive, explosive muscular physique built to shatter and mold the most unyielding of metals. Furthermore, a prominent, jagged scar sliced across his forehead, extending down to his left eye, sitting just above his broad nose.
Arshia turned to Harten once more, muttering in a resentful whine:
"Harten, you still haven't answered my question... why do you keep—"
Harten cut her off cleanly, lifting a cold hand.
"Wait, Arshia..."
In the meantime, the blacksmith caught his heavy breath, brushing the soot and dust from his garments. He then directed his sharp, piercing gaze toward those gathered around the stone table, his booming voice echoing like thunder across the clearing:
"Very well... where is this man they call Harten?"