Lair of Luxury

IX | Sordid Passions

IX. Sordid Passions

Somewhere in the outskirts of Helmburn reposed the sequestered homestead of the blacksmith, Henry Hiles.

There was a smaller building set apart from the house which I assumed to be the blacksmith's workplace.

When the pound of hammer against metal reverberated from within the thin walls of his workplace, I immediately knew that I was not alone.

It was no mistake that the strike of metal against metal, battering, lured me in. I slowly made my way in, silently. His wall was adorned with his creations, those that could become deadly.

My gaze skirted those blades, and swung toward him. Henry, an old man, with silver streaked strands that were receding out of age. Despite being around his eighties, he was still capable of forging fatal iron. Nearby was a wagon piling up with scraps, or shattered fragments of what used to be a cutlass. Perhaps those were discarded mishaps, those vestiges of failure. Failure that could not measure up to his client's standards, and maybe, his own.

Eventually, he paid heed to the female stranger before him, me. With his attention reverted back to crafting, his voice rose. "How may I be of help? Custom service? Fixing?" Those were the options that I never came for. I needed information.

"I came to visit. I have caught sight of a few of your artisan works, and I admit that they have piqued my interest," I responded.

He bent his arm, then slammed down his hammer, producing a metallic clash. "Which one of my works made you interested, my Lady?"

I blew out a sigh that only I could hear. "A knife."

He halted for a moment... before continuing, his face unreadable. It was hard to decipher his exact reaction. Was he shocked? Angry? Nervous?

"How did you come to find that it was mine?" He asked.

"It had your signature initials on it, indicating that the knife was in fact, a work of yours," I told him. I made sure to suppress any tone that could alarm him. "The edges were finely flattened, and curved." I even offered a compliment, but somehow, I had a feeling that he could peer past the mirage I put up.

Among the walls, there was something that stood out to me. A shield.

"I had no idea that you also made shields," I said.

Finally, his expression melted into sincerity, one of reminiscing. He smiled. "I always focus on the offense, but my son insisted to attempt defense." Then, that smile on him wavered. "I wish I focused on defense more..."

"If you don't mind me asking, where is your son?"

He bit his lower lip.

I plastered on an apologetic look on my face. "Pardon me. I did not mean to." I was about to leave the subject when his voice trickled in.

"He... He died of a mysterious illness," he said with a pause before continuing, "that he contracted while working as a castle servant for Queen Victoria, and King Demetri."

"I am sorry to hear that," I uttered, but it sounded more like a whisper. A silent mumble that was poorly enunciated.

"We mourned him, and then my youngest son, Quint, he decided to replace his late brother. To provide for us." He looked up to the shield, a hint of memory glimmering in his eyes. "Whenever I see that shield, I see Quentin, a passionate man who wanted to serve the Royals as a soldier."

His fists clenched, displaying a repressed side of fury. "That dream perished when the Royals turned out to be cruel. I have always suspected that they neglected the health of their servants."