Chapter 37: Seeking Refuge

Gray sensed Jamie’s friendliness, reached back to scratch his head, then knelt and shook the paw of the half-blood winter wolf, giving a hearty thumbs-up with a compliment, “Mott.” Conti, unable to resist a laugh at the sight of the big fellow’s endearing clumsiness, covered her mouth and soon came over to greet Gray. Gray recognized Conti as well, vaguely recalling that she had once accompanied an old man to the marsh in search of Joan. Out of affection for those close to Joan, he responded to Conti with warmth as well.

Only little Myra, the shy tree sprite, still dared not approach Gray. She stood behind the bushes, gnawing on her finger, watching the tall stranger with a mixture of curiosity and nervousness. Were it not for Conti’s repeated assurances that Gray only looked fierce but was kind-hearted, Myra would have long since hidden herself within the black oak.

Conti had many questions; Joan couldn’t answer them all at once, so he invited everyone inside the cottage. For Gray, the doorway was a bit too narrow—he had to squeeze through sideways to avoid breaking the frame.

The cottage was cramped, and with Joan, Conti, Jamie, and Gray all inside, it felt even more crowded. Gray had to sit on the floor with his back against the fireplace, pulling Jamie into his arms as though cuddling a house cat. Jamie thoroughly enjoyed his new companion, wagging his tail in a hound’s show of goodwill, the furry tip brushing against Gray’s face until he sneezed—so loud it seemed to shake the very roof.

After her initial surprise, Conti burst out laughing. Little Myra longed to join this warm, harmonious family, but still felt too shy, clutching the windowsill and tiptoeing to watch, her dark eyes blinking with wonder.

Joan sat at the desk by the window, unconcerned by the curious gaze of the tree sprite opposite him, dipped a quill in ink, and swiftly wrote on a sheet of rough paper, summarizing for Conti the day’s events: their brush with the lizardfolk, and why he had to bring Gray home for refuge.

Finishing the note, Joan handed the still-damp paper to Conti. As she read, her smile faded, and her expression grew grave.

“Joan, you’d better discuss this with Mr. Tyre,” she said.

“Grandfather would never let Gray stay here,” Joan replied gloomily, shaking his head.

“How do you know unless you try?” Conti took his hand. “Come on, I’ll go with you! If he says no, I’ll... I’ll cry until he agrees!”

Joan was dumbfounded.

Was that even possible? He’d never heard of such a tactic.

“Does that really work?” he asked.

“Absolutely! Just wait and see!” Conti replied, hands on her hips, her pretty face brimming with confidence—a sign she’d often used this little trick on her elders at home.

As it turned out, Conti was right.

Old Tyre read the note Joan handed him, his face expressionless, then crumpled it up and tossed it into the bin.

“The gray-pouched beast can’t stay in town. If someone finds out, you two children can’t bear the consequences—”

He hadn’t finished when Conti, already well-prepared, unleashed her secret weapon and began to wail, sobbing so pitifully it could move even the hardest heart.

Old Tyre had never faced such a scene. Flustered, he kept signaling to Joan for help.

Joan glanced out the window, pretending not to notice his grandfather’s pleas.

Left with no alternative, old Tyre finally relented, sternly warning Joan and Conti to keep a close watch on the beast: it must not leave the woods, and absolutely mustn’t wander into the residential district.

“Thank you, Mr. Tyre!” Conti instantly stopped crying, beaming as she rushed over to hug the old man and plant a kiss on his cheek.

Once again, Joan was stunned, thoroughly convinced by Conti’s unparalleled ability to laugh and cry at will, her tears summoned or dismissed as she pleased.

...

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the open window into the dim forge, countless motes of dust whirling along the sunbeam’s path, forming a hazy, glowing cone.

Standing at the center of this luminous cone was a dwarf of remarkable girth, as if on display beneath a stage spotlight, allowing Joan, standing across from him in the shadow, to study this famous figure of Derlin Town in detail.

Flint Anvil, son of Poincare from the Midgard Forge Valley, had just celebrated his one hundred fiftieth birthday. By dwarven standards, he was still a young man in his prime, yet in all of Derlin Town, there was no one with more seniority or broader experience—discounting a little exaggeration—among the townsfolk.

Mr. Flint was only four feet tall, but his shoulders were nearly as broad as his height, his sturdy, robust frame exuding an impression of solid strength. The dwarf’s pride, his luxuriant beard, was a striking shade of rich burgundy, meticulously groomed, waxed, and braided into even plaits adorned with dozens of delicate, exquisite gold rings. With each deep, steady breath, the rings chimed softly against each other, reflecting brilliant flashes of light in the sun, like golden wind chimes suspended from his chin.

Joan’s gaze was naturally drawn to Mr. Flint’s magnificent beard, thinking that not even the vainest lady could hope to style her hair as splendidly as this wealthy dwarf’s whiskers.

Flint Anvil gave a loud cough, his broad brow furrowing slightly, as if to remind the distracted young mage opposite him that his time was valuable. Flint Anvil was a proud dwarf; if a visitor did not introduce himself, he would never deign to ask first.

His pride stemmed not only from his noble lineage tracing back to the ancient northern dwarven courts and his wealth of experience, but also from being one of Derlin Town’s most important figures—a status first and foremost displayed by his riches. The town’s finest forge and its best armory both belonged to Mr. Flint. As the most skilled blacksmith in Derlin Town, he had recently taken to wielding his hammer less and less, entrusting his shops to apprentices. The traditional craft of hand-forging had been dramatically overhauled and replaced with water-powered automatic hammers, freeing Mr. Flint to devote more energy to public affairs in the town council and court. His uncompromising style had won him both enemies in politics and even greater respect.

In addition to his roles as councilman and magistrate, the dwarf poured his energy into another stage for his talents. Thanks to his push and generous funding, Derlin Town established its own “Security Militia.” Despite having only about two thousand permanent residents, the town boasted over two hundred registered militiamen. Flint Anvil himself served as company captain and chief instructor. Each weekend, clad in his own handcrafted plate armor and hefting a warhammer, he would stride onto the training ground, teaching young men the art of combat with his own hands. Among his pupils were Dick and Roger, the two sons of Mayor Jason Tindall; indeed, most of the town’s aspiring soldiers had been taught by him.