Inside one of the most visited blacksmiths in the Capital, a young boy was seated in his chair, his feet placed on the counter. He had his head hanging down from the back. He stopped balancing when he heard the door open and hit the bell. Quickly straightening himself up, he looked at the customer.
"Hi," he greeted the man with a warm tone. "How can I help you today?"
The armoured man, who seemed like a personal guard more than a policeman or knight walked to the side of the door as another man walked in, seemingly unarmed.
"I'd ordered a dozen swords last week," said the man. The boy looked at him, confused for a moment. He didn't recognize him immediately but he recognized the man's family crest.
"I-I remember, sir," the boy said in return. "But forging weapons takes time. I remember you had put in a special order--"
"What?" The man's harsh and rude tone caused the smith to recoil. "How long could such a simple task take!?"
"Well, it's just that--"
"How many have you forged?"
"I'm still working on the third, sir..."
"Tch. Incompetent brat," he muttered. "They'd better be ready by next week."
As the man made his exit, the boy's visage changed, shooting a threatening glare at his back. The guard swiftly followed, leaving the small building. There was nothing he could currently do to speed up the process but he'd have to figure something out. He sat back, waiting for his next customer.