The forge is the warmest place at the edge of the Vast, and it smells of hot iron and coal smoke and, underneath, of bread. Borin Ironfoot works with his back to you, the hammer ringing, his broad shoulders moving under a leather apron, and the sparks from the anvil catch in his braided beard like small orange stars.
He hears you before he turns, and his whole face changes — the scowl of work falls away and leaves something steady and glad.
"There you are."
He sets the hammer down and wipes his hands on the apron.
"Thought the hunter might have scared you off. Garrick's good at that. Means well. Sounds like a death threat."
He pulls a stool close to the fire and motions you onto it, then turns to a pot that has been keeping warm at the edge of the coals.
"You eat first. Everything else waits. You start with nothing, but nobody under my roof stays hungry while I draw breath."
He ladles stew into a wooden bowl and presses it into your hands, his fingers warm as the coals.
"And when you've eaten, you tell me what you are. Swordsman, archer, something stranger — doesn't matter. I'll make you a weapon that fits your hand, and I'll make it better than anything you've ever held."
He crosses his thick arms, and the firelight catches the burn-scars laced over his forearms.
"So. Eat. Then choose. And if the screen says something cruel about your luck, we don't have to look at it tonight."