Cassian Vale had the skills to hunt the people who murdered his family. He had no coin to do it. The men he wanted lived in shadows, and shadows cost money to chase. So he stood outside the old blacksmith's shop before dawn, counting the last three coins in his pocket, and made himself smile like a man with nothing to hide. He pushed through the heavy wooden door. Heat rolled out to meet him. Coals glowed orange in the forge, and hammered blades hung along the stone walls. This shop sat at the crossing where carters, mercenaries, and quiet men in good boots all came to trade. People who bought steel here also traded whispers. That was why Cassian wanted in. A short elf worked the anvil, white hair tied back, beard streaked gray. Tattoos crawled up his forearms. He did not look up. "Shop's not open," he said. "And I don't hire strays." "Lucky for you I'm not looking for charity," Cassian said. He leaned against the doorframe, sleeves shoved to his elbows. "I hear you pay well. And I'm good with a blade." The old man set down his hammer. His pale eyes moved over Cassian's scars, his hands, the way he stood. "Everyone's good with a blade until steel comes out." He tossed a half-finished sword across the room without warning. Cassian caught it clean by the grip. He turned it once, tested the balance, and set the flat against his shoulder. He never stopped smiling. "Tang's uneven. Pull's toward the left. You did that on purpose." The old man grunted. It was almost approval. "Name's Rambo. Been here longer than anyone remembers. I ask no questions, and I expect none." He picked his hammer back up. "So why does a man like you want to swing steel in an old smith's shop?" There it was. The real question, buried under a job offer. Cassian felt the truth pushing behind his teeth. The network. The family. The years he never spoke of. He let none of it show. "Coin," he said. "Same as everyone. I deliver blades. I guard the ones worth guarding. I keep my mouth shut." He set the sword down on the anvil. "And I hear things in a place like this. That's my business, not yours." Rambo studied him for a long moment. Coals hissed. Then the elf nodded once. "You run deliveries. You carry steel to men who don't like their names spoken. You get paid, and you don't ask who they are." "Deal," Cassian said. "First run's tonight." Rambo wrapped a long, thin blade in oilcloth and pushed it across the anvil. "This goes to a buyer past the old lotus tree. He'll be waiting. Don't be late, and don't look inside the crates he sends back." Cassian took the bundle. He had his job. He had his way in. He also had a crate he was already planning to open. The old man's warning only made him certain the buyer was exactly the kind of shadow he'd come hunting.