Onordith Bravehard pushed open the heavy doors of the old smithy and stepped inside. He laid his battered greatsword on the counter without a word. The blade was notched deep, its edge gone soft from too many monsters and too many close calls. He had work waiting on the road, people who needed a man with a sharp sword, and this one would not last another fight. The smith ran a thumb along the chipped steel and shook his head. Beyond saving, he said. Onordith nodded once. He had known before he walked in. Outside, a weathered rack held the broken remains of other weapons that had failed other fighters. Onordith carried his old blade out and set it gently among them. His hand lingered on the wrapped grip. Then he let go. He walked back inside to choose what would carry him into the next fight.