Once the fight was over, I figured I was done for the day. The tournament grounds felt like a festival more than a battleground, so I decided to explore the town. I’d heard the local merchants set up extra stalls whenever the college held these big events, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.


    The streets were awash in vibrant banners—reds, blues, and golds fluttering in the breeze. Musicians played jaunty tunes on street corners, and clusters of people wandered from stall to stall, sampling the different snacks and trinkets for sale. The smell alone was enough to make my stomach rumble. Even though I’d already eaten, my dwarven appetite told me there was always room for something tasty.


    As I wandered, I came across a stall selling “Dragonfire Skewers.” Despite the dramatic name, it looked like chunks of spicy-grilled meat (probably chicken, or at least I hoped so) basted in a tangy sauce that crackled on the tongue. Nearby, an energetic halfling vendor was hawking “Sugar-Dusted Donut Bombs,” little round pastries coated in crystalline sugar that apparently “popped” with sweetness when you bit in. I saw a gnome pushing a cart of bright-blue candy floss that spun itself into shapes—a kitten one moment, a swirling dragon the next—before dissolving into soft, sticky goodness.


    Further along, a pair of dwarven sisters ran a hearty-looking stew stand. They claimed it was “Battle-Ready Stew,” guaranteed to restore one’s strength after a tough fight. I caught the aroma of simmering onions, carrots, and beef-like chunks. The steam rose in aromatic curls, making the entire street smell like home.


    At a corner table, an orc was flipping something he called “Molten Flatbread,” a crispy dough topped with molten cheese and sprinkled with pepper flakes. He slapped me a sample, and it was gooey, spicy, and delicious all at once.


    Kids were running around with candied fruits on sticks—some were green, smelling vaguely of mint, while others glowed faintly in the dimming afternoon light (the vendor swore it was “just a harmless enchantment”).


    As I moved from stand to stand, sampling whatever I could afford, I realized that the town had fully embraced the festival spirit. Every alley I ducked into revealed yet another hidden treat. For a moment, I forgot all about princes, broken swords, and battered shields. My world revolved around trying new foods and soaking up the lively atmosphere.


    Eventually, my stomach let me know I was nearing capacity, and I took a seat on a low stone wall to rest. I gazed around at the colorful banners rippling overhead, letting the cheerful din of the crowd wash over me. With the battles behind me and the sun setting, the day felt like it was finally mine to enjoy.


    The rhythmic clang of metal on metal called to me like a siren song—ting, ting, ting—carrying through the festival noise. I followed the sound until I found a small, open-walled smithy with a cozy yard. Inside, an old, wiry goblin stood over an anvil, hammering red-hot steel. He had that classic goblin look—pointed ears, sharp teeth, and a perpetual scowl. I stopped a ways off, just watching him work, enjoying the familiar, comforting smell of heated iron.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Without missing a beat, he glanced my way. “Oi, you stupid git. Can you work a bellows?”


    “Up yours, gobbo,” I shot back, raising an eyebrow. “’Course I can.”


    He grunted in what might have been approval, nodding toward a hefty set of bellows off to one side. “These’re mana bellows, so don’t muck it up. Keep that fire at cherry red, ye ijit.”


    I stifled a laugh, but the corners of my mouth twitched. This was the most stereotypical goblin blacksmith routine I’d ever heard, and honestly, I kind of loved it. With a shrug, I went over to the bellows and began pumping them in a steady rhythm. The flames in the forge flared, dancing with a subtle arcane glow.


    “Good,” he growled, tapping the iron on his anvil. “Just like that. Don’t let the temperature dip, or it’ll screw up the tempering.”


    I settled into a comfortable stance, flexing my arm muscles in time with the bellows. It felt strangely satisfying, like I was back home in my village forge—except here, I had a mouthy goblin barking orders at me and a swirl of festival noise beyond the smithy walls.


    He hammered away on the glowing metal, occasionally glancing over at the color of the flames. “Keep ’er going. No slacking,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he eyed my hammer (hooked on my belt) and snorted. “Bet that little toy’s not seen half the work it should.”


    I raised an eyebrow, looking down at my hammer. “You’d be surprised. It’s seen its fair share. Broken a few swords, too.”


    He paused his hammering to give a rough chuckle. “Aye, well, swords break easy. They ain’t half as tough as an orc’s skull.” Then he tapped the iron again, sending glowing orange sparks into the air. “Mmm, close enough. Time to quench.”


    He slid the metal off the anvil and dunked it into a barrel of water with a loud hiss, steam billowing up and drifting over the workshop.


    I kept pumping the bellows as best I could, ensuring the next piece of steel would be ready in time. “So,” I ventured, “you just set up shop here for the tournament crowds? Or you always around?”


    “Been here longer than you, dwarf,” he replied. “Name’s Griznock, and if you’re wantin’ real forging done, you come see me. Not them fancy ‘magic blacksmiths’ with their glittery nonsense.”


    I smiled a little. “Thanks for the tip, Griznock. I’ll keep that in mind.”


    He finished quenching the steel and set it aside, eyeing the flames. “Alright, shift’s up, ye busybody. I can manage on my own now.”


    I stepped away from the bellows, rotating my shoulder to loosen it up. “No problem. Thanks for letting me help.”


    Griznock nodded, tossing the next heated bar onto the anvil with a clang. “Scram before I change me mind and put you to work for real.” Then, in a softer mumble: “Not bad, though. You got some skill.”


    I took that as a compliment—coming from a grumpy goblin, it was practically glowing praise. With a quick nod, I made my way back out of the smithy yard and into the bustling streets, a faint smile lingering on my face. I’d come out looking for food and found a bit of forging fun instead. Not a bad trade-off, if you asked me.