Arc 3 Chapter 3: A Taste of Home

The scent of freshly baked bread, roasted meats, and honeyed pastries filled the air as Irelia stepped into the bustling eatery. Laughter and conversation wove through the warmth of the space, a lively contrast to the thoughts still lingering in her mind.

Pip’s friends—Sophia, Poppy, Sam, and Derin—had already claimed a large table near the hearth. Plates stacked high with food, mugs brimming with frothy cider, and the familiar buzz of friendly banter made it feel like a regular day.

Irelia followed Pip toward the table, her usual wariness softened by the halflings’ easy laughter. They greeted her with bright smiles and lighthearted teasing, as though she had always been part of their circle.

“Finally decided to show up, huh?” Sophia grinned, scooting over to make room.

“Had to make sure Pip wasn’t pulling me into some half-baked scheme,” Irelia replied dryly, settling into her seat.

“Half-baked scheme?” Pip feigned offense. “I would never.”

Laughter rippled through the table, and the conversation flowed once more. The halflings made a clear effort to draw her in, and for a brief moment, it felt almost normal—like the past few days had never happened. No cult, no battles, no ghosts of what they had seen or lost.

But beneath the warmth of their voices, Irelia sensed something unspoken. A quiet tension wove through the meal, subtle yet unmistakable. This wasn’t just breakfast. It was a farewell.

“So,” Derin leaned forward, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Tell me, Irelia, have you ever met another Derin before?”

Irelia arched a brow. “Yes.”

Derin blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

"There’s a blacksmith in town named Derrin."

Derin let out a theatrical gasp. "Two r’s and a blacksmith? But the real question is—" he leaned in conspiratorially, "is he a halfling?"

“No. Human.”

“Well, then, he doesn’t count,” Derin declared, leaning back with exaggerated confidence. “Let’s talk about the only Derin that matters.”

Irelia smirked. “And here I thought Pip had the worst ego at this table.”

Laughter rippled through the group as Poppy clapped Derin on the shoulder. “Tough luck. Maybe try your charm on someone who hasn’t survived a battle against cultists.”

“Or someone with lower standards,” Sophia added.

Derin clutched his chest as if physically wounded. “Cruelty. The world is filled with cruelty.”

As the laughter settled, Sam turned to Irelia with an unexpectedly serious expression. “Alright, real question.”

She raised a brow. “That’s a first.”

Sam ignored her sarcasm. “Would you ever consider a halfling as a romantic partner?”

The table quieted slightly as the others turned to watch, interested. Irelia tilted her head, studying Sam. He quickly waved his hands. “Not me! Just… in general.”

Poppy smirked. “This is about Harrietta, isn’t it?”

Pip’s grin stretched wider. “Ah, that makes sense.” He turned to Irelia. “Harrietta is a woman from a village near our hometown. Sam’s been quite smitten with her since the moment he laid eyes on her.”

Sam groaned. “That’s not the point! I was just asking—”

Irelia shrugged, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Race has never mattered to me.”

Pip leaned back with a knowing smirk. “Oh, I believe you—especially when it comes to tall, beautiful elves.”

Irelia gave him a flat look. “I don’t remember you being this invested in my love life before.”

Pip grinned. “I’m expanding my horizons.”

Laughter erupted again, even as Sam groaned and buried his face in his hands. For a little while longer, the air felt lighter.

As the meal stretched on, the conversation shifted. Subtle glances were exchanged, hesitant at first. Then, finally, Poppy exhaled and set down her fork.

“We’re leaving soon.”

Silence settled over the table.

Sophia’s smile dimmed. “We’ve been talking, and… we don’t think we can keep doing this.”

“We’re not made for this kind of life, Pip,” Poppy said gently. “We’re merchants, not warriors.”

Sam nodded. “We just want to go home.”

For the first time that morning, Pip was silent. They had talked about this before, but back then, it was just talk—something distant, uncertain. He had hoped that maybe, just maybe, they would change their mind.

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But now, they spoke as if it were already decided. As if it were fact..

The halflings turned to him, waiting for his answer. But he wouldn’t meet their gazes.

Irelia watched Pip carefully.

Pip’s fingers tapped an idle rhythm on the table. Then stopped. Just for a second. Like his mind was already drifting somewhere else, somewhere heavier. But when he finally spoke, it wasn’t an argument or a protest. Just a forced chuckle, brittle at the edges.

“Guess that means I’m losing all my best colleagues,” he joked, but his voice lacked its usual spark.

And that told her everything.

As the meal wound down, the group slowly began to disperse. The halflings spoke of their final plans, their departure in the coming days. But Pip?

Pip lingered.

And when Irelia stepped outside into the bright midmorning sun, he followed.

As they wandered the bustling marketplace, Pip’s usual banter faded. He walked beside her, hands tucked into his coat pockets, a rare quiet settling between them.

A vendor called out a price for oranges. A child laughed somewhere in the distance. But Pip’s gaze stayed ahead, distant, unfocused.

Then, finally—

“Do you ever wonder if you’re making the wrong choice?”

Irelia glanced at him. “Every damn day.”

Pip chuckled under his breath, but there was no real humor in it. He hesitated, then asked, “Then how do you do it? Just… keep going?”

She sighed, watching the movement of the marketplace, the people who lived without the weight of these choices.

“Because the alternative is standing still.” She flexed her fingers, recalling the years she had spent lost, wandering without direction. “And I’ve done that before. It eats you alive.”

Irelia knew what it was like—to stand on the edge of a choice, looking back at the life you used to have, the life you could still return to.

She had never hesitated.

But that was the difference between them, wasn’t it?

Pip nodded slowly, his gaze distant.

The choice wasn’t any easier.

But maybe… maybe he didn’t have to have all the answers just yet.

"One step at a time."

The heat from the forge hit Irelia the moment she stepped inside, the familiar scent of molten metal and burning coal thick in the air. Sparks flared as Thalric hammered a glowing ingot, each strike reverberating through the stone walls.

She had barely made it three steps in before he noticed her.

Pausing mid-swing, the dwarf’s sharp eyes narrowed beneath his thick brows. With a long, knowing sigh, he set the hammer and ingot aside, then crossed his arms—each as solid as a tree trunk.

"You broke them, didn’t you?"

Irelia shrugged, unbothered. "Wouldn’t say broke. More like… overcharged."

Thalric’s scowl deepened. "Overcharged?"

She leaned against the workbench, crossing her arms. "Had to kill three hellhounds at once. Turns out, throwing too many runestones at a problem does make the blades explode."

Thalric groaned, rubbing a calloused hand over his beard. "Damn scribes. Always wrecking good steel."

"Not my fault your steel isn’t explosion-proof," Irelia said with a smirk.

He muttered something under his breath—probably a dwarven curse—before reaching beneath his workbench. A moment later, he pulled out a long, narrow bundle wrapped in thick cloth.

"Right, then. Since I figured you'd ruin those sooner rather than later…" He unwrapped the bundle, revealing a pair of gleaming daggers.

Irelia’s breath hitched. Mithril.

She reached out, fingertips grazing the polished silver-blue metal. Mithril was the most prized material among dwarves—light as a feather, harder than any steel, and deeply magical. Weapons made from it were few and far between, coveted by nobles and legendary warriors alike.

And these were crafted for her.

The shape was familiar—the curved style she favored, balanced for quick, precise strikes. But what caught her attention were the runes, carefully engraved along the base of each blade.

Her runes.

She glanced at Thalric, arching a brow. "You engraved them?"

Thalric huffed, clearly feigning irritation. "Aye. Figured you’d just slap ‘em on anyway, and if anyone’s going to put runes on mithril, it should be someone who actually knows what they’re doing."

Irelia smirked. "You don’t trust me?"

"Not with mithril, lass. You scribes like to play with magic like toddlers with firecrackers."

She snorted. "I’m twenty-one, not a child."

Thalric scoffed, sliding the daggers into matching sheaths. "Bah. A baby. Come back in a hundred years, then maybe I’ll trust you with a mithril engraving."

Irelia huffs. "I’ll be bones and dust in a hundred years, Thalric."

The forge fell quiet for a beat.

Thalric’s grip on the sheaths tightened slightly before he handed them to her. Something flickered behind his gaze—a quiet understanding. The unspoken reality that, to him, her life would pass in the blink of an eye.

"Aye," he said softly. "That you will."

A pang of something unfamiliar settled in Irelia’s chest, but she pushed past it.

Instead, she took the daggers, weighing them in her hands. They were perfect.

Then it hit her.

She hesitated. "...How much?"

Thalric rolled his eyes. "Oh, now you’re worried about cost?"

"Mithril isn’t exactly cheap," she muttered, already dreading the hit to her finances.

"Aye, it’s not," he agreed.

Silence.

Then he crossed his arms and smirked.

"Good thing it’s a gift."

Irelia blinked. "A—what?"

Thalric shrugged. "Your birthday was a few weeks ago. I meant to have them ready then, but between commissions and you destroying your last pair, I got delayed." He scratched the back of his head, looking vaguely sheepish. "Figured you’d need ‘em sooner or later."

She stared at him.

Her birthday. She had barely thought about it.

Irelia exhaled, shaking her head. "You’re always late, you know."

Thalric grunted. "And you’re always breaking things. Seems fair."

She smirked. "Fair enough."

Despite his grumbling, despite his perpetual scolding, Thalric always made sure she was well-armed.

And he always cared.

Even if neither of them ever said it outright.

Irelia secured the sheath at her belt, testing the weight of the daggers one last time before heading for the door.

"Don’t break these ones," Thalric called after her.

"No promises," she shot back.

And for the first time that day, she felt lighter.