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He tugged the reins a little, steering the horses down a slightly rockier path as the trees began to thin, and Elias slid back down into the bed of the wagon.

“How much farther?” Elias's voice floated up to us again after just a few moments of silence.

“Not long now,” Vorgath rumbled, keeping his gaze ahead. “You'll know when you smell it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Smell what?”

Vorgath grunted, that almost smile making another ghostly appearance. “Fresh-baked bread and enchanted sulfur.”

“Enchanted sulfur?” I asked with a raised eyebrow, already imagining the disaster Elias would cause if he got his small hands on anything volatile at the Faire. I pictured myself running through Stonevale after my boy while he gleefully lugged a bag of mystical rocks behind him, yelling,“They pop in all colors when you throw 'em, Mama!”

Vorgath must have sensed my concern because he added gruffly: “The sulfur's contained. Only released by the magic smiths during demonstrations. No danger as long as everyone is careful.”

I blinked up at him. “Have youmetmy son?”

There was a strangled sound that might have been a laugh, though Vorgath covered it with a cough. “I'll keep an eye on him.”

Reassured by Vorgath's presence and words, I let out a long breath, leaning back against the hard seat, only slightly jealous of Mrs. Crumble's brownie ability to apparate.

Minutes later, Vorgath slowed the reins as we approached the entrance of Stonevale. Large stone pillars flanked a half-constructed gate, the intricate carvings already hinting at the skilled hands of dwarven artisans. Dwarves weren’t the only ones here, though—elves, humans, and a few fae moved about the outpost, working alongside the guards dressed in stout boots, leather aprons, and helmets that seemed both protective and ceremonial.

A dwarven guard stepped forward, squinting up at Vorgath. “Ironfoot’s guests?”

Vorgath grunted in affirmation. “Aye. We’ve brought the ceremonial axes.”

She gave a brisk nod. “Carry on then. Grimble’s set up in the far square.”

As soon as we passed the gate, the scents hit me all at once. Vorgath had warned me, but I wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming blend of overheated metal and fresh-baked goods. Sticky buns, stews, and what had to be an entire farmyard’s worth of sizzling meats mingled in the air, drawing my attention as we navigated the bustling streets.

Stonevale teemed with life, a colorful clash of shops and stalls pressed together, their owners shouting over the noise of the crowd. Humans and elves haggled with dwarven merchants, while fae artisans displayed their wares next to dwarven inventions—crossbows that could fire multiple bolts, enchanted pendants that hummed soft tunes, and delicate silver-wire spinning tops that seemed to defy gravity—just to name a few.

One tall apparatus—a thin pole attached to a rotating gear with small metallic birds fluttering in perfect synchronization—caught Elias's eye. “Whoa! Mama, look! Those birds are flying!”

“They’re not real, sweetheart,” I said, leaning closer over the edge of the wagon to get a better view. “They're machines. Beautiful little machines.”

“Can we make one at home?” Elias asked.

I laughed, but before I could answer, Vorgath responded in his quiet, steady way. “Takes years to perfect. Precision gears. Specialized metals. But…” He glanced down at Elias. “We can try to make something simpler. Start small. One step at a time.”

Elias practically vibrated with excitement. “Really? Could we?”

“It appears you’ve roped yourself into a fine tinkering mess now, Vorgath,” I teased.

He grunted slightly. “Not a mess if it’s made properly.”

We kept going, Vorgath expertly guiding the horses through the town. Tents sprouted like mushrooms among the buildings—colorful, mismatched fabrics tied onto wooden frames, flapping in the breeze. The air buzzed with activity, the clattering of gearsand the incessant hum of machinery. Steam hissed from what I could only guess were miniature boilers powering all sorts of fantastic inventions, and countless tinkerers bustled about, making last-minute adjustments.

Just then, a familiar booming laughter echoed through the square, and a whirlwind of red beard and leather barreled toward us with all the grace of an animated boulder.

“Vorgath Steelbane, you ol’ brute! And you’ve brought the widow blacksmith!” Grimble Ironfoot hollered, loud enough to make heads turn.

Grimble was his usual self—delighted and slightly chaotic, with bits of ash in his wild red beard and singed eyebrows that told me he’d been toying with something explosive.

“You know, most people just wave,” I called out with a grin, hopping down from the wagon.

Grimble threw his head back with a hearty laugh. “Not in Stonevale, lass! Not where hugs put you back together after a long day dodging fireballs at the forge!”

“Gracious, Grimble,” I chuckled, dodging a too-enthusiastic pat on the back as he turned his attention to Vorgath and slapped him on the shoulder with enough force to knock over a smaller man. Vorgath simply grunted in return.