Chapter 370. Let’s See What Kind of Force We’re Talking About

The bell above Grock’s forge door jangled a bright, cheerful sound that felt almost obscene given the suffocating tension clinging to William and Kaela like a second skin.

As they stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted violently. The cool, perfumed air of the palace was instantly replaced by the overwhelming assault of the forge: the searing heat that bit at their faces, the acrid tang of coal smoke, and the heavy, metallic scent of iron and sweat.

It was a sensory overload, but strangely, it felt more honest than anything they had experienced in weeks.

Here, there were no hidden meanings in polite conversation, no poisoned smiles masked by diplomatic protocol. There was only heat, metal, and work.

Rows of half-finished blades hung along the far wall like the teeth of some sleeping beast, their steel surfaces gleaming dully in the firelight.

Racks of raw ore and ingots were stacked in organized, imposing piles beneath them, each one a promise of violence waiting to be forged. Deeper in the workshop, a smaller forge fire crackled steadily, casting dancing, amber light across every surface and throwing long, distorted shadows that writhed against the stone walls.

Grock looked up from his anvil, the rhythmic clang clang clang of his hammer cutting off abruptly. His bushy eyebrows shot upward, his scarred face splitting into an expression of genuine surprise as he registered their arrival.

When his gaze landed on Kaela, the surprise deepened into something approaching reverence.

"Princess Kaela," Grock rumbled, his voice like grinding stones.

He set his hammer aside with deliberate care, the heavy tool thudding against the wooden workbench, and wiped his soot-streaked hands on his thick, oil-stained leather apron. "By the gods, it’s been a fair while."

"Last I saw you, you were barely tall enough to sit on my workbench swinging your legs while your father argued over sword commissions with my old man."

Kaela let out a breath she felt she’d been holding since they left the palace gates. A genuine grin, rare and unguarded, touched her lips.

"I’m considerably smaller now, Grock."

"Evidently," Grock said, but his tone wasn’t idle.

His eyes narrowed slightly, taking her in with the practiced, appraising scrutiny of a master craftsman sizing up raw material. He didn’t see a princess; he saw the breadth of her shoulders, the way she carried her weight, and the coiled readiness in her stance—the physical evidence of the warrior she was becoming.

His gaze shifted to William, noting the tension in the instructor’s frame, the way his eyes never stopped scanning the room even in this sanctuary.

"You both carry the smell of court on you," Grock said bluntly, his nostrils flaring. "And not the good kind."

"Not the smell of incense and wine, but the smell of old dust and lies." He leaned forward, resting his massive forearms on the anvil, his presence filling the space between them. "So, anyway... What brings the two of you to my door this time?"

"You didn’t come here for nostalgia, did you?"

"Are you looking for another weapon of merit? Something forged to bite deeper than ordinary steel? Or is it something else entirely?"

William didn’t sugarcoat it. He spoke with the clinical detachment of a surgeon describing a wound, but the underlying urgency was unmistakable.

He detailed Kaela’s transformation, not just her improved technique, but the terrifying, raw physicality of it. He described the way her knuckles could crack bone through training dummies and the way the sheer momentum of her strikes threatened to tear ligaments and shatter tendons if her hands weren’t properly braced.

"It’s not about decoration, Grock," William said, his voice dropping to a gravelly serious tone. "Her power has outpaced her protection."

"When she connects, the shockwave travels straight through her metacarpals... If she keeps training like this unprotected, she’s going to end up with hands that can never hold a sword again."

"Literally grinding her own bones to powder."

Grock listened with an intensity that rivaled a predator’s focus. His scarred face sharpened, his eyes narrowing as William spoke.

He interrupted several times, not out of rudeness, but with the impatient hunger of a craftsman craving data.

"How hard?" Grock barked. "When she hits a solid oak post, does the wood splinter, or does the impact reverberate up her arm like a lightning strike?"

"How many times a week is she pushing to failure?"

"What kind of resistance has she been hitting—leather, flesh, or solid stone?"

William answered every question with precise, grim detail, painting a picture of a young woman whose strength was becoming a liability to her own body.

"Fighting gauntlets," Grock finally said.

He rolled the words around his mouth like he was tasting a fine wine, then spun his hammer idly between his massive, soot-stained fingers. "Not that decorative nonsense some pampered noble wears to a masquerade ball to look pretty..."

"Real fighting gauntlets, eh? Built to be worn, built to take punishment, and built to deliver it without killing the person wearing them."

"That’s exactly what she needs," William confirmed, his jaw tight.

Grock’s eyes ignited with a sudden, fierce delight—the unmistakable hunger of a master who had found a problem worth solving. It was the same look William remembered from years ago, when he’d asked for his first adaptive weapon.

"It’s been a long, long time since someone came to me with a problem that didn’t involve making something shiny and useless."

Grock set the hammer down with a decisive thud and pulled a heavy wooden stool toward the center of the forge, gesturing for them to sit. "Sit. Listen."

"Because you’re asking for something dangerous." His voice lost its playfulness, replaced by the stern authority of experience. "Fighting gauntlets are a nightmare of engineering."

"Most amateurs think it’s simple: wrap the hand in steel, slap some leather on it, and call it a day."

"That’s how you end up with a girl whose knuckles look like crushed gravel after one good fight."

Kaela leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her curiosity overriding her exhaustion. "What makes it so complicated? It’s just metal, isn’t it?"

"Balance and dissipation, girl!" Grock snapped, though not unkindly. "The gauntlet has to withstand tremendous impact without transferring that same force straight back into your own bones."

"You hit something solid enough to break a skull; that energy has to go somewhere!"

"If it doesn’t go through the target, it goes back into your wrist!"

"It goes into your elbow and it goes into your shoulder!"

He leaned into the firelight, his shadow looming large against the workshop walls. "That means proper internal cushioning, not just soft leather, but layered materials that can absorb shock."

"Precise weight distribution so the gauntlet doesn’t drag your swing down."

"And joints that flex naturally with your knuckles instead of fighting against your own anatomy."

"Get any of that wrong, and you’re better off punching bare-handed."

He glanced at Kaela, his eyes scanning her hands, then her forearms, and then her shoulders. He wasn’t looking at a princess anymore; he was looking at a weapon that needed proper housing.

"Most smiths focus on the outer shell, making it look thick, imposing, and deadly."

"That’s backward thinking... That’s coward’s work!"

"The real work happens in the layers; nobody ever sees the internal structure, the shock absorption matrix, and the articulation!"

"That’s what determines whether this thing functions as an extension of your body or simply becomes an expensive way to shatter your own hand."

The heat from the forge seemed to intensify as Grock’s enthusiasm reached a fever pitch. He stood up abruptly, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed the space between them.

"But I’m not going to design this based on your pretty words, William," Grock growled, his gaze locking onto Kaela with renewed, calculating interest. "I need to feel the violence."

"I need to see what we’re up against."

He gestured toward a heavy wooden training post in the corner, one that bore the deep, ugly gouges and splintered scars of countless impacts. "Come here, girl."

"Stand before the post and show me what you’ve got!"

"Let’s see exactly what kind of force we’re talking about."