The carriage stopped in front of a black stone building with a simple wooden sign hanging above the door. Tuin’s Arms & Armor scrawled across the top and an anvil beneath. Ban’Koliath climbed out and paid the driver. Already he could hear the sounds of hammers smashing within. It made the minotaur feel at home. Each time he returned he would remind himself to visit more often.

The shop was one of many in the long row of armors and weapons crafters. Tuin, however, was the only minotaur. Minotaur smiths were rivaled only by dwarves in their craftsmanship, and it was uncommon to find one away from the Isle of Pa’nipia. There were two sections Tuin’s Arms & Armor, an enclosed storefront that was lined with racks of weapons and mannequins wearing armor. The other section was an open forge.

Long ago, Tuin of the Forge attempted to bring teachings of control and tranquility to the minotaur race. It was the reason for his exile. In turn, the smith adapted his punishment to an advantage. He set up a shop in Raxal and asked the Council of Longhorns to send any exiles to him. The Council had agreed to his request.

The agreement was how Ban’Koliath had met the smith. An exile himself, Ban’Kolaith arrived in Raxal full of the rage and arrogance prevalent in his race. Tuin had taken him in and shown him a better way. A way to become the master of his rage and to control and focus it into a powerful weapon.

“I can only teach, it is you who must learn!” Tuin’s baritone voice boomed out above the din of the shop. He was simultaneously hammering a breastplate while instructing a young exile.

“Water, water! Remember when you sharpen, balance the elements for a balanced blade.”

Ban’Koliath smiled at the familiar instructions, having heard them himself years ago. He entered the shop and leaned against the counter, catching sight of his old mentor. Tuin stood eight and a half feet tall, and even with his greying fur still had an impressive physique. His one good horn gleamed in the light of the forge, the other was a shattered discolored stump. Another sign of his exile from proper minotaur society. This was still less barbaric than the expectation only a few centuries ago. Back then, it was expected the exiled would slit their throats with the broken horn. Restoring their honor and allowing them to ascend Valysian.

Tuin placed a graying furred hand on the shoulder of an apprentice. The young bull had just nicked a blade, badly. The youth winced expecting the typical minotaur thrashing for such a mistake. Rather than beating and berating Tuin was calm and restrained.

“Now you see what I meant when I showed you,” Tuin said taking the dull-edged sword and holding it a few inches above the grindstone, demonstrating the proper angle. “Move with the stone, do not fear it. Try again. You can practice on the other edge but put that one in the melting pile when you’re done. It deserves another chance at perfection.”

As the young bull set to work once more, Tuin glanced up. Somehow, he always sensed when someone came up to the forge or into the shop. His face still covered in an onyx mane lit up into a smile upon seeing his former student.

“Hail Ban'Koliath, may you never walk in shadows,” He said walking over quickly and gripping Ban’s forearm near the elbow.

“Hail Master Tuin,” Ban’Koliath said, returning the grip and they shook.

“What brings you back? Making time to visit an old friend?” Tuin asked while wincing at the sound of a hammer striking steel the wrong way.

“I am afraid not, Master Tuin,” Ban’Koliath said somberly, “I’m here to get word to the Order. The Partners are active, and they’ve taken an interest in a human and elf this morning. It’s not much to go on, but you know how quickly they can move so I cannot wait for a response. I will begin investigating immediately.”

The ancient Order of Brass had existed since the end of the Cataclysmic War over four thousand years ago. Bound by an oath of honor to safeguard the tomb of the Nyeberian Emperor and his Golems of War. They also served as peacekeepers of the many nations of Paragore. Once packed with men and women of every race, the Order of Brass had been a force of virtue and progressivism. They were an army to no kingdom. A force for no nation. It provided them a unique position that allowed nations to request aid, protection, and law enforcement without the political implications of any “favors.”

“I’ll pass the word along. Be careful Custodian,” Tuin said, his smile dissolving into the familiar calm expression that often graced his face.

The Order and the Court had been waging a shadow war for centuries. Both Tuin and Ban’Koliath had lost friends over the years fighting against them. And in recent times it had gotten worse. Brothers and Sisters were dying faster than they could train, let alone find, new recruits. Year by year their numbers dwindled as the threat of the Nyeberian Empire and its evils became a thing of the distant past. Ban’Koliath had been only one of five recruits when Tuin had presented him to the Order for apprenticeship. Still, they would not disappear from this world without a fight, not if there was a need.

Years ago, Tuin had recognized Ban’Koliath’s potential and recruited him into the fading Order of Brass. The smith’s hope was for the young minotaur to find a home in the Order. Ban’Koliath had found much more than that. He’d found a calling. He rose through the ranks to become a Custodian of Peace, one of a handful of operatives stationed around Paragore. And as the title suggests they were responsible for keeping the peace between nations. Unknown to most they were also spies who monitored Paragore’s questionable leaders, armies, and any other group that threatened that peace. One such group was the Harlequin Court.

Through their efforts, the world entered a period of harmony and prosperity it had never known. The many races of Paragore opened their borders to one another, traded goods and shared ideas. And the world to thrived and grew beyond all imagining. After so many centuries of peace however, it was easy to overlook the necessity of protection from long-forgotten violence.

Ban’Koliath scribbled his message onto a piece of parchment and handed it over to Tuin. Where he promptly deposited the message into the forge fire. The carrier flame was craftily hidden inside the fires of the forge.

“You should also know I received a report yesterday,” Tuin said as he came back. “I was naturally asked to pass it along to you. Retirement these days seems to mean messenger for my former superiors. The Order was able to intercept a messenger of the Court’s. The texts he carried were mostly encoded, save for one that was written with such haste we were able to decipher it. They were instructions. For the receiving sect to begin preparations immediately, and that further communications would not be coming. In fact, it implied that if ongoing machinations were successful a global disaster was imminent.” Tuin’s head hung low for a moment. It was the first time he’d said any of this aloud and the weight of it was heavy on his heart. “And one other thing. It said something about a traveler from another realm being the key.”

“That is troubling news,” Ban’Koliath replied. “And it further convinces me I should make haste.”

Ban’Koliath decided that his priority would be to find the human and elf pair. It was unlikely they would still be in the building, but he had a source. No one entered or exited Justiciar Law without Sharlot knowing about it.