The days we had together were some of the most special. I yearn for the eternity we thought we would have had. When we first met, I thought nothing more than how much I wanted to marry this woman. I believed I had found my soulmate. Turns out that I made a mistake.

  As I lay here among the infinite vastness, I think of where it all could have gone wrong. I have my life right in front of my eyes like a scattered timeline of death and devastation. I need simply to put the pieces in order and uncover the truth.

  Like a jigsaw, my life is sitting in front of me, taunting and beckoning my touch.

  Hauthe 13th, 758

  The bustling sounds of the markets greet my ears as I shut the door behind me. Khadein rises early, as it always has. People get the hardest work done before the sun climbs so they can make the most of the day before the rough winds send their chill.

  I pass by the butcher’s, a neat place called Roderick’s. The stout brick building stands firm, its iron sign swaying lazily in the breeze. Roderick, a burly man, focuses as his thick mustache twitches like an agitated caterpillar. His meaty arms flex as he wields his cleaver with precision, each slice of bone punctuated by a sharp, satisfying thunk that echoes through the narrow street.

  I’ve apprenticed under him in the past—cooking and preparing meat is a hobby of mine—and learning to avoid burning it up is something we connected over. It’s been some time since I worked with him; I’ve been too busy with my father to spare the time lately.

  The shop hums with the rhythm of his labor. The cleaver sings in perfect time with the morning chorus of birds, each calling a melody vying for attention in the fresh air. I’ve built a good rapport with Roderick over the years, especially since I have helped him secure some of the best game for his trade. I step inside the cool, dimly lit shop, the sharp tang of meat and spice lingering in the air, and greet him.

  "High morning to you, boy!" Roderick chuckles, his gravelly baritone rumbling like distant thunder. "Doubling up on your hunts this week?"

  "Something’s come up," I reply. "Had to refresh our stock. Ended up searing one of the musker legs."

  "Ah, I heard a representative from the Empire paid you and your father a visit," he says, his eyes narrowing. "Any idea what that’s about?"

  I shrug, trying to brush it off. "It’s a long story. I’m sure the rumors will spread faster than I can tell. If I had the time, I’d fill you in. Consider it a headache. But…is it possible I could bring some game here to get cut up? You’ve got the best tools."

  He nods without hesitation. "Sure. Why not? I’ve got time today. But you take care out there, boy. I heard some leaphats have made their way up the spiral."

  I raise an eyebrow. "Leaphats?"

  "They’re these gangly, fat creatures from Verdantia," he explains. "You’ll know 'em when you see 'em. They’re more dangerous than anything we’ve got out there. They make our local game look docile. Stay sharp. I hear they’ve got a nasty mouth on their back that takes folks off guard. Don’t believe the markings where you think its face should be. Ain’t heard nothing but bad news about 'em."

  "Gangly and fat, all at once?" I ask, incredulous.

  "Funny thing, that," he says with a wry grin. "Weird descriptor for a weird critter."

  I give a short nod. "Fair enough. I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks for the tip."

  I exit, the bell above the door chiming softly as I step into the cool morning air. My boots tap lightly on the cobblestones. The tailor’s shop is next, its vibrant fa?ade a burst of color against the muted stone street. Fabrics of every hue hang in the window, swaying gently in the morning breeze like a flutter of dreams caught in the wind.

  Johan, the tailor, works at his usual station. A stout man with spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, he sews each garment by hand with meticulous care. I think about getting the holes in my shirt fixed. But with Johan’s prices, I could buy a whole new shirt—if only I had the coin for it.

  Ezra wouldn’t dare associate with you if your shirt continues to look like that.

  I sigh.

  The Crossing Block is our local general store, a bustling hub of activity. Inde smiles and waves as I pass. Her jovial demeanor makes it easy to see why she’s so well-liked. The store is a treasure trove of odds and ends, from farming tools to exotic spices. Everyone in Khadein knows they can find something they need there.

  The cobbled streets buzz with color and the rich scent of food from the market stalls. Crowds of people, dressed in a patchwork of clothing styles, weave through the thoroughfares. Vendors call out to potential customers, their voices competing with the lively chatter of the townsfolk. It’s impressive how energetic the area is this early.

  The aromas of freshly baked bread waft from a nearby bakery, mingling with the rich scent of spices from a merchant’s cart further down. Laughter and cheerful banter create a warm atmosphere. Yet, through it all, I feel the weight of unease—thinking about the goods and wares that are off-limits to me.

  Not until I get a hefty sum from the emperor for completing this commission, at least. I can’t stand what Vego represents, but I can’t deny that the emperor’s coin is as good as any, especially when it comes in large quantities. A sword from the legendary End Blacksmith would fetch a hefty price too. But that also means supporting the war effort, and tensions are already high. With the Empire and the Ester Coalition at each other's throats, any conflict could spill over into all-out war, dragging us and our neighbors into chaos.

  Ester would likely call on Judissus for help. Like my father’s decision to accept this commission, it would be a forced cooperation. That would leave the Empire tightening its grip on Verdantia, Khadein, and Obskurd, leading to an all-out brawl.

  I shiver and grip my arm, trying to center myself. I reach the outskirts of Khadein, where the rugged edges of the province’s landmass give way to the untamed wildlands beyond.

  For all its beauty, it serves as both a shield and a challenge. The land provides us with food and resources, yet its untamed forces remain difficult to handle. While we rely on trade for some essentials, we’re fortunate that the muskers and kassers, our most dependable sources of sustenance, thrive at the fringes of our settlement. Their populations keep us self-sufficient.

  The moment I step into the wildlands, the scenery shifts, and it feels like entering another world entirely. The air is sharper, charged with an almost electric clarity, carrying the mingling scents of pine, moss, and the faint tang of minerals. Above, the canopy spreads wide, a dense web of green, its leaves shimmering faintly with the golden light refracting from Khadein’s floating atmosphere. The trunks of the trees twist skyward, their bark glossy and dark.

  Everywhere, the flora is subtly warped by its skybound home. Ferns unfurl like spiraling fractals, their tips glowing faintly with bioluminescence when caught in the shadows. Wildflowers dot the underbrush, their petals unusually vivid, almost surreal, reflecting the intense sunlight filtered through the unique atmosphere. The underbrush is dense but oddly symmetrical.

  In the distance, trees with roots exposed to the open air stretch across gaps between floating fragments of land, their gnarled appendages like hands clutching desperately to the sky. These bridges of life connect the fragmented wildlands, forming natural pathways for creatures adapted to a gravity-defying existence. Even the wildlife moves differently—small, agile creatures dart through the branches, their sleek bodies gliding in the lighter gravity. Birds with long, iridescent feathers flit between treetops, their songs weaving into the low hum of Khadein’s perpetual winds.

  It doesn’t take long before I spot a musker, its lithe, weasel-shaped body darting across the forest floor with a speed that belies its size. The creature is formidable—nearly as long as I am tall—and its sleek, tawny fur blends seamlessly with the natural surroundings. Its sharp eyes flicker as it pauses, sensing my presence.

  Muskers are known for burrowing their dens. Their paws are strong with claws capable of digging fast and efficiently. These nests, hidden deep below are often a maze of tunnels and chambers, perfect for the musker to shelter and raise its offspring. Their numbers would quickly overwhelm our town. Our work keeps the balance, but it’s an endless task, one that demands constant vigilance.

  Thankfully, muskers don't put up much of a fight. A well-aimed blow behind the head with the junk blade paralyzes them, ensuring a painless death. I confirm each kill, steeling myself for the final blow. I hoist the lifeless musker onto a basket, securing it with sturdy straps for transport back to town. Muskers are relatively easy to handle. Kassers, on the other hand, are more difficult.

  Kassers hang from trees, attaching themselves to the branches with their spit-like sap. They're crab-like creatures with tough shells on either side of their three claws, shielding the soft flesh underneath from damage. They remind me of large pinecones, but the worst part is when they get hungry. They drop on unsuspecting folk and dig their pincers into your neck before you can even react.

  A kasser sways on its precarious perch, its armored carapace suspended by a thin strand of sap-sticky web. The gentle breeze rustles the leaves around it, making the creature sway back and forth like a grotesque pendulum. Each movement reveals the segmented armor-like carapace that covers its entire body.

  I weigh my options with the hilt of my junk sword clenched in one hand. The kasser's setup is perfect for an ambush. Picking up a handful of small stones from the forest floor, I aim carefully and let the first one fly. It sails through the air but overshoots the Kasser, causing it to twitch slightly and glance around, its yellow eye stalks emerging to inspect the disturbance.

  Heart pounding, I draw in a deep breath and throw a second stone. It strikes the Kasser's armored carapace, making it swing erratically, but it remains suspended. The creature's eyes dart around, trying to pinpoint the source of the intrusion. My last stone hits the mark, connecting with the delicate sap point that binds the Kasser to the tree. The connection shatters, and the Kasser plummets to the forest floor, a high-pitched screech of surprise emanating from its mandibles.

  I pump my fist in victory and grip the hilt of the sword with both hands, closing the distance. With a mighty swing, I drive the blade into the Kasser's leftmost segmented carapace, the curved hooks sinking in. I manage to rip away a chunk of the armored shell, but I miss the vital organs beneath.

  The Kasser wriggles and struggles to regain its footing, its spindly legs flailing against the sap-soaked web. I seize the moment, recognizing the creature's vulnerability, and kick up a cloud of sand with my boot, blinding the creature. Agonized, the Kasser convulses, desperately trying to clear its vision.

  In that split second, I raise the sword high above my head, my muscles straining with effort. I swing with all the force I can muster. The blade plunges between the Kasser's eye stalks, splitting its grotesque head in two. A sickening squelch accompanies the impact as the blade tears through the creature's carapace. Black, viscous ichor pours from the wound, drenching the forest floor as the creature's eye stalks droop. The Kasser twitches in its final throes of death, the grotesque twitching of its limbs slowing until it lies still, lifeless.

  I yank the blade free from the Kasser's lifeless body. The creature's blood mingles with the sap on the forest floor, creating a grotesque tableau of death and decay in the dappled sunlight.

  Thank the gods that our blood is colored differently.

  The blade's gleaming edge tears through the creature's tough hide with formidable power. Each motion is deliberate. As I carefully peel away a substantial portion of the kasser's meat, I ensure it remains intact in my handwoven basket. With practiced ease, I sheathe the junk sword, and place the pieces of its shell beside the separated portions of meat.

  I continue on the path until I breach the outskirts once more.

  A voice pierces the early morning quiet. "Look, guys, the rats have come up for their morning meal. Quick, somebody go protect the baker's lest they break in and inflict their plague! Oh, Levios, have mercy!"

  The voice is all too familiar, and it freezes me in my tracks. I curse silently, realizing that I won't be able to avoid trouble even on this early morning excursion.

  Khody Stose, the ringleader of his mischievous gang of friends, steps out from the shadows. Khody, for as long as I can remember, is the closest thing I have to a bully in these parts. I recognize a few of the older boys at his side, Rhoan Sandovar and Dagged Telatna. Each of them carries mean looks as well. I never understood why they followed Khody and not the other way around, given their size and age difference. They each look to be a few years older than the both of us. I usually am able to steer clear of most of his antics by virtue of not attending the local school; we could never afford the entrance fee, a rather ironic twist considering that my father and I essentially constructed that building.

  While I haven't had an extensive list of interactions with Khody, his reputation looms large, and every encounter we have had in the past has been nothing short of negative. It's almost amusing to think that he, of all people, would invoke Levios for his misdeeds.

  "Last I remember, Levios granted favor to those of the working class," I respond, attempting to maintain my composure. "All about pushing forward the common good and freedom."

  Khody's face contorts into a sour and contemptuous expression. He takes a step closer. "You've always got something to say, don't you, End? You know what your name means in the lowtalk? 'Bad end'—the kind that your mouth leads you to."

  Without warning, he shoves me forcefully in the chest, causing me to stagger backward. I fight to keep my balance, the filled basket swaying precariously in my hands.

  "Can't run forever, errand boy," he sneers, his grin revealing a row of crooked teeth. Rhoan grins behind him, chuckling and bringing a hand up as it fills to full laughter. This spread through the rest of them. My instincts scream at me to flee, but it’s too late. They closed in on me, blocking every escape route.

  With another forceful push, I stumble backward, the heavy basket spilling its contents onto the ground below. Frustration surges through me as I scramble to my feet, palms scraping against the unforgiving ground.

  Ignoring their taunts, I push myself upright, refusing to show them my defeat. With a quivering voice, I managed to croak out, "Leave..."

  "Leaving when things are getting good? Not a chance, not for anything in the world," he says. With a cruel kick, he delivers another blow to my gut, knocking the air out of me.

  Dagged from the side chimes in, "Oh, right! He's the wimp who freaks at the sight of blood. Let him have it like you are sayin’ before, Khodes.”

  Khody reaches to the waistband of his pants and pulls out a makeshift knife. The morning sun glints off the blade ominously.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "No..." I manage weakly, struggling to catch my breath. Khody twists the knife, the crowd's laughter fueling his sadism. I search the faces around me for mercy or help, but find nothing other than their shifting faces.

  Khody laughs, then slices his own finger, taunting me with the bloody sight. "Isn't this fun?" he hisses.

  My vision zeroes in on the crimson droplet, the world spinning, overwhelmed by the metallic scent of blood. My heart races, the laughter pounding in my head. Every instinct screams to run, but my legs won't move.

  "No, please," I mumble, voice trembling, the color draining from my face.

  "I know about your little fear," he taunts. "Let me show you, Malachi, there's nothing to be afraid of."

  A shadow falls over the group. The sensation that erupts within my chest is unlike anything I've ever experienced—it's a profound and overwhelming surge of emotion. I become an observer in my own body, detached from the reality unfolding before me. Time slows down. I feel the junk blade click out of its scabbard, the familiar weight of the weapon in my hand. It swings with effortless grace, a blur of motion. But who's in control? Who has taken the blade into their hand and wielded it with such determination?

  Khody's triumphant expression shifted to one of shock and disbelief as he stumbled back, clutching his injured arm. Blood wells from the gash I have inflicted, staining his fingers crimson. The crowd's laughter faded to stunned silence.

  Khody's cronies stepped back, their taunts silenced by the sight of the blood spilling from his body. We all scream simultaneously, a chorus of terror and agony that pierces the tense air. My scream is guttural and primal, accompanied by a nauseating surge of bile rising to my throat. The strength drains from my trembling arms, and I can no longer bear the weight of the heavy sword.

  "Let's get the hell out of here!" he roars. His crew members waste no time, their expressions oscillating between confusion and concern. It's clear that I've ceased to be their primary focus, and they hurriedly retreat, leaving me alone in the outskirts of the village..

  My tongue swells in my mouth, and my throat tightens as I tremble uncontrollably. The world blurs as my body convulses, and I find myself shaking violently on the ground. I blink and don’t know how much time has passed. The sword slips from my hand as I'm carefully rolled onto my side. With a sudden, nauseating lurch, what little remains of last night's dinner spills out onto the unforgiving cobblestones. A pitiful, quivering cry escapes my lips, a mere echo of the torment that churns within me.

  "Oh gods, are you okay?” The voice is familiar, but I can't focus on it for longer than a second as the tremors send the bile rising up my throat once more. "What in Velos’ name happened?”

  There's only one person I know who defaults to Velos for guidance over Levios with a voice like that.

  Ezra.

  She pats my back, her touch gentle yet firm, and turns me back around to face her. Her striking golden eyes are the first thing I see. Her similarly golden hair is neatly tied up behind her. I see she’s carrying a small device in her hands, I can’t make out what it is, then suddenly I’m overtaken by coughs. I hack once to clear my throat, which is still burning. I take a deep breath and look back up to her. "I’m...fine.”

  "The last thing you are right now is fine. Is this related to Khody and his gang running like a pack of babies a few moments ago?”

  I offer the weakest smile I can imagine. The thought of it offers the slightest balm to my mental state.

  "Did he start some shit again? What happened?”

  She curses so casually. I kind of admire that. Something like that would have poisoned my throat worse than the bile.

  "He saw me and that is enough to start it. I was gathering some grub before the markets opened up fully...I...I think I blacked out for a moment. Must have cut himself on my sword somehow."

  Her look is suspicious, I could tell from her eyebrows immediately in the way they set down. There is a moment where the look deepened to hurt. I didn't understand it, nor did I like it, but it passed in a moment. I couldn’t tell if it is the bile threatening to rise back up or if it is something else entirely.

  "That cut is deeper than…” she begins, but then stops. "Never mind. It doesn’t matter. How are you feeling now?”

  "It’s okay...I think...I think it’s calming down. Thank you.”

  I’ve known Ezra for a few years now. She had moved to Khadein with her parents when she was younger—her family emigrated from Judissus, Ester’s border state with the Empire. She’s unfortunately come to find out about my...avoidance toward blood in probably the most embarrassing way—counting this experience. It is something she showed support for back then, but I was so averse to talking about it I avoided speaking with her when I saw her out in the markets shopping for her family for a few weeks afterward.

  "You don’t have anything to worry about,” she says. "I know it must be something that’s insurmountably difficult to deal with.”

  I feel so idiotic. I can take a number of muskers and kassers out. But I’d be okay! I do this for a living. And I like to think I’m pretty good at it.

  And yet…

  My mind's eye replays the gruesomeness of that cut, and my entire body retches. I shake my head. Gods, what are you, some stupid little kid? Retching at the slightest hint of blood? Get over yourself.

  "I'm sorry. I don't understand why it affects me that way. I'm acting inappropriately."

  "I should think you would!" She says, her voice firm in a way I can't explain but find more reassuring than I deserve. "I mean, we all have fears and things we'd like to avoid. And some of us are lucky enough to be afraid of things that won't likely appear in our lives."

  "I'm sure that must be...better than all this," I say, offering another cough and covering my mouth before it leaves.

  "In some ways," Ezra says. "But I find the things I'm scared of, for example, tend to paralyze me in my sleep. Completely unimaginable sights beyond mortal comprehension. Things like gigantic mechanical behemoths with powers unimaginable to rewrite history or...gods forbid, tax collectors."

  I can't stop the burst of laughter that escapes my mouth, a sound that elicits a smile from her.

  "I'm aware of the headaches they cause my father," I say, the words carrying a hint of relief as I relaxed into the moment. “Though, he hasn’t let me take over that side of the business yet. Says I’m best kept for learning until I’m at least twenty-five.”

  Ezra raises an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at her lips. "If you're going to take over the family business, you'll learn soon enough."

  I turned to her, curious. "Do you?"

  Her smile fades slightly, her gaze turning thoughtful. "My father's eyesight has been weakening these past few months," she says, her voice softer now. "Nothing so serious as to affect his mobility, but I've been assisting with his paperwork as of late. So, I’ve had to learn it a bit earlier.." She pauses, and I could see the quiet burden in her eyes, the weight of responsibility settling into her shoulders.

  I glanced at the device in her hands, intrigued by its unfamiliar design. "Is that what that thing is for?" I gesture toward the small contraption she is fiddling with.

  "Oh, this?" Ezra lifted the object to her eye level with a slight chuckle. It is rectangular, sleek, with a shiny metallic bit near the top that catches the light, almost like a glint of some hidden treasure. "No, well, I guess not. It’s a flashstick. It’s something I’ve been working on in my spare time." She shifted it slightly in her hands, her fingers tracing the edges with an almost reverent touch. "It uses gunpowder to capture images on paper. They have some in the Empire for sale, but I’ve managed to make my own."

  "Capture?" I echo.

  "Like a painting, but all at once," she explains, her face lighting up. "Here, let me show you." She slides open a small slot on the back of the device, revealing a thin sheet of paper that she carefully unfurls. With a soft click, she releases the paper, and what emerges is a detailed portrait of the rising sun, its light spilling across the bustling marketplace. You can even make out the hurried faces of the townsfolk, each captured in a fleeting moment of their daily chaos.

  I lean in closer, astonished by the precision of it all. "Wow, that’s amazing," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "You said you made this yourself?"

  Ezra's grin grows, a quiet pride in her expression as she nods. "I don't make the concept itself. They’ve got inventors in the Empire who’ve mastered the technology, but I’ve got a smaller central unit and have found out I can localize the gunpowder reaction to get a much clearer...oh, I’m sorry, uh, I think I’ve found a better way to go about it.”

  “You say that as if it’s normal,” I say. “That’s genuinely impressive.”

  “I’ve been working on it for months now. Still a lot to improve, but it’s getting there." She ran her fingers over the edges of the paper. "It’s a little like capturing time itself, don’t you think? Like, preserving the innocence of whatever it is you capture." she says.

  Ezra's father is Khadein's most trusted gunsmith. Her expertise in handling firearms leaves faint traces of gunpowder on her hands, and I can't help but admire her skill.

  "Besides," she says with a grin, "if I happen to mess up the finances, it’ll be good to have a backup business. I think this could take off here. Though, I don’t expect to let that happen. It helps that I tend to have a better eye on the finances since my father often makes mistakes that his daughter wouldn't."

  "Well, I can tell you must be good at it."

  "Many people don't have a knack for things they don't try," Ezra says. “I feel bored if I’m not learning anything new.”

  Amid our conversation, the comforting aroma of freshly baked bread wafts in from the market. I closed my eyes and imagine the rawstberry pies that must be coming out of the oven any moment now.

  "Think you can stand? It must not be comfortable there,” Ezra asks.

  I totally forgot I was still on the ground. My face illuminates red with embarrassment and I take a deep breath, then sit up. "Yeah, thanks. I would have gotten my bearings together eventually, but I would have been defenseless if they regained their courage and came back to settle the score.”

  Ezra’s eyes hold a warmth that goes beyond the terror I had felt minutes earlier. "I deserve no thanks more than the ones you gave initially.”

  I feel the heat rising to my cheeks, and I look off to the side to hide my embarrassment.

  "Besides,” she says with a wink, a trace of citrus perfume wafting around her. "I’m sure if they came back, they’d find some way to accidentally jump on your sword again.”

  I look to the ground, trying to avoid answering further.

  "You’re okay with picking up the musker, right?” Ezra asks as she bends to collect the scattered pieces of kasser carapace and sets them inside a woven basket.

  "Oh yeah, of course, that’s not a problem,” I reply, adjusting my grip on the musker’s limp body. Its fur is soft and slightly ticklish against my fingers. It feels heavier than usual, probably due to my own weakened constitution. Once we have the musker in the basket, we continue on the path back to the market proper.

  "Well, I appreciate you helping me out,” I say, ready to part ways and save myself from any further embarrassment.

  "And risk you toppling before you make it back in one piece? I don’t think so,” Ezra says.

  What could have sounded condescending sounded...jovial. Like we had been friends for ages and it is a common jab in expectation of one in equal measure. But...we haven't been friends for ages. She is so obviously above what I could muster. I mean, I still had holes in my shirt for gods sakes. I could only return a nervous chuckle and even feel stupid for that much.

  "C’mon, at least let me escort you home like a proper savior and then we can part.”

  "Well, before we head back, I need to stop by Roderick’s,” I say, adjusting the weight of my pack. "I promised him some of my share, and he is going to help prepare it.”

  "Not a problem,” Ezra replies, nodding toward the distant shop. "Looks like we’re approaching now.”

  I smile a small, almost shy expression crossing my face, and a slight flush colored my cheeks. The junk sword, still hanging from my side, feels heavier than usual. The ominous feeling of that blinding whiteness still lingers in the back of my mind, but it hasn’t fully set in yet, the unease held at bay by the familiarity of the path ahead.

  As we cross the threshold into Roderick’s butcher shop, the rich scent of meat and the sharp tang of steel greets us. The dim, cool interior is a welcome contrast to the heat of the day. Roderick, standing at his counter, looks up from his work. As soon as he sees the haul I am carrying, his eyes light up.

  "Well now, looks like you’ve been spared the leaphat, eh? All the better for it,” he says, his deep voice carrying easily across the room. "And hello, Ms. Joshua. How’s your father doing?”

  "He’s well,” Ezra answers, her tone light but warm. She offers a polite smile, clearly more comfortable in the shop than I am. "I’m sure he’ll have me coming by later for an order, but he’s excited for the ribs you’ve gotten in. I’ve been in the area and ran into Mal, so I thought I’d accompany him.”

  Roderick’s hearty laugh rumbles through the shop. "I assure you, I’m always working, but I am also excited. We got a shipment from Obskurd for some of the cattle they’ve been raising. I’m planning on putting it out for sale probably tomorrow.” he says with a wink. "This is the first time though I think I’ve seen you while I’ve been tasked with actively working with the meat. Are you okay seeing the natural life cycle in action?”

  Ezra shrugs. "It’s never bothered me,” she says, her curiosity piqued. "Though, what’s a leaphat?”

  Roderick’s smile fades slightly as he leaned in, lowering his voice enough to show the seriousness of the topic. "Terrible little critter,” he mutters, his eyes scanning the shadows of the shop. "Let’s hope it found whatever it is looking for up here and left back down. The chances of it falling off the edge aren’t exactly zero if it’s not used to this space.” He turns away briefly to prepare a few tools, his broad back tense under the weight of the conversation.

  After we leave, we make our way straight back toward my father’s workshop. The walk feels longer than usual, my thoughts a tangle of anticipation and unease. When we reach the door, I push it open and step into the kitchen. The faint smell of the musker I’d burnt lingers in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of tools and oil that always seep in from the workshop.

  Ezra’s eyes sweep the room, her curiosity evident as she takes in our small, cluttered space. The wooden table is strewn with odd tools, scraps of parchment marked with hasty notes, and a mismatched set of dishes. A chair leans awkwardly against the wall, one leg propped up with a block of wood. The walls, once painted a warm ochre, are now smudged and worn with years of life. I catch the faintest flicker of a smile on Ezra’s face—whether amused or charmed, I can’t tell—and I feel the heat rise to my cheeks again, embarrassment prickling at me.

  Before I can say anything, my father turns from his workbench, his weathered hands resting on the edge of the counter. His sharp eyes sweep over us, his expression unreadable at first. But as his gaze lands on Ezra, a frown creases his brow. The air in the room shifts, growing heavier. The tension is palpable, his scrutiny unrelenting.

  "Malachi, why have you deviated from the job?" His voice is sharp. I tense instinctively, my fingers brushing the handle of the junk sword strapped to my back. The scarred, pitted metal feels rough beneath my touch.

  "I haven’t…I gathered what I went out for. I even got it prepared over at Roderick’s.” My eyes drop to the floor as the words spill out, the shame of the encounter still fresh. “Though, I was cornered by Khody and his gang on the way back home. They…” My voice falters, and I let out a sigh, frustration and embarrassment mingling in my chest. “They are harassing me. Nothing more, nothing less. It got pretty bad. Ezra stepped in, offered to walk me home afterwards.”

  I glance up to see my father’s expression shift. His frown deepens, but his eyes soften slightly as they dart to Ezra. There is no immediate reply, only the steady hum of the workshop in the background and the faint creak of the wooden floorboards beneath us.

  "I...see. Well, given the nature of our work I must ask that you leave my son so he can cook us a meal before he joins me. We have some important matters to discuss.”

  Before I can respond in her defense, Ezra takes it upon herself to withdraw. My father nods her off, and her footsteps fade away. I'm left alone with my father. I admit, I feel angry—embarrassed, the whole lot in one fell swoop, but before I can voice these feelings, he turns to me and starts.

  "Malachi, I want you to promise me something."

  I look up, startled by his tone. "What is it?"

  "That girl is trouble," he declares, his words as cold and unyielding as forged steel. His eyes, usually tired and pensive, are sharp now, glinting with a determination that catches me off guard. "I don’t want you associating with her anymore. I appreciate you getting home safely, and I’m sure you’ll tell me more about this trouble with that miscreant out there, but you mustn’t associate with the likes of her any further."

  His words hit like a hammer blow. I can feel the weight of them pressing against my chest, and my fingers unconsciously tighten around the edge of the table. To hear him say it so brazenly—it’s almost too much. How can he be so unyielding over something that doesn’t even truly concern him? The bitterness rises unbidden, a simmering resentment at the way he so easily judges, dismisses, and casts aside someone who’s done nothing to harm him. Is it because of the smithing? Because someone’s dared to carve out a place of their own, close enough to be seen as competition? How can he be so cruel, so territorial, when her presence barely affects us at all? I mean, isn’t that what you did when you came here first? takes someone else’s ground?

  The questions churn in my mind, but I bite them back. Voicing them would only fuel his temper, and I’ve learned enough to know when to pick my battles. “Yes…father,” I say finally, my voice low and measured, the words tasting bitter as I force them out.

  His gaze lingers on me for a moment, but he is satisfied enough with my response. "Now, hand me those shells and please get us some food going," he says, his tone softening slightly, though the tension still clings to the air like a stubborn fog.

  "Come join me in the back once you’re done," he continues, already turning toward the workbench. "You can help me sculpt the hilt."

  I nod and proceed to take out the shells, their rough surfaces rasping against my fingers. The clinking of metal against metal accompanies my movements. The room is filled with the soft crackling of the flames in the forge, and the distinct aroma of metal melds with the comforting scent of freshly baked bread. I arrange the shells neatly on the workbench, their surfaces cold to the touch.

  I am once again alone with my thoughts.

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