Next Morning. The Smithy.
Grog woke to hammering.
Not Henrik's usual rhythm—that steady, powerful beat he'd come to recognize over days of visiting. This was clumsier. Uneven. The sound of someone learning rather than someone who knew what they were doing.
He lay still for a moment, listening.
The sword pulsed against his hip. Warm. Content. It had been doing that more often lately—acknowledging him, connecting with him. He was starting to think of it as part of himself.
He dressed. Strapped on the blade. Headed downstairs.
The common room was quiet at this hour. A few travelers eating breakfast. Lena moving between tables, tray balanced expertly, her brown hair escaping its tie in the usual small curls.
She saw him. Grinned.
"Henrik's at it early," she said, wiping a table as she passed. "Him and the boy."
"Boy?"
"Apprentice. Ben." She rolled her eyes fondly. "Been with him about a year. Still can't strike straight, but Henrik says he has potential." She shrugged. "Mostly he fetches coal and gets yelled at."
Grog grunted. Walked out.
---
The smithy was loud even from a distance.
Hammer on metal. Henrik's voice, raised in what might have been instruction or might have been fury. Hard to tell which with him. Probably both.
Grog pushed open the door.
The heat hit him first—a wall of warmth that made him glad he'd left his heavier cloak behind. Then the chaos. Henrik stood at the main anvil, working a piece of glowing metal with quick, precise strikes. His massive arms moved in that rhythm Grog had come to recognize—decades of practice made instinct, every blow landing exactly where intended.
Beside him, at a smaller anvil, a boy worked.
Young. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Thin in the way of people who hadn't finished growing yet—all elbows and knees, with a gangly frame that promised more size to come. Dark hair, cut short and practical, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His face was young but serious, the kind of seriousness that came from things he didn't talk about.
His arms were wiry, his strikes tentative—each one landing, but without the conviction of someone who trusted himself. He held the hammer like it was still getting used to him.
Henrik glanced up as Grog entered.
"Good. You're here." He gestured at the boy with his hammer. "This is Ben. My apprentice. He's going to help with your project."
Grog raised an eyebrow.
Ben looked up. His eyes were dark, serious, and slightly terrified. He nodded once—a quick, nervous jerk of his head—then quickly looked back at his work, hammer striking the metal with renewed urgency.
"He's good," Henrik said. "Better than he knows. Needs confidence." He shouted at the boy: "Straighter strikes, Ben! You're leaving divots! The metal feels every mistake!"
Ben jumped. Adjusted. His next strike was marginally better.
Grog watched.
---
Henrik set down his hammer. Wiped his hands on his leather apron.
"Come see."
He led Grog to the table where the sword pieces lay. They were arranged differently now—more organized, each piece tagged with small markers made of bone. Henrik had been busy.
"I've been thinking," Henrik said, picking up one of the fragments. "The metal fights me because it doesn't understand what I'm doing. It thinks I'm attacking it." He turned the piece over in his thick fingers. "So I need to convince it otherwise."
Grog waited.
"I'm going to let Ben work on it. Small pieces. Gentle work." Henrik shrugged his massive shoulders. "He's not strong enough to force anything. The metal won't feel threatened. Maybe it'll accept changes from him that it won't from me."
Grog looked at the boy.
Ben was still hammering, still tentative, still missing the rhythm. But there was something in the way he held himself—a patience, a willingness to learn, a determination that went beyond simple obedience. He made a mistake, frowned, adjusted, tried again.
"You trust him?"
Henrik snorted. "Trust him with my life." He lowered his voice, watching the boy work. "He's clumsy, not stupid. Clumsy can be fixed. Stupid can't." He paused. "Besides, the metal already likes him. Watch."
He called out: "Ben! Come here."
The boy set down his hammer carefully—aligned it just so on the workbench—and approached. His eyes flicked to Grog, then away. Nervous.
Henrik handed him the sword fragment. "Hold this."
Ben took it. His thin fingers wrapped around the dark metal.
The fragment pulsed.
Grog saw it clearly—a warm glow that spread from the metal into Ben's hand, traveling up his arm like liquid light. The boy's eyes went wide.
"It's warm," he whispered. "Really warm. Like—" He stopped, searching for words. "Like it's alive."
Henrik grinned. It was a fierce expression, full of pride and satisfaction.
"See? The metal doesn't fight him. It accepts him." He clapped Ben on the shoulder—a blow that would have sent most people flying. The boy staggered but held his ground. "You'll work on this piece. Slow. Gentle. Show it what we want. Let it learn to trust you."
Ben stared at the fragment. Nodded slowly.
"Yes, master."
He walked back to his anvil, carrying the metal like it was made of glass.
---
Grog stayed for two hours.
Watched Ben work.
The boy was different when Henrik wasn't shouting. Focused. Methodical. He held the fragment like it was precious, treating it with a reverence that most adults never learned. His brow furrowed in concentration. His lips moved occasionally—talking to himself, or maybe talking to the metal.
He didn't hammer hard. Just tapped. Gentle strikes, barely more than touches, each one placed with careful intention. And slowly, impossibly, the metal began to respond.
Not much. A slight curve here. A subtle flattening there. A edge that started to thin, just a little. But it was changing—accepting the boy's influence in a way it had never accepted Henrik's force.
Henrik worked at his own anvil, pretending not to watch. But Grog saw his attention flick constantly to the boy. Checking. Assessing. Hoping.
At one point, Ben stopped. Looked at his work. Frowned.
"It's not right," he said quietly. Not to anyone—just thinking out loud.
Henrik didn't look up. "Then fix it."
Ben nodded. Adjusted his stance. Tried again.
The next strike was better.
---
Finally, Henrik spoke.
"Ben. Break."
The boy looked up. Confused.
"Break," Henrik repeated. "Eat. Rest. Come back in an hour. The metal will still be here."
Ben set down the fragment carefully—reverently—on its cloth. Nodded. Walked toward the door.
He paused beside Grog.
"You're the one with the rings," he said quietly. Not a question.
Grog looked at him.
"Henrik told me." Ben's dark eyes were serious. "He said you found old things. Magic things." He hesitated. "My parents—before they died—they had something like that. A ring. It glowed sometimes."
Grog waited.
"It disappeared after the fire. I looked for it. Never found it." Ben shrugged. "Just thought you should know. That there are more. Out there."
He walked out before Grog could respond.
---
Henrik waited until the door closed.
"He's special," he said.
Grog nodded.
"Found him last year. Orphan. Parents died in a fire—their house, whole thing went up one night. He got out. They didn't." Henrik shook his head. "He was living in the woods after. Surviving on scraps. Berries. Rabbits he caught with snares. Came to me asking for work. Said he'd do anything. I almost turned him away."
"But you didn't."
"No." Henrik picked up a piece of coal, turned it in his thick fingers. "Something in his eyes. Recognized it." He glanced at Grog. "Same thing I see in yours."
Grog said nothing.
Henrik tossed the coal back onto the pile.
"He's going to be better than me someday. Much better." He grinned suddenly—that fierce, challenging expression. "I'm teaching him everything I know. By the time I'm done, he'll be the finest smith in three kingdoms. Maybe more."
Grog looked toward the door where the boy had gone.
"His parents' ring," he said. "What happened to it?"
Henrik shrugged. "Gone. Probably taken by whoever found the bodies. Or maybe it burned. Fire was hot enough." He paused. "Why?"
Grog thought about the rings in his room. About Kevin's order. About all the treasures hidden across the continent.
"Just wondering."
---
An hour later, Ben returned.
He'd eaten—there were crumbs on his shirt—and looked slightly less terrified. His shoulders were straighter. His eyes more focused. He approached the table where the sword fragments waited, picked up his piece, and resumed his gentle tapping.
Henrik went back to his own work. The rhythm of the smithy resumed—two hammers, one confident and powerful, one tentative and learning, finding their own separate beats.
Grog stayed.
Watched.
Thought.
---
By midday, Ben had made real progress.
The fragment was visibly different—curved now, starting to take the shape Henrik had sketched on his diagrams. The edges were thinning. The surface was smoothing. And the metal still glowed faintly when the boy touched it, responding to his patience with something that looked almost like cooperation.
Henrik examined it. Grunted.
"Good. Keep going."
Ben beamed. Just for a moment—a quick flash of pride before his face settled back into serious concentration.
Grog stood.
"I'll return in three days."
Henrik nodded. "Bring more gold. The boy needs to eat. Growing boys eat everything."
Grog reached into his pouch. Pulled out several gold coins. Set them on the workbench.
"For both of you."
Henrik's eyebrows rose. He looked at the coins. At Grog. At the coins again.
"That's—" He stopped. Shook his head. "You're a strange one."
Grog walked out.
---
Back at the inn, Lena was waiting.
She was sweeping the steps, same as always. Looked up when he approached.
"How is he?"
"Good."
"Ben, I mean. Not Henrik."
Grog looked at her.
"He's special," he said. "Henrik says so."
Lena nodded slowly. "He's my cousin. Henrik's sister's boy." She leaned on her broom. "After the fire—" She stopped. Shook her head. "He was different after. Quiet. Scared. Didn't talk for months."
Grog waited.
"The smithy saved him," Lena continued. "Henrik saved him. Gave him something to do. Something to learn. Something to be." She met Grog's eyes. "He's still quiet. Still serious. But he's not scared anymore."
Grog said nothing.
Lena smiled. It was small but real.
"I'm glad you're here," she said. "Henrik needs someone to impress. Ben needs someone to watch. And you—" She tilted her head, studying him. "You need something too. Even if you don't know what."
She walked inside before he could respond.
Grog stood on the steps, thinking about her words.
You need something too.
Maybe she was right.
He climbed the stairs to his room. Sat on the bed. Pulled out the sword.
It pulsed warmly. Comfortingly. Like a friend greeting him.
You're what I need, he thought. You and the fight coming.
But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't true.
He needed more.
He needed them.
Aldric. Lira. Mirena. The column. The war. The purpose.
He needed to go back.
Soon.