"Elyra... Master..." Fergaer gazed toward the cliff-walled horizon, peering into a past far brighter than the gray ash of this place.
"How is she?" His voice dropped, losing its prior edge.
"She is doing well."
A standard response. An objective fact.
"Is she... is she still teaching? Is she still alone?" Fergaer fired off in rapid succession. The underlying urgency in his tone felt alien for a race typically known for its stoicism.
"Yes."
A second later, his tone shifted into a subtle tease masking genuine curiosity.
"Then why haven't you married her?"
The question hung heavily in the air.
I stared at my own hands. Human skin. Fragile. Transient.
Logic, I thought. It all comes down to calculation.
Elyra was an elf. Her existence was practically immortal. She had reached the absolute peak of her evolution and chosen stagnation in that remote village. And I? I was a human with a laughably brief lifespan, residing at the very bottom of the food chain, forced to keep moving forward or perish.
Being with her would result in nothing but a mathematical tragedy. I would age and rot while she remained untouched by time. There were no variables to support such an equation, save for one irrational metric: emotion.
And that was a luxury I could not afford.
"Look at me. Am I worthy?" I replied calmly.
Fergaer let out a short, dry laugh. Then, silence.
A heavy quiet settled between us, carrying more weight than any sledgehammer. He understood. He turned around, his broad back gesturing for me to follow.
Inside, the temperature spiked drastically. The walls were lined with masterpieces of death. Double-bitted axes, longswords, suits of full plate armor. None of them were mere metal; they gleamed, embedded with crystals that emitted a low, resonant hum—the sound of trapped magical energy. Living armaments.
"Take your pick. Do you have gold?"
My eyes swept over the collection. They were beautiful, but I was a pragmatist.
"No. But in exchange, I will work for you."
I understood the economic mechanics of this place. In a closed industrial ecosystem like this one, physical labor was always operating at a deficit. Gold could be minted; muscle could not.
Fergaer turned, assessing me from head to toe. He wasn't looking at my clothes; he was analyzing my bone structure and muscle density. He evaluated my gaze—tired eyes, yet harboring a spark that refused to be extinguished. Sharp.
"One month."
He extended his right hand. The calluses were as thick as rhinoceros hide.
I shook it.
His grip was coarse, hot, and bone-crushing. A paperless contract, signed in sweat and impending ache.