The heat of the forge was a living thing.
It pressed against Goburo's skin, heavy and dry, chasing away the damp chill of the red mist that clung to the city outside. He sat in the corner of the round bedroom, wrapped in the coarse wool blankets, watching the smith work.
The man moved with a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. *Clang. Hiss. Clang.* He didn't speak. He didn't look over. He simply worked, turning raw, ugly chunks of metal into refined, lethal shapes.
Goburo watched the sparks fly. He felt the vibration of the hammer in the floorboards.
He couldn't stay silent forever. The silence in his head—the absence of Kenji's constant, logistical narration—was too loud. He needed a voice to fill it.
He stood up, keeping the blanket around his shoulders like a cape, and walked to the edge of the forge area.
"You're good at that," Goburo said.
The smith didn't stop. He brought the hammer down one last time on a glowing orange blade, then plunged it into a trough of water. Steam erupted with a violent hiss.
He set the blade aside and wiped his hands on his apron. He turned to look at Goburo.
"It's a job," the man said. "Keeps the hands busy. Keeps the mind quiet."
He walked over to a bench and picked up a heavy waterskin. He took a long pull, then offered it to Goburo.
Goburo hesitated, then took it. The water was warm but clean.
"I'm Goburo," he said, handing it back.
"Craven," the smith said.
Goburo paused.
*Craven.*
It meant coward. It meant weak-hearted. It was a name given to someone who ran away.
*What a name,* Goburo thought. *For a man who looks like he could bend iron with his teeth.*
He sat down on a crate near the anvil.
"Thank you, Craven. For letting me stay."
Craven grunted. He picked up a file and began to work the edge of the cooled blade. The scraping sound was high and sharp.
"Don't thank me yet. You haven't slept here. The rats are bold."
Goburo watched him file the metal. He watched the care in Craven's hands—the way he treated the steel not as an enemy, but as a stubborn partner.
"Is it a taboo?" Goburo asked quietly. "For goblins to roam around here? The innkeeper... the people on the street... they looked at me like I was a disease."
Craven didn't look up.
"Taboo," he repeated, testing the word. "That's a fancy way of putting it. If you want to know if they'll kill you on sight... maybe. Depends on how much they've had to drink. Depends on how much they've lost."
He blew metal shavings off the blade.
"You see," Craven said, his voice dropping an octave, "what people see through their eyes... it's not something you can just parry. Like a sword. You can't block a memory with a shield."
He looked up at Goburo. His eyes were dark, unreadable.
"I've heard the stories they tell in the taverns. How the goblins betrayed the miners. How they dug the secret tunnels to steal the mana core. How they collapsed the shafts and killed the workers to cover their tracks."
Goburo stiffened.
"Did they?" Craven asked.
"I don't know," Goburo said honestly. "I wasn't here."
"That's the thing about history," Craven said. "It's written by the people holding the pens. I myself... I would believe that the humans here made a deal with a goblin tribe. Used them. Promised them food and shelter in exchange for digging the holes we were too big to fit in."
He shrugged.
"And maybe, when the digging was done, when the tunnels were ready, the humans robbed them. Cheated them. Chased them away like dogs. And then, when the humans needed a villain for their own greed... they blamed the goblins for the collapse."
He went back to filing.
"People don't always get justice, you see," Craven murmured. "The word justice... it's different for everyone. For some, it's forgiveness. For others, it's punishment. For the people out there... justice is finding someone to blame so they don't have to blame themselves."
Goburo sat in stillness.
The words hung in the hot air.
He thought about the fire. He thought about the entity that had come from the east, the plant-creature that had consumed his family, his neighbours, his entire world.
He thought about the rage.
It had been burning in his chest since that day. A small, hard knot of fire. It was what had kept him moving in the cold hut. It was what had driven him to survive.
*Justice.*
To Goburo, justice wasn't a concept. It was a target.
It was the entity.
It was the need to find that thing, to wrap his hands around its vines, to make it pay for every scream he had heard, for every life it had swallowed.
He wanted to hurt it the way it had hurt him.
Craven stopped filing. He inspected the edge of the blade with his thumb.
"You're thinking about it, aren't you?" Craven asked, not looking up. "The thing that was done to you. The wrong that needs righting."
Goburo looked at his bandaged eye.
"Yes."
Craven set the file down. He walked over to the forge and stared into the coals. The orange light illuminated his scarred face.
"For me," Craven said, "there is only one justice. Universally."
He turned to Goburo.
"Letting go."
Goburo blinked.
"Letting go?"
"Holding on to the rage... holding on to the sadness..." Craven shook his head. "It stays in you. It rots you. It makes you heavy. But the one who betrayed you? The one who did this to you?"
He pointed a calloused finger at Goburo.
"They don't feel it. They don't have these feelings. They sleep at night. They eat their dinners. They live their lives. So why should you carry the burden?"
He tapped his chest.
"If you carry the stone, you are the one who gets tired. Not the stone. Not the man who threw it."
Goburo looked into the fire.
"That's... hard," he whispered.
"It's the hardest thing in the world," Craven agreed. "That's why we have God."
Goburo looked up.
"God?"
"Or the Gods. Or the System. Or whatever runs this messed-up world," Craven said. "God sees through these people. He sees the truth we can't prove. That's why there is God. To do the things us species are not meant to do. To balance the scales that we can't reach."
He walked over to Goburo. He placed a heavy, warm hand on the goblin's shoulder.
"Let it go, boy. Let the fire burn the anger. Don't let it burn *you*."
Goburo looked at the forge.
He looked at the flames.
He thought of the entity. The fire-plant. The killer of Thorn hollow.
He thought of the injustice. The pain. The loss.
He thought about carrying it forever.
*Why should I?*
*Why should I be the heavy one?*
He closed his eye.
He took a deep breath. The hot air filled his lungs.
And he decided.
He didn't forgive the entity. He didn't forget.
But he let go of the *need* to destroy it. He let go of the chains that tied his heart to the monster. He released the revenge. He dropped the stone.
He exhaled.
It felt like the first real breath he had taken since he was a child.
He opened his eye. The world looked the same—the red mist, the forge, the scars on Craven's hands—but it felt lighter.
"Thank you, Craven," Goburo said.
Craven grunted. He went back to his anvil.
"Don't mention it. Now, get some sleep. You look like death warmed over."
Goburo smiled. A small, tired smile.
He went back to his corner. He lay down.
He looked out the glass wall at the canyon lights.
The rage was gone.
And for the first time, he felt like he was truly, finally, moving forward.
To be continued...