That evening at supper, the air was thick with unspoken words. Father and Wilhelm talked of the day's work at the forge, the heat, and the quality of the steel. I pushed my food around on my plate, the vendors' whispers still echoing in my ears.
Mother had managed to buy a small honey cake with the leftover Drax, a rare treat. She divided it into four portions. Wilhelm's eyes lit up as he got his piece. He was about to devour it, then stopped. He looked at my untouched slice, then at my face.
Wilhelm's happy expression faded. Without a word, he broke off half of his own cake and slid it onto my plate. The gesture hit me with a force that tightened my throat, stealing any words of thanks. My response was a quiet echo: I cut my slice in half and ate the smaller bit first.
Father watched, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He said nothing, only taking a slow, deliberate drink from his mug.
The next day, when Mother and I went to the smithy, a plan formed in my mind. While they talked, I didn't just wander. I had a mission. I snatched a piece of discarded parchment and a lump of charcoal from a bucket.
In a quiet corner, my hand moved. It wasn't the smooth flow of my G-Pen, but the rough, scratching drag of charcoal. I drew a design, a detailed blueprint for a small, elegant dagger, its hilt intricately woven like the roots of a tree. It was the kind of fine work I knew our smithy never produced, something unique for Wilhelm.
Clutching the parchment, I approached the cooling forge. A small piece of scrap metal lay near the embers, still warm. If I could just get it to the anvil, if I could just hold the hammer... My fingers closed around the worn wooden handle.
"What do you think you are doing?"
My father's roar echoed off the stones. He strode over, snatching the hammer from my grasp and the parchment from my other hand. His face was a mask of soot and fury.
"This is a forge, not a playground!" His voice cracked like metal. "You'll blister your hands on a daydream." He glared at the charcoal blueprint. "And what is this nonsense? Drawing?"
(His voice drops, low and dangerous.)
"They won't call you useless. They'll laugh. They'll point at my door and say the work has gone soft. That my house produces pretty marks, not hard steel."
I shrunk back, the heat of his anger more scalding than any fire. His stare was a physical weight, pinning me in place, and in the silence, I braced for another blow.
But then, Wilhelm stepped forward, his voice quiet but firm. "Father. I am sure she has her reason."
He picked up the torn parchment from where Father had thrown it. "Look at it. It's... it's beautiful. No one in the village draws like this." He looked from the design to me, his eyes seeing not a colorless girl, but a sister with a gift he couldn't comprehend. "She wasn't being careless. She was being useful."
Father looked between us, his anger warring with his shock. The sight of Wilhelm defending me, of him valuing the very "nonsense" he feared, left him speechless. He didn't scold me again. He just turned and walked back to my mother. The great bellows sighed. In the quiet he left; only the dull, aching throb of the cooling anvil remained.
The air in the smithy cooled, but Father didn't look at me again. Wilhelm kept the torn parchment, tucking it into his apron like a secret.
For the first time, I wasn't sure which burned hotter… the forge or the space Father left behind.
Later that night, Mother found the smudges on my hands.
"She smiled faintly, rubbing until the cloth turned gray. 'It won't come off,' she murmured. Then she kissed my forehead.
"Maybe it's better that way."