That's where I met him.
The wind was sharp that day, brushing across the dirt path like a whisper carrying forgotten stories. He stood there completely covered in filth, his clothes torn, his skin hidden under layers of dust and dried mud. His hair was long, reaching down his neck in tangled strands, and for a moment I froze. I could not understand how a boy could bear that kind of body, that kind of exhaustion. He looked like someone who had walked through storms far larger than this world. Someone lonely… far too lonely.
Balrad stepped forward, his boots sinking into the soft ground.
"Who are you?" he asked.
There was no reply.
The boy simply moved his hand toward the ground, scooped up a fistful of muddy sand, and put it into his mouth. It looked disgusting—yet to him, it seemed normal. He ate it with a dead expression, as if everything else in life had already been stripped away.
"No, wait…" Balrad said quickly. He stepped closer and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. The moment he touched him, his own hand and the corner of his sleeve became dirty. Still, he helped the boy stand on his feet.
The boy lifted his head and looked at him. His eyes held agony. Pain. Despair. But most of all—they carried regret.
So much regret that even Balrad felt it without hearing a single word.
Then the boy lowered his gaze again, staring at the ground as if his soul was trapped there.
He was something else. Not ordinary. Not a beggar. Not someone wandering aimlessly. Balrad did not know who he was, but he knew one thing: this boy needed help. The way he stared at nothing, the way his body shook, the way silence wrapped around him—it was clear he hadn't eaten properly in days.
Balrad took him home.
He washed him with buckets of cold water, watching the dirt melt off layer by layer. The boy didn't complain. He didn't speak. He simply stood there, letting the water fall over him as if he had forgotten what warmth or comfort even felt like.
Balrad found him some clothes and a place to sleep. When he served him food, the boy devoured it like someone who hadn't tasted a real meal for many days. Only after eating did he finally stop trembling. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, and he fell asleep almost instantly.
Balrad sighed, blew out the lantern, and went to bed as well.
The next day arrived with a soft and beautiful sunrise. The sky painted itself in bright shades of orange and gold. Leaves fluttered gently as the wind moved through the trees, and the farmers of the village were already in the fields, preparing the soil for harvest.
The boy sat under one of the trees, staring quietly at nothing in particular. Balrad walked toward him, yawning and stretching his arms. He watched the boy for a few seconds, wondering what thoughts were hidden behind those empty eyes.
"Isn't it beautiful?" Balrad began. "I thi—"
A voice interrupted.
"My name is Aron."
The wind carried the words away, shaking the silence that had wrapped around them.
Balrad blinked.
"Aron… what a good name. Where are you from, son?"
Aron stared at the farmers for a moment before lifting his finger and pointing toward a distant mountain—so far away it looked like a shadow against the sky.
"From behind that big mountain," he said quietly.
Balrad looked at the mountain, shocked.
"That far? How did you manage to walk all the way he— Forget it." He shook his head. "Don't you have someone? Anyone?"
Aron continued watching the fields. His voice came out soft, yet full of a deep heaviness.
"War killed them all. Some with knives… some with blades. I have no one left in this world. I am just a man who has lost all of his purpose in life."
His tone was filled with despair, yet he spoke seriously—as if he had accepted that this was simply what fate had chosen for him.
Balrad fell silent. For a moment, he had no words. He reached into his bag, pulled out some bread and a jug of milk, and placed them beside Aron.
"Well… I cannot help you every single day," he said slowly, "but if you ever need something, you can come to me and ask."
He stood and began walking back toward his home—until a voice stopped him again.
"Is there anything I can do… so that I can stay here?" Aron asked.
Balrad paused mid-step. At first, he thought there wasn't much the boy could do. But suddenly an idea sparked in his mind. He needed a blacksmith. Someone young and strong. Someone willing to learn.
He turned around.
"Well, there may actually be something," he said. "I need someone to help with blacksmithing. With your strength, you could be more than enough. It will take time to learn… but you can become a real blacksmith."
Aron nodded.
"I will do it."
"Good," Balrad said. "Come with me."
They entered the chamber where swords and tools were made. Balrad pushed open the heavy wooden door, and the heat from the furnace washed over them immediately.
Inside the room were dozens of swords, shields, axes, shovels, and hammers of all shapes and sizes. Metal bars were stacked against the walls, and the massive furnace glowed faintly in the corner, waiting to be awakened.
Balrad lit the furnace, and flames roared to life, dancing wildly as coal fed their hunger. The metal inside heated quickly, turning into a bright, shiny orange—like a burning sun trapped inside the workshop.
"Now watch, Aron," Balrad said.
He held a glowing piece of metal with long tongs, waited a few moments, then dipped it into cold water. Steam burst into the air. He repeated the process twice more, then placed the metal on the anvil.
The hammer came down with precision—every strike in perfect rhythm. Sparks flew. Metal shaped itself under Balrad's hands like clay obeying its creator. After shaping it into a sword, he cooled it again, steam rising in thick clouds.
He carved the handle from wood, added metal rings for grip, sharpened the edges on sandstone, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. After a few final touches, the sword glowed clean and sharp. Balrad tested the balance, swung it lightly, and tossed it aside.
"That," he said, "is how you make a sword."
Aron watched everything carefully. Then he began his turn.
He tried his best—Balrad could see it. For someone handling metal for the first time, Aron was surprisingly good. His strikes had strength, and he followed instructions closely. He even managed to shape the sword, though it lacked the perfection of a master.
But when he dipped it into the water, the blade cracked…
…and then snapped into two pieces.
Aron stared at it, disappointed. Balrad placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Enough for today," he said calmly. "You did good. You start again tomorrow. Go rest."
Aron nodded silently and walked out.
The sound of Balrad's hammer continued through the night, echoing until dawn—while Aron slept inside, finally with a roof above his head.