Morning in Rootwilds was especially noisy today.
Not the harsh kind. Not shouting or clashing steel.
Itharmonized-wooden wheels grinding along stone, the distant holler of merchants, the occasional laughter of someone who'd already had too much drink even though the sun was barely awake.
Vernon walked slightly ahead of Derek and Bruce, his eyes scanning everything with that same unnerving focus he always had when he wanted to understand something.
Bruce walked slightly behind, arms full.
A bundle of iron bars. A smaller bundle of steel. Leather rolled tight. A hammer that felt heavier than it looked. A pouch of nails. A coil of twine. A few other tools Derek had insisted on picking up along the way.
Bruce looked like a travelling pack mule.
And yet, he didn't complain.
Mostly because Vernon had food.
"Here," Vernon said, handing a wrapped bundle back without looking. "Eat before you start sulking."
Bruce accepted it instantly. "I wasn't sulking."
Derek's voice came dry and calm. "You were sulking yesterday."
Bruce peeled back the cloth and revealed warm bread stuffed with roasted meat and herbs. Steam escaped faintly. He took one bite and his whole face changed.
His eyes widened.
His shoulders relaxed.
His soul returned to his body.
"...This city is dangerous," Bruce muttered between bites.
Vernon finally glanced back. "Because the food is too good?"
Bruce swallowed. "Yes."
Derek snorted quietly, though it barely counted as laughter. "That's the first honest thing you've said all week."
Bruce chewed and nodded like a man agreeing with a profound truth.
Vernon, meanwhile, was barely tasting his own food. He was too busy watching the streets.
He was mapping them.
The way the roads branched. The way certain alleyways narrowed. Which paths curved toward the outer edges. Where the shops were most concentrated. Where guards lingered.
He noticed the people too.
Merchants with rings heavy enough to bruise a man's knuckles.
Children with dirty faces and sharp eyes.
Travellers with cloaks that didn't quite match their boots, meaning they'd probably stolen one of the two.
And men who walked like they carried weapons even when they didn't.
"Are you memorising the stones?" Bruce asked, glancing at him.
Vernon nodded without shame. "Yes."
Bruce frowned. "Why?"
"So I don't get lost."
"You can just follow me."
"That's exactly why I need to memorise the stones."
Bruce blinked. "...What does that even mean?"
"It means you wander," Vernon said simply.
Bruce scoffed. "I do not wander."
Derek spoke without looking at either of them. "You nearly wandered into a river this morning after we left."
"That doesn't count."
"It counted," Vernon said.
Bruce clicked his tongue. "That river attacked me."
Vernon stared at him like he was trying to decide if Bruce was joking.
Bruce stared back with full sincerity.
Derek sighed, but there was the faintest edge of amusement in it. "Just keep walking."
They moved deeper into Rootwilds.
The streets here weren't like the forest paths they'd known their entire lives. These were real roads, built by people who expected the world to stay where it was.
They passed market stalls filled with fruit, spices, cloth, and jars of strange powders that made Vernon's nose itch even from several paces away.
A man shouted about fresh fish. Another shouted about fresh meat.
Someone else shouted about a miracle ointment that could "heal your joints and fix your marriage."
Bruce stared.
"Does it do both?" he asked.
Vernon's lips twitched. "Probably not."
Bruce frowned. "Then why would anyone buy it?"
Derek's eyes stayed forward. "Because people want to believe something will fix them quickly."
Bruce's face hardened slightly at that, but he didn't respond.
Instead he took another bite of his bread and decided he liked the city again.
They walked for another few minutes, until Bruce spoke again.
"Dad."
Derek didn't respond immediately, but he slowed slightly. "Yes."
Bruce shifted the weight of the materials in his arms. "Have you decided what the plan is yet?"
Vernon's attention sharpened instantly, like the question had yanked a wire in his chest.
Derek's pace remained steady.
"Plans change," Derek said.
"That's not an answer," Bruce replied.
Vernon nodded. "We're in a city now. It's not the forest. Things move faster here."
Derek exhaled through his nose. "You've been here for two days."
"And I already hate it," Vernon said bluntly.
Bruce looked at him in surprise. "You do?"
Vernon's hand pressed briefly against his stomach. "It's too loud. Too many people. Too many eyes."
Bruce shrugged. "I think it's exciting."
Vernon stared at him. "You think everything is exciting."
Bruce grinned. "Because it is."
Derek finally glanced back at them, eyes calm but serious.
"The plan," Derek said, "is to build yourselves into something that can't be crushed."
Bruce's grin faded slightly.
Vernon's voice was quieter. "And then?"
Derek looked forward again. "Then we move when it's time."
Bruce frowned. "So you still don't know."
Derek's voice stayed steady. "I know. I'm just not going to say it out loud."
Vernon understood immediately.
Bruce didn't.
Bruce's face scrunched. "Why not?"
"Because saying something out loud makes it real," Vernon muttered.
Derek's silence confirmed it.
Bruce stared at his father for a moment, then looked away with a small huff.
"I'm not scared," he said stubbornly.
Derek didn't argue.
He only said, "Good."
They were nearing the smithy district although the peaceful walk had a change in atmosphere when a sudden shout.
A ripple of panic broke through the crowds.
The crowd shifted like a wave being struck.
Vernon's head snapped toward the commotion.
A figure burst out from between two market stalls, sprinting hard, nearly colliding with a woman carrying baskets.
He moved like a blade being thrown-lean, fast, reckless.
He had a skinny build, but it wasn't weak. His speed was unnatural, like his feet barely touched the ground.
His hair was strange.
Highlighted pink, but threaded with white, as though two colours had been woven into one strand. It wasn't dyed clumsily either. It looked deliberate. Almost... unnatural.
He wore a cloak that was worn and frayed at the edges, but Vernon caught it instantly.
Expensive fabric.
Patterned stitching.
And beneath the dirt, faint markings shimmered.
Mana.
The cloak itself held enchantment.
The figure's eyes flicked toward them for a split second as he ran.
And Vernon swore-swore-that those eyes weren't human.
Behind him came guards.
Three of them, armoured in dull steel, boots pounding the ground.
"Stop!" one shouted.
The thief twisted through the crowd like smoke, slipping between bodies and carts.
A guard shoved someone aside, knocking over a crate of apples.
Fruit rolled across the street.
Chaos.
Bruce tensed, shifting his weight instinctively.
Derek's hand lifted slightly.
"Don't," Derek said quietly.
Bruce looked at him. "We could catch him."
Derek's gaze was sharp. "And then what? The guards wont let you go, they might find you suspicious for using your strength in such a manner."
Bruce hesitated.
Vernon's eyes tracked the thief like a predator. Every detail burned itself into his mind. His cloak. His speed. His hair. His movement.
The thief leapt over a cart, landed, and vanished into an alley so narrow a normal man would have had to squeeze.
The guards stopped at the entrance, cursing.
One spat on the ground.
Another slammed a fist against the wall.
The third looked around wildly, eyes scanning the crowd.
Vernon stared at the alley for a long moment.
Bruce exhaled. "Happens all the time, probably."
Vernon didn't respond.
Derek's voice was low. "Remember what I said. Don't get involved unless you understand what you're stepping into."
Bruce nodded reluctantly.
But Vernon kept staring.
Like he'd just seen something that didn't belong.
Eventually Derek continued walking.
Bruce followed.
Vernon took one last glance at the alley before moving.
And he made sure he remembered the direction.
The smithy was louder than the market.
Heat bled into the street long before they even reached the door.
The air smelled of coal, iron, sweat, and something sharp-like burned stone.
A man was hammering inside.
The sound came in steady strikes, each impact clean and heavy.
CLANG.
CLANG.
CLANG.
Bruce's eyes lit up immediately.
Vernon's expression tightened.
He didn't dislike the sound.
He just respected it.
They stepped inside.
The smithy was broad, with blackened stone walls and racks of tools hung in perfect order. Metal scraps lay in neat piles, not scattered.
A forge burned at the far end.
And near it stood Hunk.
He was built like a wall.
Arms thick. Shoulders wide. Forearms covered in old burns and scars. His hair was cropped short and his beard was trimmed like a man who didn't have time for vanity.
He glanced up once, eyes narrowing.
Then he saw Derek.
His posture changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
"Haven't seen you in years," Hunk said.
Derek nodded. "Still breathing."
Hunk snorted. "Barely counts as living."
Bruce blinked. "You know him?"
"Most have forgotten his face," Hunk muttered, then waved a hand. "Not me. How could i forget someone who was practically my brother. Though, shouldn't you be in hiding?"
Derek stepped aside, letting Bruce and Vernon come forward.
"My path has changed," Derek said after a short pause. "Now all that i live for is to grow my boys out to survive anything and everything. Even if the only thing they have is each-other."
Hunk's gaze swept over the boys. He looked unimpressed.
Then he looked at the materials Bruce was carrying.
Then he looked at Bruce's arms.
He raised an eyebrow.
"...You carry that all the way here?"
Bruce nodded. "Yes."
Hunk grunted. "Good. Put it down."
Bruce did, careful not to scratch anything.
Hunk jabbed a thumb toward the back. "Rules are simple. Restock firewood. Clean tools. Fill barrels. Bring your own materials. If you break something, you pay."
Vernon nodded immediately. "I remember you told us yesterday."
Bruce nodded too, though he looked mildly disappointed there weren't more rules to fight against.
Derek glanced at them. "Get to it."
Hunk gave Derek a glance. "Lets talk next time."
They moved quickly.
Bruce chopped wood like he was splitting enemies in half. Each strike was clean and controlled, though he still overpowered the axe a little too much.
Vernon filled barrels with water, moving in steady trips, counting the steps unconsciously.
Derek prepared the forge.
He didn't rush.
He didn't waste movement.
He arranged coal, adjusted airflow, tested heat by feel rather than sight.
When Bruce and Vernon finished their tasks, they returned and stood in front of Derek, waiting.
Bruce wiped sweat off his brow.
Vernon stood straight, hands behind his back like a student awaiting instruction.
Derek looked at them.
Then looked at their empty hands.
"What are you doing?" Derek asked.
Bruce blinked. "Waiting."
Derek's eyes narrowed slightly. "Put your aprons on. Grab the tools. Prepare yourselves."
Vernon moved instantly.
Bruce fumbled for the apron like it was a new enemy type.
Hunk watched from the side, arms crossed.
His mouth twitched slightly.
Derek didn't notice.
Or pretended not to.
"Forging," Derek said, once they stood properly equipped, "is not strength. It's patience."
He placed the iron into the forge.
The fire swallowed it.
"The first step is heat," Derek continued. "But not too much. Metal is like flesh. Overheat it, and it becomes brittle."
Vernon leaned in slightly.
Bruce stared like the metal was about to reveal a secret.
Derek watched the glow carefully.
Not just the colour.
The way it breathed.
The way the edges changed first.
"Control the fire," Derek said. "Don't let it control you."
Bruce glanced at Vernon. "It's just fire."
Vernon whispered back, "Don't say that out loud. Fire will hear you."
Bruce stared. "Fire can't hear."
Vernon's eyes stayed serious. "It can smell arrogance."
Bruce looked offended.
Derek ignored them both.
When the iron reached the right colour, Derek pulled it out with tongs and laid it on the anvil.
"Now shaping."
The hammer rose.
And fell.
CLANG.
The sound hit the smithy like thunder.
Bruce's eyes widened.
Vernon's breath caught slightly.
Derek struck again.
CLANG.
Each blow was measured.
Not heavy.
Not light.
Perfect.
Derek handed Bruce the hammer next.
Bruce gripped it.
Derek corrected his stance without speaking, shifting his elbow, adjusting his wrist.
Then Derek nodded.
Bruce lifted the hammer.
And struck.
CLANG.
The metal shifted.
Bruce struck again.
His rhythm was wrong, but his instinct was right. He didn't hesitate. He didn't overthink. His body adjusted mid-motion.
By the third strike, his timing improved.
By the fifth, his breathing matched the sound.
Derek's eyes narrowed slightly.
Not displeased.
Interested.
Then Vernon stepped forward.
His first strike was too cautious.
Derek didn't scold.
He simply said, "Commit."
Vernon inhaled.
His next strike landed sharper.
CLANG.
Then another.
His rhythm began to form quickly.
He wasn't stronger than Bruce.
But he was... controlled.
Vernon listened to the metal.
He listened to the way it resisted.
And he adjusted.
Derek watched both of them like a man watching a fire spread.
Bruce was natural.
Vernon was deliberate.
Two different kinds of talent.
Both dangerous.
Hours passed in heat and sweat.
They melted.
Folded.
Lengthened.
Shortened.
Reheated.
Heat treated.
Inspected.
Derek showed them how to watch for imperfections in the grain, how to feel for weak spots, how to listen for the wrong sound when metal struck metal.
He didn't lecture.
He demonstrated.
He corrected.
He made them repeat until their arms trembled.
Then he made them repeat again.
At some point, Derek began tapping the anvil lightly with the hammer.
A rhythm.
Not random.
Measured.
Almost like a chant.
Bruce blinked. "What's that?"
Derek didn't look up. "A hymn."
Vernon frowned. "A hymn?"
"A rhythm," Derek corrected. "If you lose it, you lose the metal."
Bruce muttered, "So the metal gets angry?"
Derek finally glanced at him. "Yes."
Bruce immediately shut up.
Vernon's eyes sharpened.
He listened.
He copied.
And by his second melt-down, his hammer began to follow Derek's pattern.
Bruce, on the other hand, got it on the first try.
It was almost infuriating.
Derek didn't praise him.
But his eyes showed it.
Later, Derek forged to fix something himself.
His movements were quiet.
His hands were steady.
He worked like the metal was an extension of his body.
And after hours of shaping, folding, and treating, he finished fixing his blade.
The blade that had been by his side since the beginning.
It looked older than Rootwilds.
Older than the city.
Older than most men.
Vernon noticed Derek didn't touch the second blade.
Not once.
When Derek began packing, Vernon finally spoke.
"What about the other one?"
Derek's hand paused.
Then he shrugged. "...Not today."
That was all he gave.
And Vernon knew better than to push.
By evening, Bruce managed to complete something.
It wasn't pretty.
It wasn't finished.
But it was his.
He held it up, breathing hard. "It's only part of what I want it to be."
Derek inspected it closely, then pointed out flaws without cruelty.
"This edge is too thin. It'll chip."
Bruce nodded seriously, like Derek had just spoken the laws of the world.
Vernon, meanwhile...
Vernon didn't stop.
His hammer kept moving.
At first it was normal.
Then it became quieter.
More consistent.
The rhythm sank deeper.
Bruce noticed first.
He stepped back instinctively, as though Vernon had become something that shouldn't be disturbed.
Hunk came back from chopping wood and had his attention caught too.
Derek noticed later.
When he did, he raised a hand to Bruce and silently gestured him back.
And they watched.
Vernon hammered and hammered, the sound becoming steady enough that it blended into the smithy's air like heartbeat.
His legs began to bend.
His shoulders slumped slightly.
His arms slowed.
But the rhythm never broke.
Not once.
It was like his body was failing but his mind refused to acknowledge it.
When he finally stopped, the silence felt loud.
Vernon stared down at the blade.
It wasn't sharpened.
No handle.
No polish.
But the shape was clean.
Balanced.
Careful.
And it looked like something that was meant to stay with him for a long time.
Like he had poured something invisible into it.
Something personal.
Something permanent.
Derek's voice was quiet. "Tomorrow we sharpen. Engrave names."
Bruce blinked. "Names?"
Derek nodded. "And the day after, woodworking. Handles. Scabbards. Patterns."
Vernon didn't respond.
He just stared at his unfinished blade like it was alive.
They returned to the tavern late.
The streets had dimmed. Lanterns glowed. People laughed. Somewhere, music played badly.
Vernon walked slower than usual.
His eyes looked distant.
His body moved like it was operating on delayed commands.
Bruce stayed close, glancing at him repeatedly.
Derek walked behind them.
For once, he didn't look worried.
He looked... thoughtful.
When they were near the tavern, Bruce finally asked, "What was that?"
Derek didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "A trance."
Bruce frowned. "He can do that?"
Derek's gaze shifted to Vernon's back.
"That kind of focus," Derek murmured, "takes more than talent. It takes mental fortitude. It drains you. It consumes you."
Bruce swallowed. "How long was he like that?"
Derek shook his head slightly. "Longer than he should have been, that is definite."
Bruce glanced at Vernon again, almost like he was seeing him differently.
In their room above the tavern, Bruce flopped onto the bed like a corpse.
Vernon sat on the edge of his own bed, staring at his hands.
Bruce rolled his head toward him. "Hey."
Vernon blinked slowly. "What?"
Bruce squinted. "Are you alive?"
Vernon's mouth twitched. "I think so?"
Bruce chuckled softly, then hesitated.
"...How was it?"
Vernon didn't answer immediately.
His eyes drifted to the ceiling, as if he was trying to find the right words among the beams.
Then he spoke quietly.
"The hymn..." Vernon murmured, voice slow, almost reverent. "It felt like it opened a path for me. And I just let myself sink into it."
Bruce listened without interrupting.
Vernon continued, eyes unfocused.
"I let the flames guide the heat through the metal. It almost felt like it wasn't my hands anymore... like it was my heartbeat."
His fingers flexed faintly.
"I felt my mana respond every time the hammer struck. Like the sound was speaking to it. Like the metal was listening."
Bruce stared at him.
Vernon's voice softened.
"...I felt fulfilled."
Bruce didn't speak for a long moment.
Then he muttered, half awed and half annoyed, "That sounds unfair."
Vernon blinked, then gave a faint smile.
"Maybe so."
The room felt warm in a way that had nothing to do with fire.