The word hung in the foul air between them. Slag.
It was a condemnation, delivered with the absolute authority of a high priest. Shankara, the old smith, remained hunched over, his eyes fixed on the jagged break in Bhaskar's sword. His bitter fury towards the cartwright was gone, replaced by a deep, resonant disgust. It was the look of a master physician diagnosing a terminal disease.
"A peasant's trinket," Shankara rasped, finally looking up at Bhaskar. His eyes, no longer dull with despair, were sharp and pale with contempt. "This is what the soldiers of the Deccan carry into battle now? No wonder the empire fell. It rotted from the inside out, starting with its fire." He spat a thin stream of saliva into the dust.
Bhaskar held his ground, letting the old man's scorn wash over him. This was the pride Aditya had spoken of. Raw and wounded.
"The man I serve," Bhaskar began, his voice low and steady, "he knew the blade was flawed before it broke."
Shankara gave a harsh, barking laugh. "Did he? A seer of steel, is he? Another charlatan selling prophecies in a ruined world."
"He is a prince. A boy of nineteen," Bhaskar continued, ignoring the jibe. "But he does not think like other men. He speaks of things… of heat, and pressure, and the precise measure of a thing. He has theories. He has designs for a new kind of forge."
The old master waved a dismissive hand, full of a weary bitterness. "Theories. Drawings. I have seen a hundred such follies from nobles who think the art of the forge can be learned from a book. The art, soldier, is not in ink. It is in here." He held up his gnarled, scarred hands. "It is in the smoke. It is in the colour of the flame. It is a knowledge of muscle and instinct passed down for a thousand years."
"He knows this," Bhaskar said, the words feeling strange even as he spoke them. "He says his knowledge is worthless without the hands of a master to give it shape."
He paused, remembering Aditya's final, strange instructions. He reached into his tunic and brought out the second piece of the sword—the hilt and the shard of broken steel still attached. He held both pieces out—a silent offering.
"I do not understand his theories," Bhaskar said, his voice stripped of any pretense. It was the simple, honest voice of a soldier. "I am not a scholar. But I felt this blade break in my hand. I know the half-second of shock before death finds you. My prince says this flaw… this slag… can be burned away. He says a steel can be made that will not break."
Shankara stared at the broken sword in Bhaskar's outstretched hands. His hands, seemingly against his will, clenched and unclenched at his sides, the phantom memory of a hammer's weight in them.
Bhaskar pressed on, delivering the final, calculated blow. "He said to tell you that your life's work has been practice. He is offering you the chance to create your masterpiece."
The insult was magnificent in its audacity. Bhaskar braced himself for a stream of curses, perhaps even for the old man to strike him.
But Shankara did not rage. A deep, shuddering sigh escaped his chest. He looked away from the sword and toward the squalid tent where his grandchildren huddled. He saw their thin faces, their listless eyes. He looked at his own idle, powerful hands. He was a master of a dead art, a king on an ash throne. This boy-prince, this mad scholar, offered him the one thing he thought he had lost forever: a purpose—a fire to command.
A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the low hum of the miserable camp.
"This prince," Shankara said at last, his voice a low rumble, his eyes still on his grandchildren. "This valley he offers. Is it safe?"
"I have seen no safer place in this world," Bhaskar answered honestly.
"And my people?" Shankara's gaze snapped back to Bhaskar, sharp and demanding. "I am not alone. There are ten families. My apprentices. My kin. Smiths, carpenters, masons. They come with me. All of them. Or I will die here with them."
It was a test—a demand.
Bhaskar did not hesitate. "Our home has room. Our granary is full. All who work, eat."
The old master nodded slowly, the last bastion of his resistance crumbling. He looked at the broken sword one last time. "A prince who knows the language of fire," he murmured. "The world has truly gone mad."
He straightened his back, and for a moment, the bent and broken refugee vanished, replaced by the Master of the Forge. "We will need carts. And provisions for the journey. And guards. My people are weak. The road is full of ghosts."
Bhaskar allowed himself a small, grim smile. He reached for the heavy pouch of silver at his belt. "The guards you have," he said, his voice ringing with newfound purpose. "The rest, this will provide."
He opened the pouch. The clean, bright gleam of the silver coins seemed to defy the filth and despair of the camp around them. It was the colour of a new beginning.