The forge was cold; the house was warm.
Night had pulled a thick, silent blanket over Kareth. Inside Alden's small cottage, the only light was the hearth's steady orange pulse, which wrestled the shadows on the soot-darkened walls. The air was a familiar, comforting blend of hearth-smoke and bitter stew.
"Sit, boy," Alden grunted from the table, ladling the thick meal into two wooden bowls. "Before this cools and I forget why I bother feeding you."
Corin grinned, wiping the grit from his hands before dropping into the chair opposite. "You say that every night."
"And every night, you prove me right by eating like a starving wolf."
"I am a starving wolf," Corin admitted, already tearing into the heavy bread beside his bowl. The stew was humble potatoes, onion, sometimes a scrap of traded meat but its warmth spread instantly through his chest.
Alden watched him for a beat, a faint smile pulling at his beard. "You've stretched again. Another inch, and you'll scrape my beams."
Corin laughed, tilting his head back. "Can't help it. I was made for grander ceilings."
"You were made for trouble," Alden said, lifting his mug. "And I'm getting too old to clean up after it."
A warm, easy laughter filled the room, the kind born from years of shared routine and unspoken understanding. The wind pushed gently against the shutters outside, a distant sigh against the dark.
After a long silence dedicated only to eating, Alden set his mug down. The soft clunk of wood against wood carried the weight of something inevitable.
"You've truly decided, haven't you?"
Corin kept his gaze on the bowl. "You knew the answer the moment I asked you for the sharpener."
"I hoped you'd come to your senses by nightfall," the old man confessed.
"And stay here forever?" Corin's voice had a quiet, stubborn edge.
Alden leaned forward, the firelight deepening the lines on his face. "You'd live out your days. That's enough for ninety nine men out of a hundred."
"But not for me." Corin lowered his spoon. The light caught the sharp, hungry line of his jaw. He felt the need to leave not as a choice, but as a physical pressure in his chest.
"You're nineteen, Corin. You see the road as a promise. It's not. It's teeth and mud and cold nights that have no end. I've seen men good men turned to carrion for less than a shared loaf."
"You've seen it," Corin countered. "And that's the difference. You know the world exists, and you survived it. I'm tired of rotting here."
"And it cost me everything." Alden's voice cracked like dry wood. "I've buried friends. Watched boys scream until their throats gave out. The world beyond those fields doesn't care about your dreams. It devours them."
Corin's eyes hardened. He pushed the bowl away. "Then I'll make it choke on me."
Alden frowned, a genuine confusion clouding his features. "By getting yourself killed?"
"By trying to live." Corin's tone was level, but the words were sharp. "It's my life, Alden. Whatever happens out there the victories, the failures it's not your burden."
The statement struck deeper than intended. The old man's jaw tightened, his restraint a visible trembling in his hands.
"Don't talk like that," Alden warned, his voice low. "You think because I'm not your blood, I don't care what becomes of you?"
"I didn't say that."
"You might as well have. You're being selfish."
Corin's temper flared, hot and quick, but he swallowed it down. "Maybe. But I'm done living small. I'll make my name known across the kingdom, mark my words. I'll be a force, Alden. I'll make sure the noble houses the royal families have to treat me as an equal."
Alden didn't look proud; he looked wounded. "You've never even killed a man. Do you know what that does to the soul?"
Corin met his gaze, his silence his only answer.
"You want fame?" Alden pressed. "You'll have to kill, steal, and bleed for it. You think swinging a hammer makes you ready?"
"You trained me. I'm stronger than most men already. I'll learn the rest when I have to."
Alden sighed, a sound of resignation. "Strength isn't enough."
"It will be for me."
Silence returned, intimate, weighted, and full of the years of history neither could undo.
Finally, Alden stood and reached beneath the table for a small, leather bound keg the good ale, saved for moments of celebration or despair.
He poured two mugs and pushed one toward Corin. "Then drink. To your foolishness."
Corin managed a faint, crooked smile. "To your lack of faith."
Their mugs clinked. Foam spilled across the worn tabletop.
After a long, slow drink, Alden's tone shifted quieter, older, and carrying a new edge of fear. "Promise me two things, then, before you walk out that door."
Corin looked up, already wary. "What?"
"First: you'll never lose yourself to senseless killing. No matter what happens, no matter how hard the world tries to make you cruel, you hold the line."
Corin hesitated, absorbing the severity of the request, then nodded. "I promise."
Alden's gaze remained fixed. "Second and listen close, boy, you must never, for any reason, come into contact with the royal family."
Corin's brow furrowed in confusion. "The royal family? Why would I ever—"
"Swear it on your name," Alden interrupted, his eyes blazing like steel in the firelight. He had never been so serious.
The sudden, irrational intensity of the order silenced Corin's protest.
"…I swear it," Corin said finally, unsettled.
Alden studied him for a strained moment, then nodded once, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders. He drained his mug and stood, the weight of years momentarily bowing him. "Get some rest, boy. You'll need it."
Corin watched him go, feeling the cold weight of the oath settle deep in his gut. "Goodnight, Alden."
Alden paused at the doorway, his silhouette framed against the dark hall. His voice was soft nowalmost broken.
"Goodnight, lad. May the gods keep you from finding what you're looking for."
The door closed with a whisper.
Corin sat alone, watching the fire shrink into ash. The fading light painted his face in shades of gold and shadow, hinting at a man older than his years, already committed to a road from which he would never return.