"P-Please… don't hurt me! I didn't mean to steal! I just thought — the place looked abandoned! Please! I'll give the dagger back, I swear!"
The man pleaded like a beggar on the streets — a starving soul craving a single grain of rice, as if it could buy him a year's worth of mercy.
But the begging began to grate on the figure's nerves — the same hollow pleas he heard many times before from others.
"Why should I forgive you? You like doing this, don't you? You like stealing from honest men. Making their lives miserable." the figure said.
The man on the ground shivered in fear and cold. It didn't help that the ground was soaked in rainwater from the previous night's storm.
"M-Mr. Virell — Please! I'll give this damn thing back! I'll-"
He couldn't finish the sentence. Not before feeling a sword drive through his leg and lodging itself deep into the bone, like a saw through a wooden plank.
"AAAAAHHH!"
Caelum Virell held the sword steady, his eyes cold and unblinking. No one should ever dare to steal, let alone from his grandfather.
"Dagger. Now!" he ordered.
The man dropped the stolen dagger onto the damp ground, his eyes filled with both pain and fear. He didn't know what to think of first. How to attend to his now injured leg, or how to get as far away from this boy as possible?
"H-Here! Let me g-"
He barely got the words out before the sword was pulled out from his leg with lightning pace, followed by a visceral howl from himself. He clutched his leg, trembling, muttering curses through gritted teeth, trying his best to hobble away from here.
The howl echoed off the walls. Cal heard it too many times to flinch anymore.
"Get out." his voice was flat, almost bored.
The man tried to stand, but the injury was too grave for him to do so. He leaned against a wall for support before hobbling away.
Cal looked at the blood on the blade and sighed heavily.
"Great... Now you're gonna have it, Cal."
He stowed the sword into his back scabbard before making his way back to The Hollow Anvil. The smithy couldn't possibly be run by one man alone, could it?
------
He reached the front doors, ringing the bell as he opened them. The place was indeed empty. No one was inside. But he knew better. He heard the sounds coming from the basement.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
His grandfather was back from buying the bread needed for tonight's dinner.
Cal walked down the steps to the workshop, and the first thing he saw was a man of a frail frame, yet no older than his sixties, forging a piece of metal for a new sword, which probably was for a new customer.
"Did you get it back?" the old man asked, without turning back.
Cal nodded. "Yeah. Here it is."
He placed the dagger onto the table, the small blade clattering against the wood.
The old man nodded, barely noticeable.
"And the thief?"
Cal sighed, his shoulders sagging down like he just finished carrying loads of iron from the mines down south.
"Let him go."
The hammering stopped, with the old man setting the cross-peen hammer down, but still not turning around.
"Do you take me for a fool, boy?"
Cal raised his eyebrows, taking a small step back.
"N-No sir."
The old man finally turned around. His face was weathered with experience and wrinkles, his hair a mix of white and black, creating a gray that only fit the description of someone who broke through the walls of age and life. His eyes were those that had seen too much, yet they burned sharp, like tempered steel.
"I can see the blood on your hands, Cal!"
Cal looked down at his hand. Damn it... He was messy this time around. He slowly looked back up at his grandfather, who was now looking at him with a mix of disappointment and frustration.
"What did I say about this?"
Cal scoffed, looking at the wood floor.
"That bastard stole from us! He didn't deserve to get off easy!"
Darius Virell groaned, rubbing his temples.
"We do not hurt strangers! Thief or not, that man did not deserve whatever wrath you unleashed! We're smiths! We forge weapons, Cal — we don't wield them! Leave conflict to those who do!"
Cal sucked his teeth, rolling his eyes, like he did the many times they've had this same conversation.
"Then why'd you teach me to fight with a sword?"
Darius' eyes widened. Not in surprise, but irritation.
"I taught you, so you could defend yourself! Not so you could hurt every person that simply besmirches us! I taught you... because someday, someone won't give you a choice."
Cal went silent. He didn't know what to say. To him, this was anything but simple. They worked hard, every day and every night, forging metals and making weapons for the platoon of the Evervoid Empire that had the misfortune of being stationed here — Lamnor City in Vireldawn. This repugnant excuse of a town.
He'd be damned if they were mocked for their efforts.
"Granddad... I-"
The old man put his hand up, silencing Cal and giving himself the floor to keep talking.
"Enough! We'll speak more about this later!" Darius sighed, turning back to the cross-peen. "I've to head to the mines. We're running low on iron. I've made you dinner. Eat up and rest."
Cal watched him go, the words from earlier echoing loud in his mind.
"We're just smiths!"
"Right," he muttered. "Smiths."
Cal watched Darius leave, the hammer's rhythm still echoing faintly in his ears. The forge felt colder without it. He glanced at the untouched meal on the table, then at his calloused hands. Dinner could wait. If the mines were running low, he'd take care of it himself. He needed to be away from here.
Cal didn't want to go for the iron. Not really. He went because if he stayed, his grandfather's words would echo louder than the forge
"Granddad, wait! I can handle it. You should have dinner first. You've been busy the entire day. I'll head down to the mines."
Darius turned to Cal, his brows furrowed.
"Cal, you just got back-"
"And I can also walk a few miles to the mines as well!" Cal cut in. "It's no issue. You stay here."
He grabbed his coat, the deep charcoal bore faint silver stitching, which came from years of wear and tear. And yet, despite all of that, it was comforting to wear even in the harshest of times. It smelled of soot and iron, like The Hollow Anvil itself. He grabbed his sword and placed it into the scabbard, before grabbing the essentials and making his way to the door, not even bothering to hear his grandfather's protests.
------
The walk to the mines wasn't grueling. Well, not grueling for Cal anyway. It was a two-mile walk from home, which is something he had been used to since Darius first brought him along when Cal was six years old. That journey was a brutal one. Now, it's just another chore.
The mines down south weren't true mines anymore — more like hollowed graves, picked clean years ago. They haven't been properly excavated in decades.
Lamnor City's iron holdings were once vital many years ago, during the prime time of the Sinfaust Empire. But once the Evervoid Empire rose to power after the second Apotheosis War, production moved to the richer, more centralized provinces. The miners left here either moved... or starved. Now, Lamnor was little more than rust and silence.
Cal looked around, feeling the raw, unfiltered quiet of the area. He never got to experience the bustling nature of what this place was, but the stories Darius told him were enough to fill in the gaps of his imagination.
What was this area like before? Did granddad really make a living from this place?
He arrived at his destination, the outskirts of Lamnor City even more gloomy and unsightly than the rain-soaked streets near his home. The view of the mines looked like a scar upon the earth's breast, with a darkness that resembled the void of where people once roared. Even if the clouds had not completely blocked out the light from the setting sun and rising moon, it would be difficult for the brightness to reach the bottom.
As Cal made his descent, he could smell the pervasive scent of the chill earth, as well as a distinct metal tang, no doubt from the abandoned iron ores. He could see the tracks that once carried carts, buried underneath layers gravel and dust. This all looked dangerous. But it wasn't dangerous, not really — just forgotten.
Once he stopped, he noticed a ledge that hadn't completely caved in and set down his pack. He put on his gloves, feeling the damp and cold rocks beneath them. After Cal pulled out his pickaxe from his bag, he went to work.
The first swing hit stone, sending sparks skipping across the rockface. Cal chipped away methodically, breaking through brittle layers to reveal faint glimmers of dull gray ore. He pried a fragment loose, weighing it in his palm before tossing it into the sack beside him. The echo of falling stone traveled deep into the mine's gut.
Again and again, he struck. Dust gathered on his coat; his gloves darkened from the dirt. When his arms grew sore, he switched sides. When his breath grew heavy, he counted — four swings, rest, four more. Soon, the small leather sack beside him grew heavier, its shape bulging with the uneven edges of gathered ironstone.
Sparks flew from every swing, flaring and fading like the light from the moon's phases. The repeated sound of contact did its best to drown out his grandfather's words, each echo fading into the expanse of the open mine. The silence that followed felt heavier than the iron he chipped away. Maybe that's why he kept working — it was easier than listening.
There was always something to argue about when it came to him and his grandfather. Whether it was about The Hollow Anvil, or when it came to the discourteous people who visited the establishment, or more importantly — when it came to his parents.
Cal huffed, slamming the pickaxe down harder. A shard of stone split, scattering fragments that pinged against his boots. He gathered the larger pieces into another sack, tightening the drawstring before setting it next to the first. Two full bags now — a decent haul.
To this day, he knew nothing of them. He lived with his grandfather for as long as he could remember, and he had no recollection of what his parents even looked like. He wanted to know something, anything! Almost desperately. What were their names? What did they look like? What did they do? Where'd they go?
Why'd they leave him behind?
But none of these questions had ever been answered. The most Darius had ever uttered about the matter was that his parents had abandoned him, leaving Cal on The Hollow Anvil's doorstep. No reason as to why. Anytime Cal pressed further, he was met with crude anger. He remembered the first time he asked such a question, back when he was eight years old. The only word he could use to describe his grandfather's reaction was... volcanic.
But in the face of all of that, Cal knew where all of it came from. Who else would he have if he hadn't been taken in? Behind every scolding, every "do better", and every argument, was the love that every family had within. His entire life may have just been slaving away in the workshop with Darius, or making trips to the mines, barely getting by with stale bread and porridge. But it was home.
------
Some time had passed since Cal had arrived at the mines. He had been hard at work, uncovering whatever ironstone he could find. He chipped away at the last piece of earth that had yielded something fruitful.
I think that should be enough for now...
Cal cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders, trying to free his body of the tiredness that overcame him from his hard efforts. As he went to pick up his belongings he noticed something. Something wrong.
One of the sacks was half-empty! More than that actually!
The hell?!
Cal whipped his head in every direction possible, trying to see what could've happened. He could've sworn he collected more ironstone. Especially after the hard effort he put in to get so much of it. No way someone could've taken it! He would've heard them! Right?
Damn it! How careless can I get?!
Then, Cal heard it. The sound of footsteps against the rough terrain reached his ears, breaking through his frustration. His gaze shifted behind him, just in time to catch a small figure sprinting away from the open mine, with a glint of something clutched in their arms.
The glint of ironstone.
Without any time to think, Cal grabbed his sword and bolted after the thief, the remaining bags forgotten in the dust.
"Hey! Get back here!" he shouted.
The figure was quite fast for someone so small. Even when carrying ironstone of that quantity, Cal didn't feel like he close the gap as quickly as he thought he could.
He couldn't hear anything, but the sound of his own breaths and the combined noises of their feet with each stride. They boy had slipped through the spaces that resided between some empty barrels and crates — all of which were abandoned like the mines. Cal didn't have the luxury of doing the same, so he did his best to jump over them and continue on.
Cal gained on the thief, their chase gradually drifting apart from the outskirts and back to the buildings of Lamnor City. The stench of rust and mold hit him as the mine path gave way to the hollowed streets. The half-rotten wooden shacks, which bore broken windows, came into view, along with broken fences which held nothing behind them. But Cal didn't even see them.
He was now able to make out some details of the figure. His hair was sandy blond, with some crimson hues along the ends. And his body was nimble and elusive, like a light horse that the soldiers of the platoon rode. Cal could barely find the words to speak as he ran, but he was able to breathe out another calling.
"Stop! Give them back and I promise I won't hurt you!"
Once again, the figure did not stop. If anything, their pace increased.
Cal turned the corner sharply, his boots splashing through a shallow puddle as he ran into the narrow alleyway — but the figure was gone. The streets ahead stretched into silence, broken only by the faint whistle of wind cutting through broken shutters. He slowed his pace, chest heaving, eyes darting through every shadow and gap between the slanted buildings. Nothing. No trace of the thief. He looked around, every corner and angle possible. Gone.
"Damn it! Can't have anything in this goddamn place!"
Cal sheathed his sword away, mentally preparing excuses for his grandfather, and trying to swallow the bitter fact that all of his tiring work was for naught.
Then, he heard a voice, soft and uncertain. It was faint, trembling — a boy's voice.
Cal followed the voice as best as he could. He went deeper into the maze that were the alleys. He strained his ears, trying his best to listen.
"T-This is what I could find."
The voice came from deeper within the alley. It sounded lighter and higher, with a slight airy tone. But he wasn't alone. A rougher, older voice sounded from the source of commotion. Mockery and derision filled the words that came from it.
"This all you got, brat? This shitty pile here isn't worth your sorry hide!"
Another voice came through. A laugh, harsh and guttural, echoed off the walls.
"Iron ain't worth jack these days, kid! Everyone knows that! You trying to scam us?"
Cal clenched his fist, his urge to intervene slowly increasing to a boiling point.
The young boy's voice replied in fear and apprehension "N-No! If it's not enough, I can find something else!"
One of the men laughed again, this time with pure humor rather than sheer ridicule. "That won't be necessary. You're not worth the trouble anymore!"
Crack!
The sound of a blow — a fist meeting skin — followed by a cry of pain, resounded through the area. Then another hit.
Cal peered behind the corner, and the sight before him was stomach-churning. The men laughed as the boy fell, the sickening sound of boots meeting ribs filling the alley.
"Can't even pay up properly," one of them sneered. "Maybe we'll just take what's left of you instead!"
Before the next kick could land, a sharp whistle tore through the air.
Thunk!
The wet sound of steel meeting flesh soon followed. The laughing stopped abruptly. One man looked down, staggering slightly before seeing the large sword protruding from their chest, the blood pouring freely like a fountain. He collapsed without a sound.
The men turned to the opening of the alley, and saw a boy wearing a blacksmith's long coat, which looked like it was repurposed into a half-hooded cloak.
Cal stood there, his face half-cast in shadows and his breathing deep and calm. He looked down at the boy, who weakly met his gaze. This was the same boy Cal had been chasing, and the missing ironstones from the mines made much more sense to him than anything had in the past weeks.
He stepped forward, yanking the blade free from the dead body with a casual flick of his wrist. He kept his gaze on the boy, his voice low and deliberate.
"You," he said, his eyes never leaving. "Get behind me. Now."