As they sat eating lunch, Lysa suddenly brightened, a small spark of memory lighting her face. She turned to Kael with a warm, teasing smile.
"Dear Kael, could you help me with that massage you promised after lunch?"
Kael, still working a mouthful of bread and greens, swallowed hastily. He shook his head, expression earnest.
"I'm sorry, madam, but we have to wait two or three more hours. We've only just eaten. Doing it now would slow your digestion—likely make you feel far worse than better."
Three pairs of eyes—Bart's, Mira's, and Lysa's—fixed on him in surprise.
Mira tilted her head. "Really? Even a simple massage has such… complexities?"
Kael gave a small nod, then another shake of his head as he tore off a fresh piece of bread and swirled it through the broth.
"Light touches, the everyday kind—those have no such rules. But madam does not require a simple massage." His voice stayed quiet, matter-of-fact. "That's why we wait."
"Oh," Lysa and Mira said together, the syllable soft and almost identical, like an echo caught between them.
Bart's weathered face creased into a broad, approving grin. He reached over and gave Kael's shoulder a firm, paternal pat.
"You really are an intelligent young man, aren't you?"
Kael managed only an awkward half-smile in reply, ducking his head slightly as he lifted the soaked bread to his mouth.
After that the conversation drifted back to small, ordinary things—the quality of this season's greens, a neighbor's new kid goat, the way the afternoon heat already pressed against the shutters. Though Kael was not truly family, the easy rhythm of their voices wrapped around him without exclusion; he felt no empty space at the edge of the circle.
When the last scraps of bread had been eaten and the bowls emptied, Kael and Bart rose together from the woven mats. They crossed the yard to the well. Kael took the wooden dipper without being asked and poured a steady stream over his master's hands, then his own, watching the water darken briefly with the remnants of broth and oil before running clean across the stones.
Behind them, in the kitchen space, Lysa and Mira worked in familiar tandem. They gathered the low table's scattered dishes, stacking clay bowls and spoons with quiet clinks. Together they carried everything toward the washing area at the far side of the yard, where a shallow basin already waited beside a small heap of charcoal ash—their everyday soap, soft and gray under the climbing sun.
The afternoon stretched ahead of them, warm, unhurried, and fragrant with the promise of later touch.
----
Thrump!
"That's not quite the right angle. A little more to the left."
Thrup!
"This one's better, but the force is still too light. Again."
Thrump!
"Okay—good enough for now. Plenty of room left to grow."
"Understood, Master."
Kael brought the hammer down once more. Sparks burst outward in bright, fleeting arcs, stinging the air with the sharp scent of hot iron and scorched scale.
His master—steady, unhurried—gripped the glowing bar in the long tongs, turning and angling it with practiced instinct, guiding each strike: where the blow should land, why the edge needed that precise pressure, whether Kael had struck too softly or too fiercely.
The forge's heat pressed against their faces like a living thing, thickening every breath.
For the hour after lunch, before the day's real labor resumed, Bart had chosen this quiet, deliberate lesson. No grand speeches—just the metal, the hammer, the tongs, and the patient correction of angle and strength. Through repetition the lesson sank in: every swing mattered, every fault in rhythm or force left its mark on the iron forever.
In the life Kael had left behind, hand-forged blacksmithing had become nearly extinct. Even the few who still claimed the title leaned on hydraulic presses and power hammers, machines that drowned out the music of human rhythm.
Here, no such machines existed. Yet the world moved comfortably in its own ancient cadence—slow, deliberate, shaped by shoulder and wrist and breath. The thought drifted through Kael's mind between strikes, quiet and unhurried, like smoke curling up from the coals.
At last the hour ended.
"Okay," Bart said, easing the bar back toward the fire to rest. "We're done here for now. Let's take a moment, then get to the real work."
Kael's chest still heaved, each breath pulling in the forge's lingering heat and smoke. Yet he straightened at once, met Bart's eyes, and answered with quiet steadiness.
"Understood, Master."
The words came automatically—polished, respectful, unhurried. He could have let fatigue slacken his posture, could have answered with a grunt or a careless nod; Bart would never have corrected him for it. But discipline had been carved into Kael long before this body was his.
In that other life, no matter the client—arrogant or humble, wealthy or desperate—respect had been the one constant rule, the single habit never permitted to bend. It had rooted so deeply that it crossed over with him, settling into muscle and breath and bone as though it had always belonged to this younger frame.
Bart studied him in that moment—the straight back, the even gaze, the refusal to slump even when sweat still ran in dark lines down his temples—and felt something warm and unguarded tighten behind his ribs.
Haah… if only I had a son like you.
The wish rose soft and clear, then stung. He closed it off with the same decisive motion he used to quench a blade: quick, final, no lingering heat.
What could not be remade should not be mourned in daylight. Still, the thought left a faint aftertaste, enough to dim the edges of the afternoon's earlier ease. None of it showed. His face remained the familiar mask—broad, weathered, expressionless—as he spoke.
"Okay. Let's take some rest. Looks like that hammering really wore you down."
Kael let out a small, breathless chuckle, almost apologetic. "Sorry, Master."
Bart shook his head once, the gesture short and certain. "No need to apologize. You'll get used to it once you've done it enough times." He paused, then added more quietly, "Anyway, come sit. I have something to say to you."
Kael gave a single, quiet nod and rose to follow.
They crossed the length of the smithy together, leaving behind the forge's steady, living heat. The resting place waited at the far wall: a wide stone sill beneath an open window that framed the yard like a painting.
Lysa tended this garden with Mira almost daily—rows of neat greens, herb borders brushed silver by afternoon light, a few fruit trees holding still under the sun. The two men settled side by side on the deep ledge, shoulders almost touching.
A slow breeze slipped through the opening and moved across their skin—cool against sweat-damp necks and forearms, carrying the clean scent of turned earth and crushed mint leaves. Kael felt the tightness in his chest and arms loosen a fraction with every breath; the air tasted like reprieve.
Through the window he could see Lysa and Mira again in the shaded kitchen alcove across the yard. They were putting away the last of the washed dishes—slow, deliberate motions, cloths folding over rims, bowls sliding into their places with soft ceramic kisses.
The golden slant of late light caught on wet fingers and the curve of a shoulder, turning ordinary work into something almost ceremonial.
"It's peaceful, isn't it?" Bart said suddenly, voice low, eyes resting somewhere in the middle distance.
Kael turned his head toward his master. "Yeah," he answered softly. "Very peaceful."
Bart gave a small, slow nod. Silence settled between them again, comfortable, unhurried. When he spoke once more the words came measured, almost reluctant, as though each one had been carried a long way.
"Years ago, when I first came here, there was nothing. Not even the village—not as you see it now. Just open ground and sky." He paused, letting the memory breathe. "But there was one thing I'd always needed. One thing waiting for me. This peace."
The last word hung in the warm air between them.
Kael nodded again, small and certain. He understood more than the simple sentence conveyed. Peace—a word so ordinary on the tongue, yet so rare in the hand. Easy to name, nearly impossible to hold, and—once grasped—worth more than any blade, any coin, any forge-hot iron ever shaped.
It was the quiet at the center of everything else, the thing that made the rest endurable.
"I married Lysa here," Bart continued, his voice carrying the slow weight of years. "Built this house together, stone by stone. Then came our little Mira." A faint, almost wistful curve touched his mouth. "She made everything brighter—more beautiful than I ever thought possible."
Kael listened, lips parting into a small, genuine smile as he nodded. The words settled warmly inside him, stirring something quiet and unexpected: a fragile bloom of hope.
A life like this—simple, rooted, held together by steady hands and shared mornings—felt suddenly within reach. A family of his own. A peaceful end, this time. Not like the last one.
"But you see, Kael…"
Bart turned fully toward him now. The shift in his tone was subtle yet unmistakable—lower, rougher at the edges, like gravel underfoot. Kael's gaze snapped to his master's face, alert.
"Everything has its time," Bart said. "I would give anything to love your madam the way I once did. The way she still deserves. But I can't anymore." He paused, the admission hanging between them. "My body… it simply can't anymore."
Kael went still. His eyes widened a fraction—only a flicker—before the old composure slid back into place like a well-worn shield. Yet something sharp and familiar had passed behind them, a brief glint of recognition.
"What do you mean by that, Master?" His voice stayed even, careful. "Why can't you love Madam anymore?"
Bart exhaled, long and weary. His gaze drifted across the yard to where Lysa moved in the kitchen alcove—wiping a last bowl, setting it aside with the same quiet grace she always carried. The late light caught the loose strands of hair at her temple, turning them gold.
"Because I can no longer give her the satisfaction she needs…" His words dropped softer, almost reluctant. "…at night. In our bed."
He turned back to Kael then, and for the first time the younger man saw something entirely new on that broad, weathered face: defeat. Not anger, not bitterness—just the quiet, hollow surrender of a man who had fought a battle he could no longer win.
The lines around Bart's eyes and mouth seemed deeper in that moment, carved by more than years or forge-heat.
"That is my request, dear apprentice." The title came out gentle, almost tender, yet heavy with what it carried. "Will you hear it?"
Kael swallowed. The sound was audible in the stillness between them—a small, involuntary click in his throat. A familiar tightness coiled low in his gut, the same cold premonition that had shadowed certain nights in his previous life.
He knew this shape of conversation, knew where certain roads led. Yet he met Bart's eyes without flinching.
He nodded once.
No matter what came next, he would listen. That much, at least, remained unchanged.
----
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