Master placed a stern hand on my shoulder and pulled me close.
"Squire, these past lunar cycles... the invasion... our spars. Well, I have not..." his voice heavy with unspoken emotions.
I interrupted, "They have some of the best and worse parts of my life, Sebastian."
"Look, Micah... Your uncle can be quite unpersuadable at times. He's a man of his own circumstance, so blame not his decisions. As far as I am concerned, you are finding your path. If you ever come back, I will knight you a captain on the spot."
"But I am not leaving." I confusedly said.
Master just smiled and nodded as he patted me on the shoulder, pulling me into some odd form of a hug.
We stood there in silence for a moment, the bond between us solidifying even further. Finally, Master stepped back, his expression returning to its usual sternness.
"You should swing by the market, Pascal has something for you."
"Of course," I replied
He said, "Swear something to me. Swear you will always walk the path of a warden, not matter who, where, when or what would try otherwise. Swear that to me."
"I-I" I had no words, his sudden tone shift left me confused, "Master-"
"Swear."
"I-I swear. Alright? Don't dent the suit."
"Good," he said, his voice softening again. "Now, go. And remember, I believe in you."
I made my way back to my basement. The adrenaline from the fight had left my system, replaced by an all-too-familiar itch for a potion. I tried to ignore it, but the urge grew stronger with each passing second. Finally, I gave in, grabbing one of the vials from my stash and downing it in one gulp.
The liquid burned its way down my throat, bringing a rush of energy and focus. With renewed vigor, I decided to tidy up the cluttered space. The basement was littered with remnants of past projects, broken tools, and discarded materials. I couldn't stand the mess any longer.
I gathered the trash into a pile, methodically sorting through the debris. Broken pieces of metal, shattered glass, and scraps of parchment—all remnants of my relentless pursuit of perfection. I took the paper waste outside and set the pile ablaze, watching as the flames consumed the unneeded.
Returning to the basement, I began storing everything that wasn't connected to the house into my bracelet. The magical storage space seemed endless after Magnar enhanced it during a progress visit. It greedily swallowed up tools, materials, and projects with ease. Each item found its place, the chaos giving way to a semblance of order. The sight of a clean workspace brought a sense of accomplishment, albeit a fleeting one.
Feeling the familiar itch returning, I reached for another potion. I hesitated for a moment, but the need for that rush of energy and clarity was too strong to resist. I downed the another potion tossing the empty glass into my bracelet, feeling the liquid course through my veins, sharpening my senses and pushing away the exhaustion.
Satisfied with my efforts, I took a deep breath and surveyed the now-organized basement. For a moment, everything felt right. Clean.
As I approached the stall, the bustling energy of the market roared around me. Pascal looked up and smiled as I neared, but there was something in his eyes that gave me pause.
"Ah, Micah, there you are," he said, reaching under the counter. "I have something for you."
He handed me a small, intricately carved box. I noticed thick smith's gloves on his hands, a burly kind of leather to prevent the worst of injuries.
"Open it," he urged.
Inside, I found a beautifully crafted pendant, its center a shimmering leaf that seemed to pulse with a gentle light.
"It's a belated birthday present," Pascal explained. "The elves think it keeps trouble away."
"Thank you." I said, putting the charm into one of the containers on my waist.
"Just make sure to wear it," he said with a wink. "And take care of yourself, alright?"
Before I could respond, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Uncle Ulysses standing there, his expression unreadable. Beside him stood Thorne.
"What's the occasion?" I asked.
"Kid, we need to speak." Thorne said.
"About..." I trailed off.
"You. Your health," Uncle Ulysses interjected. "We've noticed how hard you've been pushing. The weeks without sleep, without leaving your hole, without talking to anyone but yourself."
"I'm fine. There's just so much to do."
"At what price?" Uncle asked.
"Kid, you're neglecting yourself. This isn't a smith's way." Thorne pressed.
Pascal stepped out from behind the stall, his usually gentle demeanor replaced with a rare sternness. "We all see it, Micah. The toll it's taking on you. This isn't just about work; it's about your life."
"You don't understand. If I don't, who will? Everyone seems to have forgotten near-annihilation by the unknown! I haven't. I cannot. It eats at me when I sleep. I see all of you dying to abominations time and time again! A thousand times have I witnessed the deaths of everyone I care about! A thousand times have I been helpless. Not anymore. I will build a way out."
"And we're counting on you to be here for the long haul," Uncle Ulysses said. "Not just for a burst of brilliance followed by burnout."
"Pushing ourselves to the limit, thinking it's the only way. But it's not. You need balance."
"Balance?" I scoffed. "There is no balance in war. It's all or death."
Pascal stepped closer, placing a hand on my arm. "Micah, we're not asking you to stop. We're asking you to take care of yourself. To let us help you. To let anyone help you."
"Help? Everyone can help themselves at birth! But I cannot! I have to work to be normal. I have spent sixteen years of effort to be able to do what everyone else inherently can." My temper rose as I spoke.
"I learned art, alchemy, arcana, artifice, arithmetic, calculus, combat, smithing, religion, history, botany," I enunciated each subject to emphasize my point.
"If there is a book on it, I have read it. You know what that begat? This!" I flourished my hands across my suit, "I can now fight Sebastian, while aged and sealed. He won the tournament as a child and I can barely stand against him now!"
"Dear boy...." Uncle said empathetically.
Thorne interjected, "That took you what? Two cycles to produce? What if all the lads in the forge helped, huh? We could have been on version five by now. You are too narrow-minded on your prospects. You are surrounded by people that respect that effort and knowledge. Stop burning your bridges and start letting us help exercise it. Like with the firearms."
"Exercise it? I don't need help exercising it," I snapped. "I need to be safe- need each of us to be safe."
Ulysses stepped forward, his eyes filled with concern. "Micah, you're not alone in this. We're all here, ready to fight, ready to protect. But we can't do it if you're burning yourself out. We need you strong, not broken."
Pascal added, "Remember the battle, Micah. It wasn't just your inventions that saved us. It was everyone working together. We need that same unity now, not just in battle, but in preparation. Let us share the burden."
"But you don't understand," I said, my voice rising in frustration. "Every second I waste explaining things, every moment I spend waiting for others to catch up, that's another second we could be losing ground. I have to be fast, efficient."
"And you think you can do it all alone?" Uncle Ulysses said, his voice stern. "No one can, Micah."
"Master has! Magnar has! The heroes of old? The gods themselves? Forget legends not present. Uncle you have cultivated a fortune after our family was outcast, insulted, and excommunicated!"
I felt my emotions bubbling up, a mix of anger, frustration, and desperation. "You don't know what it's like. To feel so helpless, so useless."
I shook my head, tears of frustration welling up. "I just... I can't lose anyone. Not again. Not like before."
Uncle Ulysses pulled me into a tight embrace, his voice softening. "No one is going anywhere. The city is better. We could easily fend off another like that. Aetherhaven is safe now, largely thanks to your brain."
The words sank in, the reality of my solitary struggle hitting me like a blow. I had been so focused on my fears and my need to protect everyone that I had pushed away those who cared the most. I took a deep breath, parsing the ocean of my emotions.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I just... I can't hurt like that again."
My hands were trembling as flashbacks of the invasion occupied my mind, the horrors replaying over and over. The blood, the screams, the devastation—images that haunted my every waking moment. The memories of the mast faded to visions from my dreams, gruesome scenes of everyone deforming or dying.
Pascal held my shoulders, locking me in place. "It's okay, Micah."
I barely heard him. My breath came in shallow gasps, my vision tunneling.
Uncle Ulysses released me from the hug and looked me in the eyes. "So, what do you say? Will you forsake the bottle and let us help you?"
"I cannot allow myself to feel that way." I weakly said.
I pulled away from them.
Thorne sighed, shaking his head. He turned and walked away.
"My nephew..." Ulysses looked away, finding what to say next. "I love you. Allow me to stress that. Micah, I love you deeply. Happy late birthday."
"But if you cannot see how destructive this behavior is... What did your father write to you? What was on the letter? You are halfway to seventeen. Read it along the way."
"The way?" I asked.
"Pascal, do it."
The world began to spin. The last thing I saw was the concerned faces of Pascal and Ulysses.
When I awoke, I found myself in a different place, the faint scent of herbs and the soft rustle of leaves surrounding me. My head throbbed, and the letter from my father was clutched tightly in my hand, along with another tucked behind it.