Tharic knew two things about the people in his circle. First, Augury would poke and prod at Kalem's past with all the subtlety of a pickaxe until he uncovered whatever it was he suspected. Second, Vornar, in his stubborn adherence to respecting people's privacy, wouldn't ask the questions that might clear things up.
This left Tharic, as always, stuck in the middle. He didn't like mysteries, especially ones that could turn into problems down the road. If Kalem had some hidden secret that might blow up in their faces, he figured it was better to drag it out into the open now.
The opportunity came one evening when he found Kalem in the forge, sharpening a sword. The boy's focus was intense as usual, his hands steady sharpening a sword. The rhythmic scrape of steel against stone blending with the crackling of the forge fire, he tested the blade's edge against a thin strip of leather. Surrounding him were discarded prototypes and chunks of metal—evidence of Kalem's relentless pursuit of perfection.
"Hey, boy," Tharic called, leaning casually against the doorway. "Still at it, huh? You've got enough scraps here to start your own junkyard."
Kalem glanced up briefly, his expression as unreadable as ever. "Just experimenting," he replied, gesturing toward the mess.
Tharic chuckled, stepping closer. "Experimenting, huh? Looks more like you're trying to reinvent the sword from scratch. Maybe aim for something easier next time, like a spoon."
Kalem gave a faint smirk, but his attention quickly returned to his work.
Tharic cleared his throat, leaning on the edge of the workbench. "So, listen, I've been meaning to ask. You've never really talked about your past. What did you do before we met in Warsaw?"
Kalem paused, placing the sword down carefully. "I traveled," he said after a moment. "From city to city, trading and improving my craft. I figured if I wanted to truly understand materials, I needed to know where they came from."
Tharic nodded, arms crossed. "And then you ended up slaying a Garon, got exiled by the city council so they could cover their own backsides, and eventually ended up here."
Kalem tilted his head slightly. "I didn't end up here. You brought me here."
Tharic shruged, leaning on the anvil. "But what about before all that? Where'd you come from?"
Kalem leaned back, his gaze distant. "I grew up in a no-name village. My parents were blacksmiths. They taught me the basics until one day they left in search of some rare material. They never came back."
Tharic frowned, scratching his beard. "That's rough. What happened after that?"
"My father's friend took care of me for a while," Kalem continued. "But eventually, I left the village too. Figured it was better to keep moving, learning as I went." His tone was calm, almost detached, as though he were recounting someone else's story.
Tharic studied him for a moment. "Huh. And here I thought you just sprang out of the ground fully formed, hammer in hand."
Kalem tilted his head, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Not quite."
After a pause, Tharic grinned.
"By the way, what were you doing in Warsaw? It's not exactly a hotspot for anything useful."
Tharic hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Well, I was on my way back from a trade run, but, uh... I might've spent most of my earnings on drinks."
Kalem turned to look at him, his face expressionless yet somehow managing to convey profound disappointment.
Tharic laughed nervously. "What? Don't look at me like that! It was a long trip, and I got thirsty!"
Kalem just shook his head and returned to his work, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "irresponsible."
Later that night, Tharic recounted the conversation to Vornar and the Augury, who sat across from him, listening intently.
"So, that's it," Tharic said, leaning back in his chair. "Boy grew up in some backwater village, parents vanished, and he's been wandering ever since. Nothing too strange, right?"
The Augury tapped his fingers together, his expression thoughtful. "Perhaps. But his ability to adapt, to absorb knowledge so quickly—it still doesn't sit right with me."
Vornar took a long sip from his mug. "The boy's got talent, that's all. He's been through a lot, learned a lot. No mystery there."
Tharic snorted. "Yeah, besides, if he were some kind of magical prodigy or secret prince, don't you think he'd be a little more... I don't know, dramatic about it? He's the most boring hero I've ever met."
The Augury chuckled softly but didn't respond, his mind clearly elsewhere.
"Still," Tharic continued, "I gotta admit, he's got a drive I've never seen before. I mean, who spends their nights forging and their days studying ancient ruins? The boy doesn't even drink, for crying out loud."
"Maybe that's why he gets things done," Vornar said with a smirk.
Tharic rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. But mark my words, one day, he's gonna crack. Nobody's that focused without something giving way eventually."
The Augury finally spoke, his voice low. "Perhaps the boy hasn't cracked because he's already broken in ways we can't see."
The room fell silent at that, the weight of the words settling over them like a shroud.
Meanwhile, in the Forge
While the others debated his past and motivations, Kalem remained in the forge, oblivious to their conversation. His focus was entirely on his work, his hands moving with practiced precision as he tested the balance of a newly forged blade.
In his mind, the past was irrelevant. What mattered was the present—the heat of the forge, the feel of the metal under his hands, and the endless possibilities that lay within the ancient ruins he had yet to fully understand.