The forge had gone quiet for the evening, the embers in the hearth glowing faintly as Eryndor sat on the workbench. He idly turned a small shard of Abyssal crystal between his fingers, watching the light refract off its edges. Calder was seated nearby, rubbing oil into the hilt of a finished blade. The calm felt fragile, as though the village itself was holding its breath.
"Do you think it's enough?" Eryndor asked suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.
Calder didn't look up. "What do you mean?"
"The blades. The tools. Everything we're making," Eryndor said, setting the shard down. "Is it enough to protect the village? To protect us?"
Calder paused, his fingers stilling on the blade's hilt. "It has to be," he said simply, his voice steady but heavy. "Because if it isn't, then we make it enough."
Eryndor nodded, though the answer didn't ease the knot in his chest.
The next morning, the air was tense. A group of villagers had gathered in the square, their voices sharp and agitated. Eryndor watched from the edge of the forge as Calder stepped outside, wiping his hands on a rag as he approached the group.
"What's going on?" Calder asked, his tone calm but commanding.
A wiry man named Darnell turned toward him, his face flushed with anger. "What's going on is that we're running out of food, the beasts are getting bolder, and we're wasting time babysitting." He gestured toward Eryndor, his words like venom. "We need strong hands in the fields and on the walls, not someone who spends his days tinkering with useless scraps."
Eryndor stiffened, the words hitting him like a blow. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
Calder's expression darkened. "Careful, Darnell," he said, his voice low. "You're speaking about my son."
Darnell sneered. "I'm speaking about the truth. He's a drain on the village, and you know it. Maybe if he wasn't so weak—"
The rag in Calder's hand dropped to the ground as he stepped forward, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. Darnell's words died in his throat as Calder loomed over him, his presence radiating quiet fury.
"Say it again," Calder said, his voice cold and deliberate. "Say it to me."
The square fell silent. Even the breeze seemed to stop as the tension hung heavy in the air.
Darnell faltered, his bravado crumbling under Calder's glare. "I... I'm just saying we all need to pull our weight."
"And Eryndor does," Calder said, his voice rising. He turned to the crowd, his gaze sweeping over them. "Every blade you've used to defend this village, every tool you've held to build your homes, came from this forge. From us. You think strength is just swinging a sword? It's not. Strength is what keeps this place standing, day after day, storm after storm. And you don't get to decide who's worthy of it."
Darnell looked away, muttering something under his breath, but he didn't argue further. The crowd began to disperse, their murmurs fading into the background as Calder turned back to the forge.
Eryndor stood frozen in place, his chest tight. He had heard Calder defend him before, but this was different. There was a weight to his words, a fierceness that made Eryndor's throat tighten.
Calder approached him, his expression softening as he placed a hand on Eryndor's shoulder. "Don't let them get in your head, Eryn," he said quietly. "They don't see what I see."
"What do you see?" Eryndor asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Calder smiled faintly. "I see someone who's going to change this village, this world, one day. They just don't know it yet."
Eryndor looked down, his fingers curling into fists. The ember in his chest flared, not with anger, but with determination.
"I'll prove it," he said, his voice firm. "To them, to everyone. I'll show them I'm not a burden."
"You don't have to prove anything to anyone," Calder said. "But if that's what you want to do, then do it for yourself—not for them."
Eryndor met his father's gaze, and for the first time, he felt like he could.
That evening, Eryndor worked later than usual in the forge, his focus sharper than ever. Every strike of the hammer, every adjustment to the blade, felt purposeful. Calder's words echoed in his mind, steady and reassuring.
The villagers might not see it yet, but he would show them. Not through words, but through action.
And as the forge's fire burned bright into the night, Eryndor felt the ember within him burning just as fiercely.