The days following Calder's confrontation with Darnell passed in an uneasy quiet. The village seemed calmer on the surface, but Eryndor couldn't shake the weight of the words that had been spoken. He threw himself into his work, determined to prove his worth, not just to the villagers but to himself.
Calder, too, seemed busier than usual. He spent long hours in the forge, taking on more commissions than normal—repairing tools, reinforcing weapons, and crafting new barricade spikes for the village's defenses. His movements were steady, deliberate, but Eryndor began to notice the signs of strain: the way Calder paused to catch his breath, the slight tremor in his hands after particularly grueling tasks.
One evening, as the forge's fire dimmed, Eryndor found Calder sitting by the workbench, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped. The sight sent a pang through Eryndor's chest. Calder had always seemed larger than life, an unshakable force. Seeing him like this felt wrong.
"Father," Eryndor said softly, stepping closer. "Are you all right?"
Calder straightened, offering a tired smile. "Just a long day, Eryn. Nothing to worry about."
But Eryndor wasn't convinced. "You've been working nonstop. Maybe... maybe you should rest tomorrow. Take a day to recover."
Calder chuckled, though it lacked his usual warmth. "The forge doesn't rest, and neither can I. The village needs these tools. These weapons. If I stop, who's going to keep them safe?"
"You've taught me enough," Eryndor said, his voice firm. "Let me take over for a day. Just one day. I can handle it."
Calder looked at him, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he reached out, ruffling Eryndor's hair. "You've got a good heart, Eryn. But you're not ready to run this forge on your own."
"I can learn," Eryndor insisted, his voice rising. "You don't have to do this alone. Let me help."
For a moment, Calder didn't respond. Then he sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I know you want to help. And you do, more than you realize. But this... this is my burden. It's what I can do for the village, for you. And as long as I can lift this hammer, I'll keep doing it."
Eryndor stared at him, frustration and admiration warring in his chest. He wanted to argue, to demand that Calder take a break, but he also understood. This was who his father was—someone who bore the weight of others' needs without complaint, no matter the cost.
The next day, Eryndor woke early, determined to make things easier for Calder. He started with the simpler tasks: cleaning the forge, organizing the tools, and preparing the materials for the day's work.
When Calder arrived, he raised an eyebrow at the sight of Eryndor already sweating over the anvil. "You're up early," he said, his tone laced with curiosity.
"I wanted to get a head start," Eryndor said, straightening. "So you don't have to do everything yourself."
Calder watched him for a moment, then nodded. "All right, apprentice. Let's see what you've got."
They worked side by side throughout the day, Eryndor taking on more of the workload than ever before. He shaped nails, tempered small blades, and even reforged a bent plowshare with Calder's guidance.
By evening, his arms felt like lead, and his hands were raw from the tongs, but he couldn't help the flicker of pride in his chest. He had kept up, at least enough to take some of the strain off Calder.
As they cleaned up the forge, Calder clapped a hand on Eryndor's shoulder. "You did good today," he said. "Really good. I'm proud of you, Eryn."
Eryndor looked up at him, his exhaustion fading under the warmth of those words. "Thanks," he said quietly.
That night, as Eryndor lay in bed, he thought about the forge and the weight his father carried. Calder's strength wasn't just in his arms or his skill—it was in his resolve, his willingness to bear responsibility for the sake of others.
Eryndor knew he wasn't ready to take on that kind of burden yet. But one day, he would be. He would make sure of it.
The ember in his chest burned steadily as he drifted off to sleep, his dreams filled with the glow of the forge and the steady rhythm of a hammer striking steel.