Harwin Veldar stood at the edge of the forge, his arms folded tightly across his broad chest. The orange glow of the dying embers flickered across his weathered face, deepening the lines carved by years of labor. Smoke lingered in the air, clinging to his beard and thick tunic.
The forge was quiet now, save for the occasional hiss as a stray spark met damp ash. The apprentices had long since gone to their beds, and even Bran had retreated for the night. But Harwin remained, his mind restless.
He tapped a boot against the stone floor, his thoughts as heavy as molten iron. He was a man who thrived on order—steel bent to his will, blades forged with precision. Yet lately, things had begun slipping from his grasp.
Bran, for one.
The boy had always been headstrong, driven by a stubborn need to prove himself. Harwin had seen potential in him from the start, which was why he'd taken the orphaned boy under his wing. But potential wasn't enough—it had to be shaped, hammered into something useful. And Bran? Bran was teetering on the edge of distraction, his focus slipping like water through clenched fingers.
Harwin didn't have to guess the reason. He'd seen the looks, the subtle glances exchanged between Bran and that wanderer, Tobias Hart.
Harwin scowled. Tobias was trouble—he could smell it on the young man like the acrid tang of burning slag. Outsiders always brought change, and change was a dangerous thing in a place like Ravenholt. The forge thrived on tradition, on the steady rhythm of iron and flame. There was no room for distractions, no room for deviations.
Harwin paced the length of the forge, his boots echoing against the stone. He couldn't afford to let Bran drift. The boy was on the cusp of becoming a master in his own right, and Ravenholt needed that strength. The village's reputation rested on the blades forged here, and Harwin had no intention of seeing that legacy tarnished.
But Tobias threatened to pull Bran away—to make him question his path. Harwin couldn't let that happen.
He paused near the anvil, his gaze hardening.
There was only one solution.
Harwin would have to remind Bran where he belonged—here, in the forge, with fire and steel as his only companions. And if that meant dealing with Tobias Hart directly, so be it.
The shadows flickered across Harwin's face as he leaned down to stoke the embers back to life. Flames licked upward, hungry and wild.
"Yes," he muttered to himself. "Time to temper the boy before he forgets what he's meant for."
His plan was already forming—a test, perhaps, or a challenge that would demand every ounce of Bran's focus and loyalty. Whatever it took, Harwin would see it through.
Because if Bran was a blade, then Harwin would be the smith who shaped him, hammering out weakness until only strength remained.
And Tobias Hart?
Harwin's jaw clenched.
He was nothing more than a spark threatening to set the forge ablaze—and Harwin knew exactly how to snuff it out.