"You new around here, kid?" Bastian's voice rumbled, not unkind but definitely curious.
Lucian managed a weak nod. "Yes, sir."
A faint frown furrowed Bastian's brows as he wiped sweat from his forehead with a rag. "Seen you skulking about for a minute now. No reason to be shy, unless you're up to mischief." His tone carried mild amusement rather than accusation.
The brand pulsed, half warning, half curiosity. Lucian swallowed. "I'm not. Just… watching the forging."
Bastian nodded slowly, broad shoulders relaxing. "Aye, forging draws folks sometimes. You want to see more?"
Lucian blinked. Part of him wanted to bolt—he didn't relish attracting attention. But another part yearned to peer closer at the process that inexplicably resonated with him. "If that's all right," he ventured quietly.
Bastian motioned for him to approach. "Don't get in the way. Sparks are dangerous."
Stepping forward, Lucian felt the forge's heat prick at his skin. The brand's warmth rose in tandem, as if in response. He forced himself to focus on Bastian's demonstration: a fresh iron bar slid into the forge, heated until it glowed a fiery orange. Then Bastian laid it on the anvil, hammering with practiced rhythm. Each strike shaping the metal, each clang forging new purpose from raw iron.
Lucian's chest tightened, enthralled despite his fear. How is forging so mesmerizing? he wondered. The brand's gentle thrumming suggested a deeper connection. Even the air felt charged with possibility—like lines of energy weaving between hammer and metal.
After a few rounds of hammering and re-heating, Bastian quenched the piece again. Satisfied, he turned to Lucian with a small grunt of approval. "Basic stuff, but it pays the bills. Name's Bastian, by the way. You?"
"Lucian," he replied, heart still fluttering with that strange excitement. "Nice to meet you."
Bastian snorted lightly. "You from the mayor's place? Heard a rumor they had some refugee holed up. Could that be you?"
An instinctive flicker of dread shot through Lucian. The brand twitched, reminding him of how precarious his situation was. "Yes, sir," he answered softly. "I… had nowhere else to go."
Bastian shrugged, unhooking his apron. "Norick's not exactly a paradise, but it's safer than wandering the wilds. If you need a place to keep busy, maybe there's a chore or two around the forge." He paused, glancing at the boy's slim arms. "I can't pay much, though."
A tiny flicker of hope warmed Lucian's chest, quelling the brand's tension. "I wouldn't mind. I'd like to learn." The words came out unplanned, surprising even him. But they rang with an odd sincerity—he did want to learn more about forging, as though pulled by the brand's unspoken beckoning.
Bastian huffed a short laugh. "Learn, eh? We'll see if you've got the grit." He wagged a finger. "Start with menial tasks—tidying scraps, maybe stoking the forge. If you don't mind sweat and burned fingertips, I'll show you a trick or two." His gaze softened a fraction, as though he recognized some spark in Lucian's eyes.
Lucian's lips curved in a tentative smile. "Thank you." The brand quieted to a gentle hum, content for the moment.
He spent the next hour hauling small baskets of scrap metal from one corner of the workshop to another. The labor felt good—concrete, straightforward, better than cowering in the storeroom. Townsfolk occasionally passed by, glimpsing him at work. Some still wore guarded expressions, but with Bastian's presence, few dared question him outright.
Twice, Lucian sensed that prickling awareness of being watched. Each time, he spun around, scanning the crowds and alleys. But the hooded figure from earlier was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it had been a random traveler. Still, the brand's subdued pulse reminded him not to relax his guard completely.
As midday approached, Bastian clapped him on the shoulder. "Enough for now, kid. Grab a bite. You look ready to topple again."
Lucian wiped sweat from his brow, chest heaving. He nodded gratefully, a swirl of emotions tangling in his mind—gratitude for the brief acceptance, a cautious thrill at discovering forging.
He made his way back toward the mayor's hall. The crowd in the marketplace parted easily, merchants hawking goods while travelers bargained. A sense of normalcy reigned, despite the rumors of cult activity in distant hamlets.
Near a row of fruit vendors, he overheard two men speaking in hushed tones: "… heard the farm up north got ransacked. They say robed fiends took captives." Lucian's stomach twisted at their words, a fresh wave of horror washing over him. The cult is still active. Possibly nearing Norick. The brand stirred with faint agitation.
He forced himself to keep walking.
Back at the mayor's hall, a guard out front only offered him a curt nod as he slipped inside. He walked the corridors, eventually finding Gareth in a cramped office, pouring over supply ledgers. The aide glanced up.
"You've been out," Gareth observed. "Everything all right?"
Lucian bobbed his head. "I… helped Bastian at the forge a little. He said I could do small tasks."
Gareth's eyebrows rose, but he seemed neither upset nor surprised. "So long as the mayor has no objections, you're free to keep busy. Just remember—some folks remain uneasy." He paused, flipping a ledger page. "But it might help show them you're willing to work, not just be a burden."
A hint of relief loosened Lucian's tense shoulders. "Thank you," he murmured. Then, recalling the hooded figure and the gossip about robed attacks, he hesitated. "Gareth, do you… think the cult might come here?"
The aide's expression darkened. He leaned back in his chair, sighing. "Hard to say. We get rumors daily—some might be exaggerated. But the mayor's concerned. The guard is on higher alert."
A chill ran through Lucian. The brand flickered restlessly. "If they do come, I—" He swallowed. "I don't want anyone else hurt."
Gareth studied him, eyes softening for a moment. "We'll defend ourselves." He glanced at the door, where a guard strolled past.
Lucian gave a small nod, not fully reassured. If the cult is as relentless as I fear, we might not have a choice. He bowed slightly to Gareth and excused himself, heading back to his storeroom quarters. The brand's mild warmth never let him forget that time was ticking.
That evening, Lucian sat on his cot, replaying the day's events. He'd glimpsed Bastian's forging skill and begun earning a sliver of acceptance—even if townsfolk remained wary. He'd also seen signs of a potential threat: the hooded figure lingering at the fringe of town, rumors about robed invaders nearing. The danger seemed to be growing daily, pressing against Norick's shaky defenses.
Without further hesitation, he rose. Tomorrow, he'd go back to Bastian's forge. He'd learn all he could. The road ahead was steep, lined with suspicion and hidden foes, but as his resolve coalesced, he found a surprising steadiness.
In the faint glow of a single lantern, Lucian prepared for bed. Outside, the wind carried distant murmurs of unrest—hinting that a storm, both literal and figurative, might soon sweep through Norick.
Exhaling softly, he settled onto the cot, letting exhaustion claim him. Tomorrow, he would face the day with new purpose, undaunted by suspicious gazes or lurking shadows. The brand's mild hum accompanied him into uneasy dreams, but for once, they weren't ruled by terror alone—threads of hope wove through them, like iron ready to be shaped under the hammer's blow.