Thin morning mist cloaked Norick's streets as Lucian made his way toward the forge district. Each step carried a mix of eagerness and unease—a day earlier, he had briefly helped Bastian with some menial tasks, and the blacksmith had invited him back to learn more. Yet the memory of suspicious gazes still weighed heavily. Some townsfolk might never trust him, but working under Bastian's watchful eye offered a chance to prove otherwise.
The rune etched beneath his bandages stirred lightly, like a slumbering ember responding to the prospect of forging. Over the past few days, Lucian had noticed that whenever he neared the clang of metal or the heat of a smithy, the rune's soft throbbing intensified. At first, it alarmed him—reminding him of the cult's dark ritual. But now, he felt an odd sense of curiosity growing, as if forging might unlock answers to the brand's secrets.
He inhaled the crisp dawn air and moved faster, skirting the few early risers setting up stalls in the main square. A yawning guard at the mayor's hall glanced at him but said nothing. Perhaps they're getting used to my presence, Lucian thought. The brand's warmth flickered, a quiet undercurrent of anticipation.
Bastian's forge sat at the edge of a row of workshops, its wide, open-front design allowing passersby to watch the smith work. Even this early, the place hummed with quiet activity. Sparks flickered as Bastian's apprentice—a lanky youth named Cale—stoked the coals in preparation for the day's labor. A swirl of dark smoke trailed skyward, taking with it the pungent scent of burning charcoal and molten iron.
Lucian paused at the threshold, nerves fluttering. Bastian emerged from the back corner, tugging a heavy apron over his broad chest. He caught sight of Lucian and offered a curt nod in greeting.
"You're early," Bastian rumbled, wiping sweat from his forehead with a soot-stained rag. "Takes dedication to show up at dawn."
Lucian dipped his head, chest tight with a mix of excitement and anxiety. "I—wanted to learn. And help, if I can."
Bastian studied him, thick arms folded. "All right. Let's start with the simple tasks." He jabbed a thumb at a cluttered side table where scraps of twisted metal and discarded nails lay in piles. "Separate those by type—nails in one bucket, bent iron rods in another, lumps of slag in a third. Once that's done, we'll see if you can handle something more interesting."
"Understood." Relief and anticipation warred in Lucian's chest. The brand, pressed close under his bandages, gave a faint pulse, as though urging him onward.
Lucian set to work. Cale, the apprentice, occasionally shot him curious glances but said little. Whether from suspicion or simple indifference, Lucian couldn't tell, but he remained grateful for the silence. Sorting metal scraps demanded focus—he knelt on the forge's dusty floor, combing through the piles, ignoring how soot and grime stained his fingers. The repetitiveness proved strangely calming. With each handful of nails he deposited into the right bucket, he felt a sense of small achievement.
An hour in, Bastian glanced over, nodding approvingly at the neat, organized buckets. "Not bad," he said. "You work fast." He motioned for Cale to take over, then jerked his chin at Lucian. "Come. I'll show you how to prepare the bellows."
Stepping deeper into the forge area, Lucian's eyes adjusted to the darker, smoke-laden interior. The central anvil stood amid scattered tools—tongs, hammers, chisels—each with signs of heavy use. The blast furnace hissed, already radiating intense heat. Embers glowed like miniature suns, and the brand pulsed more insistently now, mirroring the forge's fiery energy.
Bastian handed Lucian a thick pair of gloves. "We'll reheat that scrap metal you sorted—some of it's still usable. See the bellows here?" He pointed to a large, foot-operated apparatus connected to the furnace. "Step carefully and work a steady rhythm. Too slow, the fire'll die. Too fast, you'll overheat the metal. Watch me first."
He demonstrated, pressing down with a firm, consistent motion. The furnace roared in response, orange flames licking higher. Lucian observed the rhythm intently. It wasn't just pumping; it was timing—like a heartbeat matched to the forging process.
His own chest fluttered as he tried. The first press was too cautious, barely stirring the coals. Bastian barked a short laugh. "Put a bit more weight into it. Don't be afraid of the fire."
I'm afraid of a lot more than that, Lucian thought wryly, but he followed directions, pressing harder. The flames crackled, embers swirling. The brand on his abdomen felt warm, almost pleasantly so, like it recognized the furnace's heat.
"Better," Bastian said. "Keep it steady now. That's good." He loaded a jagged iron rod into the furnace. "We'll see if it can be reforged into nails or something else." He gave Lucian an appraising glance. "Ever done anything like this?"
Lucian shook his head. "No… I was just… traveling. Never had the chance."
"Traveling alone at your age, eh?" Bastian grunted, a flicker of unasked questions in his eyes. But he let it pass. "Well, forging's not easy, but if you've got the will, I can teach you a trick or two—once you've proven yourself with chores."
Lucian nodded, grateful that Bastian didn't pry deeper. The brand's low hum pulsed in agreement, encouraging him to keep going. He fell into the bellows' rhythm, sweat trickling down his brow, heart pounding in time with the roar of the flames.
By midday, the forge was alive with motion. Cale hammered out a series of simple nails, occasionally cursing when the metal cooled too fast. Lucian alternated between sorting scraps and operating the bellows while Bastian oversaw everything with keen eyes and firm instructions. The brand's quiet resonance lingered, creating a strange sense of synchronization that half mesmerized Lucian.
At one point, Bastian paused to sip from a waterskin. He turned to Lucian. "Hungry?"
Realizing his own stomach growled, Lucian nodded. "A bit, yes."
"Go around the corner, near the pottery workshop. There's a food stand selling grilled flatbread. Here." Bastian reached into a pouch at his waist, fishing out a small coin. "Buy two—one for yourself, one for Cale."
Lucian blinked at the coin—silver glinting in the dusty light. "But—I can't just—"
"Call it your wage for today," Bastian said gruffly. "Get going. We'll have more tasks after."
A rush of gratitude warmed Lucian's cheeks. "Thank you," he murmured, taking the coin carefully. He slipped out of the forge, the brand's warmth lessening slightly as he left the heat and clang behind.
He followed Bastian's directions, weaving around a cluster of passersby. The stands near the pottery workshop bustled with midday customers. Among them, he spotted the hooded figure again—just for a heartbeat. The person lingered at a corner, half-obscured by the crowd, their gaze pinned on Lucian. His heart lurched; the brand throbbed with sudden alarm.
Nobody else seems to notice, he realized with a spike of fear. Why follow me so persistently? He ducked behind a nearby stall, breath catching. When he glanced back, the figure was gone, swallowed by the throng. Should he tell Bastian? Or Gareth? They might just think I'm paranoid, he fretted.
Pushing aside the fear, he approached the food stand—a modest operation with a sizzling iron griddle. A pleasant aroma of grilled flatbread rose from it. The vendor, a middle-aged woman, greeted him with a welcoming nod. After a brief exchange, he handed over Bastian's coin and received two warm, fragrant flatbreads wrapped in cloth.
Clutching them in trembling hands, he scanned the crowd. No sign of the hooded stalker. Could they be from the cult? Are they testing me? The brand's unsettled hum refused to quiet. But he forced himself to walk calmly back to the forge, every step shadowed by the sense that danger lurked just out of sight.
Inside the smithy, he handed one flatbread to Cale. The lanky apprentice mumbled a thanks, quickly tearing into the food. Bastian raised an eyebrow at Lucian's pale face. "Something wrong?"
Lucian pressed his lips together, hesitating. "Just… I thought someone was following me again."
A flash of concern crossed Bastian's features. "Hooded type?"
Lucian nodded silently.
"Tell Gareth next time you see him," Bastian said, frowning. "Town's on edge enough with cult rumors. If suspicious folk are skulking around, we can't ignore it. But don't go doing anything rash yourself."
Lucian exhaled, nodding. The brand eased a fraction, as though relieved to have some measure of adult support. He unwrapped his own flatbread, biting in. The savory taste soothed his nerves, at least for a moment.
The afternoon wore on. Bastian, evidently satisfied with Lucian's diligence, had him help with menial chores around the forge—sweeping metal filings, organizing tools, even fetching water for cooling the anvil. Lucian found the tasks strangely soothing. The brand's constant presence never fully left him, but focusing on tangible work eased his restless thoughts.
Between chores, he overheard tidbits from passing customers and travelers:
"They say another farm vanished overnight—livestock gone, no trace of the family."
"I heard robed figures were spotted near the main road…"
"There's talk the mayor might hire mercenaries for additional protection."
Each rumor tightened the knot of worry in Lucian's chest. The brand fluttered with each snippet of cult news. They're encroaching, he thought grimly. This calm in Norick might not last.
During a quiet lull, he slipped outside to catch a breath of fresh air. The sun hung lower now, bathing the lane in a warm glow. A few workshop shutters were drawn for the evening, but Bastian's forge continued to ring with each hammer strike. Lucian rubbed the back of his neck, grappling with the sense that time was running out.