"Kid," came a gruff call from inside. Lucian turned to see Bastian beckoning him. "Got a small job you can help with." He held a bar of iron. "We'll try forging a simple shape—just flattening it into a flat bar. Think you can handle the tongs while I hammer?"
Lucian's heart thumped. "Yes, sir," he said, swallowing excitement. An actual forging process.
Standing at Bastian's side, he grabbed the tongs as instructed, the heat from the near-molten iron radiating against his gloves. Carefully, he positioned the glowing metal on the anvil. Bastian's hammer rose and fell, each impact echoing in Lucian's chest. The brand's pulse sped up, resonating with the hammer's cadence.
A faint tingle rippled across his abdomen, as though the rune recognized this forging energy. Is it absorbing something? The notion made him both curious and wary. Regardless, he held steady, letting Bastian methodically shape the iron into a rudimentary flat piece. The synergy of man and metal transfixed him—raw material becoming something new under unwavering blows.
Finally, Bastian nodded for him to shift the bar to the quenching vat. Lucian did so, steam hissing as the metal cooled. A jolt of intense warmth sparked in the rune, then faded. He nearly yelped at the sudden sensation but bit his lip, keeping silent. What was that?
Bastian eyed him. "Everything all right?"
Lucian mustered a tiny smile. "Yes. Just… the heat." He hoped Bastian wouldn't notice the slight tremor in his voice.
The blacksmith shrugged and retrieved the metal from the water, examining it with a critical eye. "For a first attempt, not bad." He looked at Lucian, brow knitted. "You handled the tongs steady enough. Keep practicing, and you might make a decent smith's helper."
Lucian felt an unexpected flush of pride. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Bastian grunted. "You'll need muscle, technique, knowledge. This was just flattening metal. Next time, we shape something useful."
Despite the blacksmith's brusque tone, Lucian sensed a faint warmth of approval. He nodded, chest still fluttering from the brand's reaction.
By the time evening arrived, Lucian's entire body ached in a satisfying way—nothing like the dull pain of fleeing and starvation. With Bastian's permission, he tidied up the forge before preparing to head back toward the mayor's hall. He might still sleep in that storeroom, but a strange new confidence buoyed him.
"I'll see you tomorrow?" Bastian asked as Lucian stepped outside.
Lucian offered a timid smile. "If that's all right."
"Sure." Bastian rubbed his stubbled chin. "Just don't vanish. If this business with robed strangers is real, watch yourself on the streets."
Lucian nodded, thinking of the hooded figure. "I will. Thank you," he repeated, bowing slightly. With that, he turned and walked away, the forge's warmth lingering at his back.
The streets were quieter now, lamplights flickering against the dusk. A group of guards patrolled near the main square, watchful of potential threats. Lucian skirted them, not eager to be questioned further. Each passing face seemed less hostile than before, though some whispered behind hands when they recognized him. He tried to ignore it, recalling the satisfaction he'd gleaned from forging—a sense that maybe, in time, he could forge a place for himself here too.
Something tugged at his gut, and the brand surged with a staccato beat. Instantly, Lucian snapped alert. That presence again? He halted near a shuttered shop, scanning the dim corners. No one. Yet the brand's flicker persisted, as though warning him to remain cautious.
He quickened his pace, drifting into the narrower alleys that led toward the mayor's hall. When he turned a corner, a silhouette melted back into the shadows—a slight movement, enough to send his heartbeat skyrocketing. Gripping the nearest doorframe for balance, he stared at the vacant alley where the figure had vanished.
'They're definitely tailing me. Fear churned in his stomach. Why? Are they waiting for the right moment?'
He forced himself to keep walking, refusing to run and draw more attention. If the cult was truly on his trail, sprinting blindly in the dark would accomplish nothing. The brand's pulses grew ragged, torn between flight and a spark of defiance.
At last, he stepped into the mayor's hall, chest tight with lingering adrenaline. A guard by the door gave him a curt nod. He exhaled, shoulders slumping. Safe for now. The brand's frantic throbbing calmed. But the memory of that watcher lingered, thickening his dread. Sooner or later, they might strike in earnest.
He retreated to his cramped storeroom, letting the day's aches wash over him. His battered body demanded rest, but his mind refused to relax. The forging with Bastian replayed in his thoughts—the synergy of hammer and heat, the brand's uncanny response. That flash of warmth, almost like the rune was feeding on the forging energy… or guiding him somehow.
Staring at the low lamp flame, he pressed a hand over the bandaged brand. "Why do you react like this?" he whispered. It remained silent, just a faint warmth beneath his palm. Outside, distant footsteps padded along the corridor—guards ensuring the mayor's hall stayed secure. A meager comfort, all things considered.
With a resigned sigh, Lucian eased onto the cot, shutting his eyes. Tomorrow, he'd return to Bastian's forge. He would help shape iron and, in doing so, perhaps discover a clue to his own shaping—how to become more than just a frightened child marked by cult magic. If the robed stalkers wanted him, they'd learn he wasn't as helpless as before.
The rune fluttered one last time, then settled into a steady, slow pulse. In the hush of the storeroom, Lucian's exhaustion finally claimed him, drawing him into restless dreams. Yet even in sleep, the echoes of hammer on anvil followed him, forging determination from fear.