A crisp morning light settled over Norick's narrow streets as Lucian made his usual trek toward the forge. For days, he had assisted Bastian with small tasks—sorting metal scraps, pumping the bellows, and fetching supplies. The lingering suspicions that haunted him upon arrival still flickered in the wary glances of certain townspeople, yet he felt a sliver of acceptance growing.
He stopped briefly at a corner stand to purchase a small loaf of bread with the coin he earned the day before. His stomach rumbled at the prospect of a real breakfast. The vendor, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, offered a tiny nod, her initial unease toward him seeming to have waned.
"Off to the smithy again?" she asked gently.
Lucian nodded, taking the bread. "Yes, ma'am. Bastian said we'd be shaping iron bars today."
She hummed approval. "Good to see a youngster with purpose. Be careful though—folks talk about robed attackers creeping closer."
His chest tightened; the brand beneath his bandages gave a faint flutter. Even the simplest conversation carried undercurrents of dread. It's fine, he told himself. I'm safer here than on the road. With a polite thanks, he hurried on, ignoring the ripple of anxiety coursing through him.
At the forge's open front, heat radiated from the early stoked flames. A swirl of smoke curled toward the sky. Bastian stood with arms folded, conferring with his lanky apprentice, Cale. Seeing Lucian approach, the blacksmith jerked his chin in greeting.
"Morning, lad," Bastian said, stepping aside to let Lucian glimpse the anvil. A trio of half-finished iron bars lay across it, partially hammered flat. "Cale's been at it since dawn. We'll finish these and see if they're suitable for hinges or rods."
Lucian handed Cale the extra half of his bread. The apprentice mumbled a thanks, already perspiring from the furnace's warmth. Meanwhile, Bastian thrust a pair of gloves in Lucian's direction.
"Ready to earn your keep?"
"Yes, sir." Lucian's response held more confidence than before. The brand flickered gently, as if responding to the forge's energy.
Bastian set him to pumping the bellows again, stoking the flame so Cale could reheat the bars. Each surge of the furnace's roar brought a flutter in Lucian's abdomen—a strange sense of resonance. He tried to ignore it and focus on his timing.
A short while later, Bastian gestured for him to take the tongs. "Come on, you can help shape this one."
Heart thumping, Lucian gripped the heated bar with the tongs, positioning it on the anvil. Cale hammered at Bastian's direction, and each clang sent sparks dancing across the dim interior. Lucian's arms shook from the strain of holding metal steady under blows, but determination fueled him. I won't stay weak, he reminded himself.
After a series of rhythmic strikes, Bastian nodded at the progress. "Not too shabby. Once we flatten the edges, it'll be good."
Lucian moved to quench the iron, steam billowing upward. In that moment, a rush of warmth blazed under his shirt. He nearly yelped as the brand flared bright and hot, as if devouring the forging energy. Eyes watering, he kept silent, forcing a calm facade.
Bastian gave him a curious glance. "Everything all right?"
Lucian swallowed. "Yes. Just… the steam."
The blacksmith watched him for a second longer, then grunted. "Take a breather if you need it. Work smart, not until you collapse."
Lucian mustered a nod, chest tight. The brand's warmth receded to a faint pulse, but the echo of that sudden flare lingered. Why does forging trigger you? he wondered. No answers presented themselves, only a sense that forging and the rune were connected more deeply than he'd suspected.
By midday, the forge's clamor subsided into a lull. Customers trickled in, some requesting repairs, others dropping off broken tools. The familiar routine soothed Lucian's nerves, overshadowing the brand's unsettled presence. A traveler approached with a bent sword, offering coin for a quick fix. Bastian took it, instructing Lucian to file the edges after he hammered them back into shape.
As Lucian worked, he thought he saw a flicker of movement outside—the silhouette of a hooded figure slipping past the entrance. His heart stuttered. He paused in the filing, gaze darting to the open street. The shape was gone, leaving only the bustle of midday foot traffic. Am I imagining it again? Tension cramped his stomach.
Still, he pressed on. Bastian loomed at his elbow, overseeing the final touches on the sword. "Careful with the file—steady strokes," the blacksmith reminded him.
Lucian complied, each motion measured, letting the scrape of metal soothe his nerves. Focus, he told himself. You have a place here now.
An hour later, the sword's owner left satisfied, praising Bastian's skill. With the immediate tasks done, Bastian pointed to the side bench. "Go see if we have enough rods for those gate hinges the mayor wanted. We'll need them finished soon."
Lucian nodded, heading to rummage through the newly forged bars. A swirling sense of belonging settled in him. Not full acceptance—some townsfolk still eyed him with suspicion—but forging offered a niche where he could prove his worth.
Then, footsteps scuffed near the forge entrance. He glanced up to see Gareth stepping inside, expression pinched. "Bastian. Lucian," the aide called. "We've got an issue in the square. Could use help."
Bastian wiped sweat from his brow, frowning. "What happened?"
"A rowdy outsider, maybe a mercenary, is causing trouble near the produce stalls," Gareth explained, voice clipped. "One of the guards is pinned down. The mayor asked me to fetch able-bodied folks."
Bastian sighed, untying his apron. "All right. Let's see what we can do. Cale, mind the forge." He turned to Lucian, eyes narrowing. "You stay—"
But Gareth interjected, "Actually, the guard specifically asked for Lucian, if you can believe it. Seems the troublemaker mentioned the 'strange boy' from the rumored cult village."
Lucian froze, the brand flaring with alarm. They're here for me?
Bastian's gaze darkened. "Oh, for the love of… Fine. But keep him behind us. We'll settle this quickly."
Lucian's stomach twisted. Anxiety warred with a flicker of anger. I won't run forever. He nodded, breath unsteady. "I'll go."
They hurried to the main square, navigating through startled onlookers. A commotion indeed dominated the produce stalls—baskets overturned, fruits strewn across the dusty ground. A battered guard lay on one side, struggling to rise. Towering over him, a heavily built stranger in mismatched armor clutched a short sword, face twisted with a sneer.
"I said I want that boy!" the mercenary bellowed. "He's rumored to have some… unique mark. My employer's interested."
Cold dread shot through Lucian's veins. They do know about the brand. The brand answered with a heated spike, fueling his pulse.
The surrounding crowd kept their distance, fear etched on their faces. Another guard stood nearby, spear raised in trembling hands. But the mercenary seemed unfazed, his stance wide, sword glinting in the midday sun.
Bastian elbowed through the bystanders, Gareth at his flank. Lucian trailed, heart hammering. The brand's thrumming nearly stole his breath. If this mercenary was from the cult, or simply hired by them, the confrontation threatened to rip away all the fragile stability Lucian had found.
Bastian stepped forward, broad shoulders squared. "Oi, you're not from around here. Put that blade down."
The mercenary snorted. "Mind your business, smith. I'm just retrieving what's rightfully sought by my patron. Hand over the boy, or I'll burn this place to the ground."
Unease rippled through the crowd. The guard tried to steady his spear, voice quavering, "Leave now, or face arrest."
"Apart from a few dull guards, I see no real threat." The mercenary's gaze scanned the onlookers until it landed on Lucian. A triumphant smirk twisted his lips. "There you are."
Lucian's knees threatened to buckle, but a surge of anger—fueled by fear—bolstered him. I can't cower. Not again. The brand's fierce pounding spurred him to stand straighter.
Bastian spread an arm protectively in front of Lucian. "You want a fight, you'll get it. But lay a hand on him, and you'll answer to me."
The mercenary barked a harsh laugh. "Ah, a blacksmith playing hero. Let's see how well your hammer stands against steel." He lunged with startling speed.
Bastian pivoted, grabbing a wooden pole from a nearby stall. He deflected the mercenary's slash, gritting his teeth as metal scraped against wood. Sparks flew when the sword raked along the stall's iron fittings. Several townsfolk yelped, diving aside.
Lucian's heart pounded, brand throbbing painfully. He backed away, but not too far—he couldn't abandon Bastian. The guard tried to intervene, stabbing at the mercenary's flank, only to be knocked off balance by a swift kick.
Snarling, the mercenary swung at Bastian again. This time, Bastian ducked low, smashing the wooden pole into the man's gut. The mercenary staggered, eyes flaring with rage. "You'll regret that!"
An adrenaline spike propelled Lucian forward. With shaking hands, he grabbed a discarded bucket from the stall's debris. He launched it at the mercenary's shoulder, aiming to distract. The bucket struck with a hollow clang, causing the aggressor's next strike to go wild.
Bastian seized the opening, lunging forward. He slammed the wooden pole against the mercenary's wrist. The sword clattered to the ground. The broad-shouldered man roared in fury, stepping back.
Before he could recover, the guard sprang up from behind, pressing the tip of a spear to the mercenary's neck. Another guard rushed in, shackles ready.
Breathing hard, Bastian gave a curt nod. "Now you're under arrest, you fool."
The mercenary spat, eyes locked on Lucian. "You've no idea who wants that boy. They'll come for him… and for this pitiful town. The cult isn't your only worry."
Tension gripped the air. The guard snapped the shackles on, escorting the man away. The crowd slowly exhaled, relief mingling with dread. Gareth stepped forward, gaze flicking from the battered guard to Lucian.
Lucian's limbs trembled. The brand's furious pounding settled into a dull ache. They specifically want me… and mentioned something beyond the cult. Terror coiled in his gut. Even captured, the mercenary's words echoed ominously.
Bastian let the wooden pole drop, sweat rolling down his temples. "You all right?" he asked Lucian, voice tight.
Lucian nodded, feeling tears prickle at the corners of his eyes—equal parts fear and gratitude. "Thank you," he whispered, breath unsteady. "I… I couldn't fight him alone."
"You did your part," Bastian replied, resting a reassuring hand on Lucian's shoulder. "Even if it was just a bucket." A half-smile flickered across his sooty face. "But if that brute's not lying, more trouble may come."
Gareth approached, wearing a grim expression. "We need to question him in the jail. But… if his patron truly hunts Lucian, the mayor might demand more supervision. We can't keep him locked in that storeroom forever."
Bastian studied the shaken boy, gaze softening. After a moment, he turned to Gareth. "Let him stay with me. The mayor's hall is too open, too exposed. At least in my forge, I can keep an eye on him—and he can keep working. Unless the mayor objects."
A wave of relief and apprehension flooded Lucian. Live at the forge? That means a real chance at forging, at safety… but also a bigger target if the cult or mercenaries come.
Gareth exhaled slowly. "I think the mayor will approve, especially after this scene. But I'll talk to him. For now, bring Lucian away from the crowds. Let's not spark more panic."
Bastian nodded, motioning for Lucian to follow. They left the scattered produce stalls behind, the crowd parting to let them pass. Murmurs chased them, rife with speculation: The cult wants him… The blacksmith's protecting him… Must be something special about that boy…
Lucian's mind spun with the mercenary's threat, the brand's agitation, and the sudden shift in his situation. Bastian wants me to stay at the forge? That's… a refuge, he realized. A place where forging might help him discover the brand's secrets—and perhaps a safe harbor from those who hunted him.
In the late afternoon hush, Lucian found himself standing at the edge of Bastian's workshop. The blacksmith rummaged for bedding supplies and a spare cot, occasionally casting a worried glance at the door.
"You sure about this?" Lucian asked softly. Fear lingered in his voice. "If I stay, it might put you in danger."
Bastian grunted. "We're all in danger with these cult rumors. If some merc wants a bounty on your head, that's not your fault." He paused, gaze steady. "Besides, I see your potential. Don't ask me why, but forging suits you. You have a steadiness beyond your years."
Gratitude and uncertainty swirled in Lucian's chest. The brand fluttered once in agreement, as if acknowledging Bastian's words. "I—I'll do my best."
Bastian handed him a rolled-up blanket. "We'll clear that corner for your cot. It's cramped, but I doubt you'll mind. You can earn your keep by helping more around the forge."
A small smile formed on Lucian's lips. "Thank you," he whispered, voice catching.
That single word carried more weight than all the suspicion and fear that had dogged him since his arrival in Norick. Bastian had offered not just lodging, but acceptance—no matter how tentative. In the near distance, the glow of the forge embers cast dancing shadows across the workshop, a silent promise of new beginnings.
As dusk fell, Lucian rolled out the spare cot in an alcove near stacks of lumber and metal stock. The workshop smelled of soot, hot iron, and faint sweat—an odd comfort. For the first time, he felt like he might have a chance to grow rather than just survive. The brand's pulse steadied, matching the slow hush of the forge as it cooled for the night.
"Be mindful of sparks," Bastian said, voice rough but not unkind. "We bank the embers each evening, but accidents happen. Also, if you see anything suspicious around here—let me know."
Lucian nodded earnestly. "I will." Memories of the hooded figure flicked through his mind, a chill gripping him. But at least within these walls, he sensed a measure of safety.
They closed the main doors, leaving only a lantern's glow to light the workshop. Outside, the hum of distant voices and occasional guard patrols underscored the tension swirling through Norick. Lucian stood in the lantern's soft light, reflecting on how abruptly his circumstances had changed: from roving fugitive to forge hand, from a haunted child to a boy forging iron. The brand fluttered, as if underscoring the cusp of a new chapter in his life.
Bastian exhaled, setting aside his hammer on a rack. "Long day," he muttered. "Rest up. We'll start fresh in the morning."
Lucian gave a respectful bow. "Good night, Bastian."
With that, the blacksmith nodded and disappeared into a small adjacent room that served as his sleeping quarters. Left alone in the workshop's dim hush, Lucian carefully lay on the cot. The faint glow of embers from the banked forge cast flickering patterns across the rafters. He clutched the thin blanket, feeling both excitement and apprehension.
This is my refuge now, he thought, pressing a hand over the hidden rune. The brand reacted with a soft wave of warmth, as though acknowledging this turning point. I'll keep forging, keep learning… keep living.
Tomorrow promised new lessons, new challenges, but he felt a flicker of genuine hope. The suspicious outsider's assault, though terrifying, had forced the mayor's hand. Now, under Bastian's roof, Lucian had a stable position—if only for a while. The shadows of the cult, the hooded stalker, and distant rumors of robed figures loomed on the horizon, yet he faced them no longer as a helpless wanderer. The clang of iron and the calloused hand of a blacksmith had given him a spark of purpose.
He closed his eyes, letting the forge's lingering heat lull him. As the workshop settled into quiet, the brand's gentle throb kept him company, neither menacing nor benign—just a constant reminder that life had drastically changed. I'm not just running anymore… I'm forging a path.
The last thought hung in his mind as he drifted into uneasy slumber. The tenth day in Norick ended with him stepping across the threshold into a future that might hold more than fear. Bastian's forge, messy and loud and welcoming, would be his new shelter. And for Lucian—marked by a rune he barely understood—that was more than he ever hoped to find.