Ryen had finished forging his blade, the one meant for himself. The metal gleamed faintly in the forge light, warm and steady, a reflection of all the hours, all the blows, all the exhaustion he had poured into it. Willy leaned against the workbench, pipe between his teeth, watching him quietly.
"It's done then," Willy said at last, voice low but steady. "Looks… good. Better than I expected."
Ryen ran a hand over the spine of the blade, muscles trembling. "I… thank you, Willy. For everything."
The older man nodded, eyes softening. "You've done enough here, boy. Too much, maybe. Can't have you passing out on my forge forever, now can we?"
From behind, one of the young apprentices snickered. "He's like a shadow, Willy. Always collapsing, always half-asleep. Maybe we should just put a pillow under him."
Ryen let out a faint laugh, tired and shaky. Willy chuckled, shaking his head. "Aye, I'd have to charge him rent for the floor by now. But look at him — still got the blade done. Fragile or not, he sticks it out."
Another apprentice added, grinning, "Better not let him wander too far. Or he'll collapse on someone else's forge next."
Ryen smiled weakly, feeling the warmth of their teasing, their gentle laughter. It wasn't mockery — it was acknowledgment, a kind of camaraderie he had rarely known.
Willy reached into a drawer and pulled out a small pouch. "For the road," he said, "you'll need it. And don't think of it as charity. Just… a way to not starve while you wander."
Ryen shook his head, voice quiet but steady. "I… can't take this. I have… nothing to give back, not really. But… thank you."
The pause that followed was thick with unspoken words. Ryen wanted to say more, to explain how much the forge, the work, and Willy's patience had meant to him, but the weight of gratitude pressed heavier than the hammer ever had, and for a moment, he simply let the silence speak.
Willy puffed his pipe and exhaled slowly. "Well… you always pass out, haha. But boy, I appreciate your work. Most lads wouldn't even try, most would collapse before the first fold."
Ryen nodded slowly, taking in the warmth of the forge, the lingering scent of soot and oil, the quiet hum of hammers from the other workers. His heart thumped unevenly in his chest, a mixture of exhaustion, gratitude, and the faint ache of knowing he had to leave.
He packed his belongings carefully, adjusted the strap of the shining blade across his back, and lingered for a moment longer, imprinting the forge into memory.
"I'll remember this… and you," he said, voice low but firm. "And the people here. Thank you."
Willy smiled, a faint shake of the head, hand resting on the anvil as if to steady himself. "Don't make me cry, boy. Go on… wander your way. Just try not to pass out too far from the next village, eh?"
The apprentices laughed softly, one calling after him, "Watch out for the floors, Ryen!" Another shouted, "Try not to drop your blade on anyone!"
Ryen chuckled quietly, a small, exhausted sound of release and relief. Then he turned and stepped onto the road. The forge receded behind him, smoke curling faintly from its chimney, the village quiet in the morning haze. He moved slowly, deliberately, carrying only his gratitude and the shining blade he had forged for himself.
For three more weeks, Bellforge would remain untouched by the whispers of dissonance. Beyond the hills, the world stirred as it always did. But for now, Ryen walked forward, leaving behind warmth, acknowledgment, and the quiet echo of a boy who had learned patience, endurance, and the delicate weight of gratitude.