Rhythm is not always loud.
Sometimes, it's a breath before the blow.
A step taken out of time.
A hum so soft, only destiny can hear it.
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"The world does not wait for boys to become men.
It simply throws them into fireâand watches who sings."
By midday, the forge had fallen quiet again, save for the distant cracking of pinewood and the slow breath of old bellows.
Ren stood at the doorway, the forge smoke curling behind him like a spirit too stubborn to leave. He watched the path that wound down the mountainâwatched for the silver glint of armor and boots marching in time.
They would come soon.
He could feel it.
The Crown's rhythm always arrived before the soldiers did.
Behind him, Dairo moved like a storm pretending to be tiredâmethodical, unhurried, but every motion born from knowing. The old man's iron leg scraped softly across the stone as he packed the forge: quenching oils, hardened nails, a small cask of black powder, two sets of tongs, and a folded cloak that once belonged to someone Dairo never spoke of.
"They'll mark you this time," he said without looking up.
Ren didn't answer.
Not because he disagreed.
Because he already knew.
"The war's grown teeth. And the Crown's hungry again."
"I'm not ready," Ren whispered.
"No one ever is. Not truly. But you'll go."
"Because I must?"
"Because the blade has already begun to sing."
Later that day, the soldiers came. Three of them, iron-wrapped and sun-burnt, their chestplates bearing the twin fang crest of Syr'khan. Their boots struck the stone road in perfect time, as if their footsteps were an instrument in some unseen march. Even before they spoke, their rhythm pressed against the village like a storm frontâpredictable, cold, controlled.
They did not bow.
They did not greet.
They posted a scroll on the village gate.
Draft Order â By the Crown's Rhythm
All boys of fourteen winters and stronger than a hammer's weight are to report within two days to the valley barracks. Any refusal will be met with silence.
â Signed in Ashsteel, Commander Halreth
No one in the village spoke.
No one tore the scroll down.
And that, more than anything, was proof: the fear wasn't new.
That night, Ren did not sleep.
He lay on the forge floor beneath an old wool blanket, the hum of coals whispering faintly from the hearth. The broken blade rested beside him, silent as ever. But something inside him had changed.
It was not courage.
It was not dread.
It was⊠listening.
He could still feel the vibration from that morning. Faint. Like a memory that had teeth.
And in the silence of night, he asked a questionânot aloud, but with his breath, his stillness:
"What are you trying to tell me?"
No answer came. But in his chest, the hum returned.
By dawn, Dairo was already at the anvil.
He didn't call Ren to help. He didn't look up. He struck the glowing steel in a rhythm Ren had never heard beforeânot the clean triple-beat of standard forging, not the twin-step pattern used for guards and hilts. This was deeper. Hollow and slow, like heartbeats in stone.
Tang.
...Tang.
...
TANG.
Ren sat at the edge of the forge and watched.
He didn't ask what Dairo was making. He knew the answer would come when it was ready.
"The Crown forges soldiers," Dairo said suddenly. "It gives them rhythm. That's its power. Not strength. Rhythm. Unity. Predictability."
"And me?"
"You are not a soldier."
"Then what am I?"
"A storm between rhythms. A dancer whose steps the Crown cannot write."
By afternoon, the village square filled with conscripts. Boys and young menâsome eager, most terrified. The soldiers checked scrolls, drew blood from fingers to test lineage, measured height and grip strength. When Ren stepped forward, one of the men scowled.
"You again."
It was the same officer who rejected Ren last year.
The one who said he moved like a drunk windmill.
"What's changed?"
Ren didn't answer.
Instead, he drew the broken blade from behind his back.
The soldier sneered.
"That? You think you'll earn the Crown's favor with a shattered stick?"
Ren's gaze did not waver.
And thenâwithout permission, without callâhe stepped.
Just once. A breath. A twist of the wrist. A subtle flourish.
The tip of the broken blade caught the sunlight like a tongue of fire.
No one spoke.
And then the officer, frowning, nodded once.
"Fine. Welcome to the rhythm."
Back at the forge, Dairo said nothing.
He only handed Ren a wrapped bundleâa blade, untouched by name, wrapped in oilcloth.
"You will not carry this now," he said. "Not yet. Not until the song calls for more than hums."
Ren looked up.
"What is it?"
"Steel that remembers its maker. And its purpose."
"And what's mine?"
Dairo smiled, tired and fierce all at once.
"To remind the world that a sword is not a tool of silence.
But of song."
When Ren walked down the mountain two mornings later, he carried no shield.
No banner.
Only the broken blade tucked at his side,
And a songâquiet, steadyâtrembling in his bones.
The Crown's rhythm would teach him war.
But Ren?
Ren would teach it how to listen.