Late-Morning
Sater's Day
15th of Avril, Year 824 of the Silent Age
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PROJO'S QUEST LOG:
+ Repay Bram (Owe 24 Gold)
+ Check the The Gilded Pig Notice Board for work
+ Learn More About My Strange Powers
+ Return to Mira
PROJO'S INVENTORY:
+ Money: 4 Gold, 18 Silver, 33 Copper
+ Weapons: Iron Longsword, Iron Dagger
+ Armor: Crude Leather Cuirass
+ Supplies:
- 1 Day's Worth of Trail Rations
- Flint & Steel
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The morning sun felt warm on Projo's face as he walked the long, dusty road back to Greatbridge. The world seemed different. Sharper.
The green of the trees was more vibrant, the blue of the sky deeper. The air itself seemed to hum with a quiet energy he had never noticed before. He felt the weight of the crude leather cuirass he wore and the iron longsword at his hip, but they no longer felt like a foreign costume. They felt like tools he'd begun to learn how to use.
The four-hour walk passed in a blur of thought, his mind replaying the events of the last two days on a loop the entire way. Mira's final words echoed in his head, a mantra of hope and purpose.
We can figure it out together.
Finally, late in the afternoon, the familiar, imposing stone walls of Greatbridge rose up to meet him. The city, which had been his entire world before, now felt... smaller.
He walked through the familiar, noisy streets of the Old Quarter, past the stables and toward the ever-present sound of the forge. As he approached, he could see Bram working, his hammer rising and falling in its timeless, powerful rhythm.
But Projo didn't go directly to the smithy—not yet. His debt to Bram was a mountain, but the path to paying it off—and the path to understanding himself—began somewhere else.
He turned, heading instead to The Gilded Pig.
Inside, nailed to the far wall, he found the notice board Mira had mentioned. A chaotic tapestry of parchment notices, job postings, and desperate pleas hung before him. It was the nexus of all the trouble and all the opportunity in Greatbridge.
Projo found a notice looking for a caravan guard. It was the perfect opportunity. He carefully tore the small parchment from the board, the old nail squeaking in protest.
With the notice in hand, he turned and headed for the city's northern gate.
The Wagoner's Rest Inn was a different world from The Gilded Pig.
It was less a tavern and more a bustling waystation. The air smelled of hay, animals, and road dust, not stale ale. The yard was a chaotic maze of large trade wagons, resting mules, and merchants haggling over cargo.
Inside, the common room was practical and sturdy, filled with long trestle tables where travelers and teamsters were quietly eating or studying maps. Projo scanned the room and quickly spotted his man: a middle-aged merchant with curly grey hair, a sharp, intelligent face, and a neatly trimmed beard. He was alone, leaning against a bar counter and meticulously checking a ledger—a half-empty mug of ale sitting beside him.
Projo approached the table. "Silas Blackwood?"
The merchant looked up, his eyes sharp and assessing. They swept over Projo in an instant, taking in the crude leather armor, the calloused hands, and the serious expression. "I am," he said, voice crisp and business-like. "And you're here about the notice, I presume."
Projo nodded, placing the torn parchment on the bar. "I'm looking for work."
Silas interlaced his fingers and gave Projo an analyzing look. "Ever guarded a caravan before, son?"
"No, sir," Projo admitted honestly.
"Know how to use that sword, or is it for show?"
"I can handle myself," Projo said, his mind flashing back to the grim clearing.
A flicker of interest appeared in Silas's eyes. "I see. One last question. Do you drink on the road?"
"No, sir."
Silas nodded, a decision made. "Good. The road to Shattercoast is long, and I need sober guards, not drunken louts." He gestured vaguely to the tavern around him. "Be here at dawn tomorrow. The pay is two Gold upon arrival. I provide the food along the way, you provide the steel. Are we agreed?"
Projo thought over the arrangement for a short moment, then held out his hand. "Agreed."
Silas grasped his hand firmly, securing their agreement, and Projo took his leave.
He had a job. He had a destination. He had a plan. He just needed to close one door before he could truly walk through the new one.
Projo walked back through the familiar streets, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows from the city's rooftops. The sounds of the Market Square were beginning to wind down as vendors packed up their stalls for the evening.
When he reached the smithy, the roar of the forge was gone. Bram was not at the anvil. He was sitting on a low stool by the entrance, a whetstone in his hands, methodically sharpening a bearded axe. He didn't look up as Projo approached, but the steady rhythm of his work faltered for a half-second, the only sign he had noticed his apprentice's return.
The tension hung in the air, thick and heavy as forge smoke.
Projo stood there for a long moment, a stranger in the only home he had ever known. He could see the path his life had been on—the endless cycle of coal, steel, and his mentor's gruff approval—and the new, uncertain path that now stretched out before him.
After much too long, both of them refusing to speak, Projo broke the silence. "Can I buy you a pint?" He thrust a thumb over his shoulder toward The Gilded Pig.
The rhythmic scrape... scrape... scrape of the whetstone on steel stopped. The sudden silence was more dense than the noise it replaced.
Bram slowly set the axe and the stone down on the stool beside him. He didn't look at Projo. He looked at the coin pouch hanging at Projo's hip, the one that held the "fool's wage." Then his hard, tired eyes finally lifted to meet his apprentice's.
"Think you can fix your mess by buying me an ale?" he growled, the words rough as unpolished iron.
But he stood anyway with a weary sigh, not waiting for an answer. "Fine," he wiped his hands on his leather apron. "Don't waste my time."
Without another word, he began making his way toward The Gilded Pig, his heavy boots echoing on the cobblestones.
The walk across the square was tense. The familiar, lively atmosphere of the city shrank away from the bubble of cold disapproval that surrounded the massive blacksmith. Bram pushed open the tavern door and strode inside, heading for an isolated table in the far corner, away from the noise and the light.
Projo settled into the rough-hewn chair opposite Bram. Elara, the serving girl, approached their table, a flicker of surprise in her eyes at seeing the two of them together.
"Two pints of the common," Projo said, his voice steady. "And two of your Hero's Feasts."
Elara's eyebrows shot up. The Hero's Feast was the most expensive meal on the menu, a small luxury even for successful merchants. She glanced at Bram, who remained silent and stone-faced, then back at Projo, who simply met her gaze and nodded.
"Right away," she said, scurrying off toward the bar.
Bram watched her go, then turned his hard gaze back to Projo. He said nothing, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.
Ordering food without asking was presumptuous. Ordering the best food in the house was a statement.
The silence was broken by the arrival of two large, frothing mugs of ale. Bram wrapped his huge hand around his mug but didn't drink. He just stared into the dark liquid, waiting.
Projo took a long drink of his ale, then said, "I don't know if I'll ever be able to repay you for watching out for me all these years. But I do intend to pay back the gold I owe you for the sword. And I can't do that as your apprentice."
He stared at the old man for a moment, then added, "I mean, I could, but…" he took another sip of his ale, attempting to break the tension. "I'd look as old as you by the time I was done."
A small, impossibly faint smirk touched Bram's lips for a fraction of a second, then vanished. He finally took a long, slow drink from his pint, draining a third of it in one go. He set the heavy mug down on the table with a solid thud.
"So you're off to chase your magic dreams," Bram grumbled. "I've tried to make you a good blacksmith, but I can't tell you how to live your life."
He looked at Projo, his gaze no longer just angry, but tired and deeply serious. "This path you're choosing... it's not an easy one. That money you got comes with blood on it. I've seen a dozen boys just like you, flush with their first bounty, thinking they're kings. Most of them end up in a shallow grave with a dagger in their back over a few silver pieces."
Elara arrived then, breaking the tension. She set down two massive wooden platters in front of them. The smell of roasted steak, fried potatoes, and rich gravy filled the air. It was a king's meal, a feast that seemed out of place in their grim conversation.
Bram stared at the plate for a long moment, then picked up his knife and fork.
"So what is it?" he asked, cutting into his steak. "More bandit chasing? Or did you find some other fool's errand to get yourself killed on?"
Projo cut into his food, taking a bite and savoring it as he eyed over the old blacksmith.
He was deciding how much to tell him about what had happened. After he swallowed and washed the food down with a sip, he wordlessly pulled the loose center of his tunic aside, revealing where his wound had been yesterday. His gaze never left Bram's face, fully aware of what he was revealing to his mentor, and accepting the weight of it.
Bram's knife and fork clattered onto his plate. The sound was unnaturally loud in the quiet corner of the tavern.
The blacksmith leaned forward, his massive frame casting a deep shadow over the table. He squinted, his eyes—used to spotting the tiniest flaw in a line of steel—traced the spot where Projo's tunic was pulled aside.
He looked from Projo's chest to face, then back again.
"Gods above," Bram whispered, his voice hoarse and shaky. He leaned in even closer, as if afraid of being overheard. "Boy, what in the hell did she do to you?"
Projo let the tunic fall from his hand, covering his chest again. "Bram, it's going to sound like a joke when I tell you, but I swear on everything you've put into me in the last fifteen years that it's the truth."
He leaned in close with Bram, the old man looking at him with an expression full of confusion.
Projo glanced around one last time, making sure no one was listening. He whispered low, "It healed when we had sex."
Bram stared, his mouth slightly agape, the words hanging in the air between them like thick, black smoke. The blacksmith, a man of iron and fire and hard, tangible truths, tried to fit Projo's whispered confession into his understanding of the world. It was like trying to hammer cold steel into the shape of a bird.
It simply did not fit.
He leaned back slowly, pulling away from Projo as if the boy himself were now white-hot.
"Sex," Bram repeated flatly.
He looked around the noisy tavern, gaze darting from table to table, then leaned in again.
"You're telling me that girl... she's a witch?" he hissed. "Some kind of blood-mage? What did she take from you in exchange?"
He wasn't asking about the magic. He was asking about the cost. In Bram's world, everything had a price, and a miracle like the one he had just witnessed had to have the highest price of all.
Projo shook his head quickly. "No, Bram, that's the thing. It was me." He glanced around again for listening ears. "Whatever it was, I don't know how to describe it. Magic, surely—but not the normal kind some folk use. It came from inside me, only when we got close. Physically. It healed her too."
He was fully aware of how strange it sounded, how wild the insinuations were. But there was an undeniable twinge of humor in his tone he couldn't contain because of how absurd it was. He could heal life-threatening wounds.
With sex.
The small, dark glimmer of humor in Projo's tone died a quick death in the face of Bram's reaction. The blacksmith didn't just look confused anymore.
He looked genuinely horrified.
Slowly, Bram pushed his half-eaten plate of food away from himself. He leaned back in his chair, creating a physical distance between them.
"Don't you joke now," Bram's voice was a low thunder. "Not about this."
He shook his head, his mind clearly refusing to accept what he was hearing. "She's addled your wits, boy. Some kind of charm-spinner. She did something to you, and now she's got you believing her magic is your own."
He leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "That's not... that's not normal magic, Projo. Healing like that, tied to... that. It's old magic. Dark magic. The kind they tell stories about to frighten children into bolting their doors at night."
He stared at Projo, and the look on his face made Projo sick and uncomfortable.
"What are you, boy?"
The shift in tone settled hard in Projo's chest. "I'm the same person you helped raise, Bram. Beyond that," he shook his head. "I don't know. I'm scared too, so that's why I'm leaving. To find out whatever I can."
He took another small, tasteless bite of his food, then gestured vaguely to the feast between them. "I just… wanted to say goodbye." His voice was small, dejected in the face of his mentor's fear.
Bram didn't immediately respond.
He just stared, his face a mask of stone, but his eyes filled with a storm of conflicting emotions—fear, confusion, and a deep, paternal protectiveness that was now warring with a primal sense of dread. Projo's quiet, heartfelt "goodbye" seemed to break through the horror, if only for a moment.
The blacksmith let out a long, slow breath, the sound like the last hiss of a cooling forge. The rigid fear in his posture softened into a weary sadness. He looked at the half-eaten feast on the table between them, a gesture of goodwill that had curdled into something monstrous.
"Leaving," Bram repeated. "Where? To do what? Chase that girl somewhere? Let her twist you into something else?"
"Bram," Projo spat, losing his cool. "It has nothing to do with the girl. She's an innocent in all of this, I'm not chasing her anywhere. Don't go hanging your fear on her."
But Bram just shook his head. "I taught you how to shape steel, boy. How to find the flaws, hammer them out. How to make something true and strong."
He looked up, meeting Projo's eye. "This... what you're talking about... it's not steel. It's shadow. And I can't teach you how to shape that. Gods help you, I don't know if anyone can."
He picked up his half-full pint of ale, hand slightly trembling, and drained it in one desperate swallow.
"Go on, then," Bram set the empty mug down with a heavy thud. "Go. Before you bring whatever darkness follows you to my forge."
"I'm sorry you feel the way you do," Projo said. His mentor's disapproval tasted foul in his mouth. "When I have your coin, I'll see that it's sent to you so you know the debt is paid. You don't have to worry about seeing me again."
He stood and drained his mug of ale.
Bram flinched at the sharp tone in Projo's voice. He looked up, his eyes wide with a flicker of surprise. The old blacksmith just sat there, his massive shoulders slumped, looking small and defeated in the noisy, cheerful tavern.
Projo slammed the empty mug down on the table. He turned away, leaving the half-eaten feast and the man who had been his only family, and walked out of The Gilded Pig without looking back.