Rathen smiled.
That alone was rare enough to unsettle me.
I stepped forward immediately. He had promised—if I survived his move, if I managed to land a proper strike—he would teach me his trump technique. Among mercenaries, especially those who rose beyond three copper stars, signature techniques were everything. They were branding. Reputation. Survival.
The more your name spread, the more contracts followed.
And Rathen had survived long enough to matter.
I was already forming questions when he spoke.
"Not today."
I froze.
"From tomorrow, I'll begin teaching you," he continued. "Today is rest. No practice."
Relief and disappointment collided inside me.
A rest day.
But at the same time—
I swallowed. "Can you… tell Siena?"
Bharam might accept it quietly.
Siena would not.
For reasons I still didn't fully understand, I feared disappointing her more than enduring Rathen's blade.
He chuckled. "I'll handle it. No training. Don't even move unnecessarily. Let your body recover properly. You're not injured, but fatigue is still damage. Understood?"
"Yes."
He turned and walked away. After a few steps, he glanced back at me. I stiffened instinctively.
He simply giggled.
Then left.
I went straight to Duracal.
He was the first person I wanted to tell. My first mentor. More guardian than caretaker. Closer than blood had ever been.
When I told him, pride flickered briefly in his eyes.
"I see. Good."
"I was thinking of helping in the forge today," I added.
He stopped me immediately.
"Remember what Rathen said. No physical work."
Then he paused.
"But maintaining your weapons isn't strain. It's discipline."
I hesitated.
Truthfully, I had never properly maintained them myself. Duracal had always inspected, corrected, adjusted. I simply used them.
He looked at me seriously.
"For a blacksmith, weapons are children born from metal and fire. If a warrior mistreats them, both the blade and the blacksmith lose respect for him."
His voice softened.
"I believe I raised you better than that."
That struck deeper than he intended.
So I began.
I started with my sword.
Under proper light, I saw what battle had hidden—tiny dull spots along the edge. The handle wrapping had loosened from repeated impacts.
Three hours passed in silence.
Sharpening. Rebinding. Adjusting the balance.
With full concentration.
When I finished, the blade felt alive again.
Then came my spear.
Not a simple thrusting weapon.
The axe blade forged into its side gave it brutality in close combat. The joint between the spearhead, the lateral axe edge, and the shaft bore the most stress during swings.
I ran my fingers carefully along the reinforced collar.
Still tight.
Still aligned.
Even so, I strengthened the binding with treated tree sap and reset the metal pins. A hybrid weapon demanded more discipline than a single-purpose blade. If one side failed, the entire structure became useless.
I sharpened both edges—the thrusting tip and the crescent axe curve—testing weight and rotation afterward.
It felt balanced.
Reliable.
Finally, my bow.
The string had stretched slightly. I replaced it and waxed the new one carefully.
By the time I finished, evening had already settled.
For the first time in weeks—
I wasn't exhausted.
And I didn't know what to do with that feeling.
A sudden bump from behind startled me.
I turned quickly—
Rusty.
He nudged me again with his head, as if offended by my slow reaction.
I exhaled and rubbed between his ears.
Duracal watched for a moment before speaking.
"You should take him to a leather worker."
"For what?"
"Saddle. Reins. Proper harness fittings. I'll handle the horseshoes myself."
I frowned. "Wouldn't it be better to wait until he's fully grown? What if they don't fit?"
He snorted. "Do you think leather workers are fools? They measure growth. Adjust weekly. That's their craft."
I hesitated.
"We could buy something ready-made. It's cheaper."
That was when his expression hardened.
"What is wrong with you?"
I stiffened.
"You have money. More than most apprentices will ever see. Yet you act like spending it will kill you."
The words scraped something raw inside me.
The gold.
It came every month without a letter.
Without a name written in warmth.
From a father who had sent coin instead of acknowledgment.
I had told myself I wouldn't touch it.
That I would survive without needing anything from him.
If I never spent it, then I owed him nothing.
But the truth was uglier.
Every time I opened that pouch, I remembered I had been replaced by convenience.
Gold was easier than a son.
Duracal's voice cut through my thoughts.
"Gold is a tool. If you let pride waste it, you are the fool—not the one who sent it."
Silence stretched between us.
He didn't ask further.
Didn't push.
And that made it worse.
I looked at Rusty.
If survival required swallowing pride—
Then so be it.
Without another word, I took Rusty's lead.
And we walked toward the leather shop Duracal recommended.