The fiery orange oak trickled light between its leaves, dancing across Roy’s eyelids as his mind wandered. The trees rustled like waves crashing against the beach. The birds sang to their children before the overture of winter. For now, Roy found comfort in the coda of fall.


    The alluring scent of honeyed mead and stewing meat made his eyes heavy. He could feel the sun’s warmth on his cheeks. The cacophony of haggling merchants and the creaking of covered wagons fell away. He waited just beyond the caravan’s border, waiting for Arthur to return.


    Roy gasped, clutching his side as the toe of a leather boot left a deep muddy stain above his hip. Roy looked into the sunlight, unable to see the features of the assailant’s face as the air filled with mocking laughter. The bully stared at Roy, trying to get a glimpse of his pained expression. Instead, Roy gazed up at him stoically. It wasn’t the first time he was pestered by one of the village boys.


    “Oh, I didn’t see you.” Samuel scoffed, “You should watch where you laze about.”


    Roy groaned as he raised himself off the ground, using the tree as support, “What?”


    “You and your cumberground friends shouldn’t be here.” Sam continued, “We don’t need some lowborn drunkards and whores wasting away on our roads. Why don’t you find another tree to cower under?”


    “I am neither a drunkard nor a whore. I don’t see how this applies to me.” Roy said, his eyes barely raising from their tired stupor.


    “You don’t belong here, Bjornshite.” Sam stepped closer. Bright blue eyes blazed against Roy’s eyes of Emerald rust.


    “Roy!” A young woman’s voice pierced the tension, pulling Sam’s attention away from his quarry. Roy’s left Sam’s intense gaze as though he were an afterthought.


    “Father has more work for you. I came to fetch you.” She looked at Sam’s crimson cheeks. His eyes glowed at the site of her.


    “What’s going on?” She asked, but neither of the boys responded. Sam looked back at Roy with disdain one last time before storming away.


    “Fool.” She said under her breath, turning to Roy, “Why is he tormenting you?”


    “I don’t know.” Roy said plainly.


    The way Viola’s midnight hair shined gave Roy pause. Her eyes shimmered in an intense lavender hue. Viola stared at the mud splattered on Roy’s side.


    Roy sighed, inhaling shortly as he picked up his things near the base of the oak. A leather satchel held everything he owned, clinging to his shoulders with a patchwork of spare fabric and leather holding it together.


    “You didn’t have to do that.” Roy said as Viola led him between village homes.


    “No one else is doing it.” Viola said, “It’s not right. Come on.” She beckoned Roy away from the caravan. Roy unthinkingly followed her.


    “I know.” Roy admitted, matching his steps with Viola’s as they headed through town. Roy could hear the whispers of townspeople, but he had heard it all plenty of times before.


    “What did you need me for?” Roy tried to keep up. He heard a woman speak to another as she beat the dust out of a rug.


    “Sharpening, forge feeding, chicken chasing.” Viola smiled, “Do you chase chickens?”


    “I have.” Roy held his hands up, “I don’t know what to do when I catch them.”


    “You eat ‘em.”


    Viola gazed upon the azure waters, her cheeks changing to a rosy shade as Roy leaned on the railing beside her. There was an air of mystery about the boy. He was quiet and kept to himself, unlike the other boys of Mossglen.


    “He wants me to use the forge?” Roy looked into Viola’s eyes. His speckled cheeks lifted with intrigue as Viola grew more flustered with each breath. Every second spent in Roy’s eyes was like getting lost in a deep verdant forest.


    “I know more about trade.” Viola’s voice cleared for a moment, “I’m not very good with the forge. I don’t like the heat.”


    “Why me?”


    “You looked bored.” Viola said plainly, but Roy detected something more beneath the surface. What it was, he wasn’t certain.


    Merchants of Mossglen lined the main path into the village, selling anything from fruits to foals. Luzie hung mugs on the fence in front of the inn, hearing the distinct long stride of Roy’s steps.


    “Roy!” Luzie smiled, “I didn’t know you were still here!” She walked down the steps that were the bane of drunkards everywhere. Viola held her breath.


    Oh no. She thought. Luzie.


    Roy nodded. Viola looked away from Luzie, withdrawing from the conversation. Luzie was a couple of years older than her, with large voluptuous breasts and lips stained red with raspberry mead.


    “I thought you would be gone by now, I told the barkeep as much.” Luzie asked, “I hear the paths westwind will get snow soon. Where were you headed next?”


    “Keldengen.” Roy nodded, “We’re going to Kolibri in spring.”


    “Kolibri?” Luzie’s eyes widened in wonder, “That’s pretty far from here!”


    “I’ve never been there.” Roy said.


    “Well, It’s beautiful. I hear they’re doing Hummingbarb races in the spring. The lake is-” Luzie smiled, a man’s shout roused her from her conversation, “Oh, I’m sorry, I need to go!” She waved as she returned to the inn, the door opening to the sounds of merriment, “Anlun’s blessings, you two!”


    “Kolibri has dog breeders.” Viola said, “Father told me about them. Horse-sized. They can carry a man.”


    A small noise hissed out of Roy. His lungs shifted, his voice raised in his throat, only to stop after a single sound. It was a chuckle, a small thing so rare that he had forgotten what it felt like to make one.


    Arthur raised a fresh blade from the murky waters, a distinct metallic hiss filled the air as he plunged a fresh sword into a barrel of water. A familiar laugh filled the air, rousing Arthur from the blade for a moment. Viola thudded down the wooden steps to the smithy, her feet landing in an alcove where the forge lay. Roy followed closely; his tempered face gave in to a few glimmers of joy. After a few seconds of stewing the blade was pulled from the barrel, adorned with dirty gray splotches. Arthur smiled to himself, a satisfied grunt ebbing from his lips as he turned the blade to get a better view.


    “Father!” Viola called, the smith’s smile growing near the edges of his face.


    “Have you brought me a man, petal?” Arthur asked, peeking just past her. A boy hardly old enough to grow chin hairs stood beside her, fixated on the new blade on the workbench. He was unlike most boys in Mossglen; his ebony hair was in stark contrast to the sunny blond sprouting from the heads and faces of Mossglen boys.


    “Close enough.” Arthur greeted as he checked over his shoulder, “Morning, Roy.” He pulled a spare apron from his own stores, shaking it free of dust that had built up within the span of a few days. Arthur tossed the apron across the smithy. Roy caught it, fumbling it slightly. He pinned the apron against his thigh before it could touch the ground.


    “Put that on. I think you can do some real smithing today.” Arthur glanced over at Viola as she left the smithy, shifting crates and barrels in preparation for the stall’s opening. Townsfolk near the produce glanced at her as she grabbed a handful of sheathed blades like she would a bundle of sticks.


    “I need daggers. You can do that, can’t you?” Arthur asked, hammer held tightly in a balled fist.


    “I’ve never shaped metal.” Roy looked to the forge, feeling its heat despite a cold breeze rolling in from the southern mountains.


    “I think you can handle it. I’ll show you the basics.”


    Viola carefully raised a sword into its rack, hiding the sheathe beneath the table. Daggers and axes were hung up behind her. A painted shield leaned against the front of the stall to draw in customers. The glow of red-hot metal caught her gaze as Arthur placed it onto the anvil, hammering the molten iron flat.


    “Every strike is purposeful. You want the metal to be even, but not too thin. You want to be consistent; Do not allow the metal to cool too much.”


    The loud ping of hammer on ore was interrupted by a strike to the anvil every few seconds. Arthur carefully monitored the thickness of the blade. He laid it sideways, tapering it. As the glow faded, he returned the metal to its fiery womb.


    “Here, take this one.” Arthur took a pair of tongs and dug them beneath a pile of coal, pulling out an unshaped rod of metal. He pulled it out slowly, standing aside as Roy reached for the tool. A commanding hand swatted him away as Arthur stepped in sharply.


    “Why are you reaching over the metal like that?”


    “I was…” Roy trailed, waving his hand absentmindedly.


    “Which one’s your ruling hand?” Arthur raised his right hand confidently. Roy raised his left with less gravitas.


    “Keep the hammer on the left side, don’t cross over again. Strike as I showed you.”


    Roy inhaled, feeling the heat of the blade as he walked it to the anvil. He laid it carefully on the anvil, reaching for the hammer. His blows were slower, lacking the form of a seasoned blacksmith, but he mimicked Arthur’s strikes, pausing to check his work. When the metal grew unruly, Roy placed the rod back into the fire, its shape closely resembling that of a blade. The two took turns on their blades, each taking roughly the same shape as the other.


    “Not bad.” Arthur said, “You have a few blemishes so far, but it’s solid for a novice.”


    Roy’s lips thinned as he looked between the two blades. Arthur’s had a more refined shape, and Roy’s had a few divots in the edges. Arthur took Roy’s blade and cast it back into the flames, finishing its shaping. It didn’t take long to erase the mistakes Roy had made.


    “You just need to focus on even strikes, I can see you put more strength into a few of your blows.” Arthur said, “You’re getting tired, pace yourself, and you’ll see improvement.”


    “Thank you.” Roy nodded in appreciation, “Where did you learn to smith?”


    “I was in the Dragonguard’s army. I apprenticed under a blacksmith during the war.” Arthur leaned away from one of his blades, admiring it for a moment before dipping it into the water barrel, “Horseshoes, wagon wheels, swords, shields, we did everything.”


    “Was there a lot of fighting?” Roy glanced at Arthur, quickly refocusing on his own project. His questions were short. Childlike. Arthur didn’t expect it from a boy his size.


    “I mostly stayed in the camps away from the fighting. I often saw the results, though.” Arthur’s eyes narrowed, “Never regretted it. Without it I’d just be another crook in the Port of Kings.”


    “I think I’ve been there. When I was a child.”


    “How old are you?”


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.    “Fourteen, I think.” Roy said.


    “You think?” Arthur asked. Roy nodded slowly. He lifted his blade from the anvil, placing it back into the fire.


    “You still look like a child to me.” Arthur said, “The older I get, the younger everyone else looks.”


    “How did you end up here?”


    “It’s where the work is.” Arthur answered bluntly. His head turned just enough to hide his eyes. Roy continued his blade once it regained its sickening warmth.


    “For mother.” Viola smiled, listening in as an elder gazed upon the knives, “She liked it here.”


    “Viola,” Arthur shook his head, “I would rather not quench my blades with tears today.”


    “It’s… sweet, though.” Viola sighed as Arthur hammered away with increased focus on his work. Viola looked as though she expected a story, only to be disappointed by Arthur’s inability to tell it. A shadow seemed to creep into him, but it disappeared with the glow of the forge.


    “How’s this?” Roy called. Arthur placed his metal into the forge. As he drew closer his face lightened, eyes contorted in approval as he glanced over the blade. He took the tongs and spun the piece around.


    “Better.” Arthur nodded, “Much better.”


    As the minutes turned to hours, a pile of iron rods slowly took the form of daggers. Each one came out better than the last. Roy hammered by Arthur’s side as Viola talked with villagers and passersby. The day drew to a close slowly, but Roy was left feeling satisfied with his work. Arthur let out a massive yawn. Viola heeded the unspoken signal as she began to pack the merchandise. Roy sighed, rubbing his forehead as he tossed the last of his dagger blades into a small pile. He pulled the apron off of himself, picking up his pack near the smithy entrance.


    “Where are you going?” Arthur asked as the boy took his first step into the village.


    “We’re finished?” Roy asked.


    “Aye, Viola says so.” Arthur shrugged, “You haven’t eaten yet. Dinner awaits.”


    “Again?”


    “Yes, again!” Arthur laughed, plopping his hammer onto the workbench, “How else are you going to keep your strength up? We’ve got more work tomorrow.”


    Roy’s eyes widened. Again, he was surprised by the generosity of the smith. He was welcomed in once again, eating the same stew from the night before. He felt warmth, the melting of broth on his tongue, the genuine conversations of a father and his daughter talking about the day. Roy soaked it all in, and a sting rose up in his nose. His throat felt tight. For the first time, it wasn’t fear or sorrow.


    It felt like floating weightless in an ocean of stars.


    It was bliss.


    …


    Arthur’s home was full of old war memorabilia. Swords, shields, knives; anything that could be used as a weapon adorned the smith’s walls. Even the tantalizing aroma of stew couldn’t pull Roy’s attention from the beautiful longsword mounted above Arthur’s bed. The handle had been made of a deep velvety leather, the pommel resembled the head of a lizard, and an inscription had been written along the back of a blade whose metal resembled steam hanging in the air of a distant alien forest. Roy squinted, trying to make it out, but it was in a language he did not seem to recognize. Arthur finished his bottle of beer, uncorking another for the night ahead. His ears had already turned apple red either from the alcohol or the heat of the fire.


    “That’s Moonfall steel.” Arthur said proudly, “Ore was a wedding gift; I guarantee you won’t see a blade like that anywhere else.”


    “From the Dragonguard?”


    “Aye, one of the last blades I made in their service.” Arthur smiled, “When my mentor saw that blade he lifted it up and said-“ Arthur raised empty hands into the air proudly, “Boy, you’ve surpassed the master. He was drunk when he said that.”


    He laughed as Roy looked back at the stew.


    “Moonfall?” Roy’s brows furrowed, “Is that far away?”


    “Across the sea.” Arthur answered, “Beautiful country; lots of flowers, trees that look like big green spears ‘out the ground.”


    There was silence as Roy stared at the pot, saliva covering his tongue like a wave battering boulders on a seashore.


    “Quit pouting; Get another bowl.” Arthur demanded. Roy stood up, approaching the pot with hungry vigor.


    “Are you sure?” Roy asked, “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”


    “Nonsense.” Arthur shook his head, putting his bowl down. He snatched Roy’s up, and refilled it for him, “See how deep the pot is? Takes a real beast to reach the bottom.”


    Viola had just finished scooping her share and had seated herself near the fire.


    “So, have you traveled outside Gairm?” Viola asked, keeping the conversation flowing. She already knew the answer.


    “Oh yes,” Arthur smiled, “To the twin empires, Lindyras and Metis, along the coasts of Alost and Westgate, even to Nizini. I’ve sailed to Moonfall and the Ursine Isles, too. Never been to Khadina, though.”


    “So many…” Viola piped up.


    “When a country is the size of a single Gairman province, it’s easy to travel to them all.”


    Roy stuttered, “You’ve been to the Ursine Isles?”


    “Yes.” Arthur nodded, “And I did meet a lot of the Bjornborn on my travels. Some were mercenaries with the Dragonguard.”


    “Really?”


    “Oh, hell yeah.” Arthur smiled ear to ear, “Warriors from the Isles were something else! I remember watching a drinking contest between the three of them, and by Anlun they can drink! A whole barrel gone for each man!”


    Roy sat with his stew, staring intently at Arthur as he acted out his tales with wide arm swings and a confident fire in his eyes. There were a few moments when it looked like his bowl was about to fall off his thigh.


    “Imagine you’re fighting in a battle against these massive soldiers, and you think you’ve got one pinned. And he just-“ Arthur took a massive swig of his beer, “Turns into a fucking bear!”


    Roy’s eyes widened. Viola’s spoon fell into her hardly-eaten dinner. They were awestruck children, held tightly by Arthur’s excited ramblings.


    “There were dozens of them! And at the end of the battle, they’d drink mead until they were scattered on the floor like a pack of fat dogs!” Arthur laughed, “There was this one I met a couple of times; he would keep a flask of mead where his water oughtta be. When-when we’d go barhoppin’ in Gairm he’d be able to smell out the good shit from miles away! You-” Arthur paused to take a breath.


    “You kind of remind me of him, Roy.”


    “I do?” Roy looked down at his meal, taking a thoughtful bite.


    “Well, aside from you lookin’ the part.” Arthur nodded, “Yeah. You’ve got a way about you. How you carry yourself.”


    “Where is he?” Roy looked dead into Arthur’s eyes. Arthur could see unfettered curiosity boiling up inside of the boy.


    “Oh, I don’t know.” Arthur shook his head, “This was, what… fifteen… twenty years ago? There was a whole group of them, but I could probably pick him out if I saw him again. You can forget a name, but you can’t forget a face like that.”


    Roy slinked into his stew. He had forgotten.


    “We parted ways. There’s probably some Bjornborn still in Kriedeberg with the Dragonguard, but most of them went home to their families.”


    “Were there children?” Roy asked, “During the war?”


    “Course there was.” Arthur smirked, “You think men would-“


    He paused, remembering Viola’s presence as she excitedly sipped at her soup. Roy’s focus was more intense this time around. He was no longer listening to a jovial Ursine story; he was listening for clues.


    “Oh,” Arthur’s lips tightened as his forehead wrinkled, “As far as I know, most of them went back home with their parents. Some stayed here, but-“ He hesitated again, this time it was noticed by Viola, “It was a war, Roy. Lots of battles, lots of orphans. To tell you the truth, you’re not the first one I’ve met. That honor goes to Gorm.”


    “Roy looks nothing like Gorm.” Viola’s eyes narrowed.


    “Not all bjornborn look the same.” Arthur smirked, “You got some who look Gairman, others look like they came from the sea of glass. They dress different, though. A-and they’re pretty damn big.”


    Roy toyed with his food, entrenched in thought. Bjornborn in the Dragonguard. If he couldn’t find his parents, he could at least find people like him there.


    “Welp,” Arthur smacked his hand on his knee, throwing himself off the chair, “I feel like I’m going to pass out, so I’m off to bed. Viola, can you get his pay?” He said.


    “Yes, father.” Viola acknowledged, and without another word Arthur plopped into the covers beneath his Dragonguard blade and promptly began to snore. Viola approached a small lockbox, clicking it open with a key she wrestled from beneath a small hole in the fireplace stones.


    Roy was distant. He had finished his meal, but thoughts were nagging at him. The same ones that nagged him every night.


    He thought about his father again.


    He thought of what his father might think of him.


    Would Roy be seen as a child to be proud of? Or as some lowly thief or wandering nomad not worth a second glance? If his father passed him on the street would Roy even recognize him?


    These thoughts are pointless. Roy thought, Why do I keep wondering?


    There was always a small glimmer, shimmering in Roy’s head like a coin at the bottom of a deep lake. He could see its luster, but he could not take it for himself.


    They’re probably dead.


    If they aren’t, they’ve surely moved on by now.


    Maybe there are siblings Roy has never met.


    Maybe they’re orphans, too. And they have no knowledge of their parents either.


    Maybe-


    “Roy!” Viola tore Roy from his stupor. His bowl had landed on the floor, leaving a short trail of broth as its rim rolled across the ground. Viola sighed, picking it up without spilling the rest.


    “Sorry.” Roy put his hand on his head, feeling like an utter fool.


    “What’s the matter?” Viola asked.


    “It’s nothing.” Roy reassured behind a thinly crafted fa?ade. Viola laid a small pile of sterna in Roy’s hands, which he quickly sequestered in the small coin purse at his side.


    “Okay.” Viola accepted the answer but knew something was amiss. She did not pry, “Well, I can make up a spot for you if you’re too tired to walk back.”


    “No,” Roy smiled, “You’ve been kind. I’m happy heading back to the caravan tonight.”


    “Oh,” Viola nodded, handing a small pile of sterna to Roy, “Stay safe, then.”


    “I’ll try.” Roy took the coins, too distracted to count them.


    Maybe.


    Maybe they stopped looking.