The transition from the forge of battle to the hearth of the home was not a sudden snapping of strings, but a slow, melodic softening. By the end of the second week, the calluses on Elian’s palms from the broadsword had begun to fade, replaced by the rough, honest friction of the smithy’s tongs.
He stood in the center of the village forge, the heat of the coal fire a welcome, manageable warmth against his skin—a far cry from the soul-scorching radiance of the Aethelgard. The rhythmic clink-clink-clink of the hammer against glowing iron was the only music he required now. It was a repetitive, predictable, and profoundly grounding sound.
"You’ve got the rhythm, Elian," a voice rumbled from the shadows of the doorway.
Elian pulled the red-hot plowshare from the anvil and plunged it into th
