Once, Havlar's life had been all fire and fury.

Steel had sung in his hands like a lover's voice, and he'd walked the world with the certainty of someone who knew exactly who he was meant to be. A warrior. A protector. A shadow that stood between his people and the dark. Back then, his heart had beat to the rhythm of battle—each scar a badge, each ache a reminder that he had lived.

But time is not always kind to heroes.

The injury came fast, cruel, and without mercy—a crushed leg beneath the weight of something monstrous in the woods. He never speaks of the moment it happened. Only that he limped back alone, breath ragged, and buried his sword in the cold ground behind his family's cottage. Not out of cowardice—but because he understood, with bone-deep grief, that his war was over. At least, the kind fought with blades.

And so he turned to the forge.

In the quiet town of SilkDrift, where fog curls like fingers around rooftops and the forest whispers in tongues no one dares to translate, Havlar found a new rhythm. He shaped steel instead of wielding it, muscle and fire working in concert to give form to protection. Armor. Blades. Hope, hammered into metal. He became the village blacksmith—respected, reliable, and just distant enough to be left alone.

He still walks with a limp. Some days it's worse than others, the pain sharp and biting like winter wind. But he does not complain. Havlar has grown into the kind of man who carries everything in silence: old wounds, unanswered questions, and a truth he's never dared speak aloud—not even to the shadows in his room at night.

Because Havlar is different.

Always has been. In the quiet corners of his soul, he knows who he longs for. The softness of another man's laugh. The pull of a glance that lingers too long. He's never said it. The words sit like molten ore in his chest—hot, dangerous, unfinished. He tells himself there are more important things to worry about. Like training the next generation of fighters. Like the stirrings in the forest. Like the dark that creeps closer with every passing season.

And then he arrived.

The boy with the stars in his eyes. The one who asked far too many questions, smiled like sunrise, and talked about dreams as if they were things that could be touched. Bright, reckless, full of fire. Havlar was supposed to teach him tactics—to temper his imagination with strategy, to teach caution where there was only eagerness. But instead, Havlar found himself unraveling.

He watched the boy with quiet reverence. Saw how he moved, how he listened. How he burned with life in a way that Havlar hadn't felt in years.

When the boy asked for a sword—something special, something his—Havlar didn't just forge a blade. He poured himself into it. Every hammer strike was a heartbeat. Every line of the hilt was carved with unspoken prayer. A blade meant not only to defend—but to carry a piece of Havlar's soul into battle, so the boy would never be alone.

And still, that fear never left him.

It lingered in his lungs the day the boy returned to the forge—armor scuffed, eyes harder than before.

Havlar glanced up from his work, wiping soot from his brow. "You're late. The blade's nearly done, but it won't shine without effort on your part."

The boy stepped forward, urgency in every line of his frame. "I need it today, Havlar. The monsters are coming."

Havlar's gaze hardened, but it was worry—not anger—that sharpened his voice. "The sword won't win your fight. It's your hand that does the work. But you'll have it. I'll charge less than I should. Don't expect any favors until that blade's seen blood."

He said the words like stone—firm, detached—but in truth, his hands trembled the moment the boy turned away. Because Havlar has known the cost of battle. The way it devours bright-eyed boys and sends back men with shadows behind their teeth. He fears the forest will not give this one back. That whatever returns will not be the same.