Arthur conceded more anvil space to Akio, quietly proud of his son’s now-flawless judgment of color to temper ratio. Customers began requesting “the younger blacksmith’s” horseshoes, claiming the beasts trotted lighter. Akio deflected praise toward Arthur, but coin still piled.
He fashioned a hollow false bottom inside his lock-box, sliding higher denominations below plain coppers. Counting sessions conducted by candle’s smallest flame felt almost illicit—like smuggling futures past an indifferent border. Every thunk of bronze on wood sounded simultaneously like a step on foreign soil. Some nights Arthur entered near silently, laid an extra half-dozen silver pieces on the table—payment “from clients who paid ahead.” Akio knew the code: a father investing in a journey he couldn’t follow. Gratitude morphed into heavier responsibility. He spent an afternoon forging a perfect square of star-iron scrap he’d saved—his own token for Arthur when the hour came.

Teaching required new metaphors each week. He turned harvest ledgers into ciphers depicting dragon hoards, barns into coordinate grids for imaginary treasure hunts. Children warmed to arithmetic when it promised adventure. Tomas, previously math-shy, bragged he could now tally grain faster than his father’s abacus. Grett overheard and—pride pricked—requested evening lessons too. Akio agreed, silently amused that the man who scoffed at barge sketches now paid coin to understand fractions. With older students he explored logic riddles, always slipping a moral: innovation breeds resilience. Whether they absorbed it he didn’t know, but their eyes shone—tiny lanterns flickering where tradition once cast only predictable shadow. Lesson earnings filled a second pouch. Akio stitched a secret pocket into his cloak lining, promising himself not to spend a single copper until he crossed Rathvale’s boundary.

Freyr’s baking rhythm intensified: extra loaves “just in case merchants pay late.” But Akio noticed she packed the most fragrant into satchels for traveling tinkers—care packages that won praise yet yielded no profit. When he asked why, she answered, “Because leaving hearts need warmth.” He suspected she practiced generosity as rehearsal for letting him go. One evening he caught her in the empty stall drawing a spiral in spilled sugar. She erased it quickly, but not before he saw tears shine. He sat beside, saying nothing until she spoke: “Spirals spin outward yet never forget the center.” She squeezed his hand, sugar grainy between fingers, and he realized she knew far more of his secret tokens than he guessed. That night she gave him a newly sewn scarf dyed cloud-blue—Vesta’s sky color. “For days the sun forgets to warm,” she said. He understood the subtext: when distance chills, memory can still burn.