Marek had no plan. That was obvious to everyone, including Marek. Motivation didn’t come from inside—it hadn’t for years. He moved because Oswald nudged. He agreed because Oswald suggested. His body walked. His mind lagged behind.

They left Stonestep the next morning. Oswald led. Marek followed, occasionally pausing mid-step for no reason at all.

By midday, the walls of Highspire rose ahead—stone, orderly, intimidating in their size and symmetry. The guards at the gate didn’t ask questions. Oswald’s badge was enough.

Inside, the city was loud and practical. People moved with purpose. Marek did not.

“Let’s find you work,” Oswald said.

Marek shrugged. “Sure.”

Oswald asked around. They stopped at a smithy—one loud with hammering, heat, and flying sparks. A foreman with soot on his nose looked Marek over.

“You a smith?”

“I can weld,” Marek said. “Metal’s metal.”

The foreman grunted. “We’ll see.”

He handed Marek a rod and pointed to a broken hinge. Marek fixed it in two minutes. Not beautiful, but strong.

“You’re hired. Pay’s by the day.”

Marek nodded. “That’s fine. I don’t need much. I save money by drinking beer for breakfast.”

The foreman blinked. “That’s... efficient?”

“Also cheaper than breakfast,” Marek added.

The foreman gave a short nod and moved off. Oswald stayed behind, watching Marek brush soot off his sleeve.

“Just don’t weld drunk,” Oswald said, half-warning, half-pleading.

Marek raised an eyebrow. “You sure? I normally weld better when drunk.”

Oswald sighed. “You sure you weren’t a blacksmith dwarf in your last life?”

Marek didn’t smile. “No. I was a married, broken man. With three children, one black cat, and a visiting hedgehog.”

Oswald blinked. “That’s oddly specific.”

“It was a polite hedgehog,” Marek added. Then picked up the next hinge.

Marek didn’t stop.

The work was loud, repetitive, hot. It should have drained him. Instead, it filled him.

He welded hinge after hinge. Brackets. Handles. A cracked cart axle. He fixed a bent tool that wasn’t his job to fix. His hands moved faster. His welds grew smoother.

The foreman watched from the side, arms crossed, saying nothing.

Marek didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, but didn’t care.

The thoughts didn’t pile up in his head like usual. There was no fog. No rock smashing into his skull to snap him back. Just heat, sparks, and focus.

Oswald returned sometime after sunset.
He noticed, Marek is leaking less.

“You’ve been welding for ten hours.”

Marek wiped sweat from his neck, blinking slowly. “Oh. You’re right. It’s time to smoke. You know of a cigarette?”

Oswald frowned. “A what?”

“Stick. Burns. Smoke. Ruins your lungs. Calms your nerves.”

Oswald paused, thinking. “Pipes exist. Legal, but expensive. And not healthy at all.”

Marek squinted up at the stars. “Neither was life.”

Oswald sighed. “We’ll check tomorrow.”

Marek nodded. “Good. Something to look forward to.”

They walked into the quiet night. Behind them, the forge hissed softly, cooling in the dark.