"So. A rapier, huh?" Roderic said, rubbing his chin with thick fingers scarred from decades of work. "Haven't made one of those in a while."

George leaned closer to Auren and whispered, "Be careful. He's going to test your grip, your balance... basically your entire soul."

"I heard that," Roderic barked, pointing a meaty finger at George.

George only grinned.

Roderic's dark eyes fixed back on Auren. "Come with me. Let's see what you've got."

He led Auren deeper into the forge, past workbenches littered with half-finished swords and chisels, past barrels of iron scraps and coils of black wire. The deeper they went, the cooler the air became, until they reached a wide chamber lined with racks of weapons.

The smell of oil, iron, and old wood filled Auren's nose.

Roderic strode toward one of the racks and selected a slender rapier. Its blade was long and narrow, polished to a gentle silver gleam. The basket hilt curled around the grip like delicate vines, designed to protect the hand.

"Here." Roderic tossed it to Auren.

Auren almost fumbled it, but caught the grip at the last second. It felt lighter than the sword he'd carried before—almost weightless in his hand.

"Hold it properly," Roderic ordered. "Don't choke up on it like you're holding a club."

Auren adjusted his grip, placing his thumb along the flat side of the grip, fingers curled lightly around the handle. He lifted the blade so it pointed forward, as he'd once seen a traveling fencing troupe do in the village square.

Roderic's face softened a fraction. "Good."

He turned and snatched another rapier from the rack.

"George," Roderic barked, "clear the floor."

George obediently dragged aside a few barrels and swept loose scraps of metal off the stone tiles with a wide broom. Dust sparkled in the forge's orange light as it drifted through the air.

When the floor was clear, Roderic stepped into the center, spinning his rapier with alarming speed. The blade hissed as it cut the air.

"Rule one," he said, circling Auren, "the rapier is not for chopping. It's for thrusting. Straight, direct, like you're poking a hole through your enemy's heart."

Auren swallowed, raising his blade.

"Rule two. Distance. Don't get so close you can smell what they ate for breakfast. Stay long enough to strike, then move out again."

He lunged forward with startling speed, jabbing his rapier. Auren yelped and jerked aside, the tip whistling past his cheek.

George, leaning against the wall, chuckled. "Oh, he's gonna be sore tomorrow."

"Again!" Roderic barked. "Parry this time."

Auren tried to remember what Ryvek had once taught him. He turned his blade sideways and managed to knock Roderic's thrust aside. But the vibration rattled his wrist, and he stumbled backward a step.

"Good instinct," Roderic said gruffly, though his eyes crinkled at the corners, as if amused. "But you're holding it too tight. The rapier should feel like an extension of your arm, not a log you're choking to death."

Roderic swept his own rapier upward and touched the tip lightly to Auren's chest. "If I'd meant it, you'd be bleeding."

Auren flushed with embarrassment and pushed the blade away.

For the next hour, Roderic drilled him.

Thrust. Parry. Lunge. Retreat. Over and over until Auren's arm burned like it was on fire. The older man's voice boomed through the forge, barking commands. Sparks flared from the distant forge pit every time George stoked the embers.

By the time Roderic called a halt, Auren's hair was soaked with sweat, his shirt sticking to his back.

Roderic lowered his blade and nodded. "Not bad. For someone who's never trained properly, you've got decent instincts. You keep your feet moving. That's half the fight."

Auren grinned tiredly. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath.

Roderic wiped his forehead on his sleeve. "But remember this, boy. You're small. You're not gonna win by brute force. Your strength is speed. Precision. You need to slip through gaps and strike where it hurts most."

He held up one thick finger. "One stab. That's all it takes. A lung. A kidney. The throat. Know where to hit, and a rapier will drop even the biggest bastard."

Auren swallowed. He wasn't used to people talking so casually about killing. Even Ryvek had spoken gently about fighting, always avoiding talk of blood and death.

But Roderic was different. His words were blunt, honest, and sharp as the steel he forged.

George stepped forward, tossing Auren a cloth. "Here. Wipe your face. You look like you've been swimming in the river."

"Thanks," Auren said, mopping sweat from his eyes.

George leaned closer. "You know... Roderic doesn't usually teach anyone personally. You must've made quite an impression."

"I think he just likes yelling at me," Auren muttered.

George burst out laughing. "That too."

Roderic leaned his rapier against the weapon rack and turned toward the workbench. He rummaged around in a pile of drawings, tossing aside sketches of axes, daggers, and shields. Finally he pulled out a single parchment and held it up to Auren.

It showed a rapier design. The blade was narrow and triangular, the guard sweeping into graceful curves that resembled flower petals. Along the blade, tiny symbols were etched in elegant script.

"I'll forge you one," Roderic said. "But not for free."

Auren blinked. "What do you want me to pay with? I don't have much."

Roderic snorted. "Gold? Bah. Keep your coins. You'll pay in labor. You're gonna work here. Clean the forge. Pump the bellows. Hold metal for me. And train every day."

Auren hesitated, but then nodded. "Okay."

A slow smile spread across Roderic's face. "Good. You'll earn your blade."

George thumped Auren on the back so hard he nearly fell over. "Welcome to Northbound, kid."

Auren managed a weak grin. His arms felt like jelly, but a strange excitement buzzed in his chest. For the first time since leaving his village, he felt like he belonged somewhere again—even if that place was a noisy forge full of sparks and scolding.

Later that night, the forge was quieter. George had left, whistling a tune as he disappeared into the streets.

Roderic sat on a stool, carefully sketching measurements onto a new piece of parchment. Auren sat nearby, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

He watched Roderic's pencil glide over the paper, shaping elegant curves for the guard.

"Why do you want a rapier so badly?" Roderic asked without looking up.

Auren thought for a moment. "It feels... right. Like I'd rather move quickly than stand still. And... I don't want to cut people in half. I just want to protect myself."

Roderic nodded slowly. "Fair enough. A rapier's not just a weapon. It's a statement. You're saying: I'll fight—but I'll fight my way."

Auren smiled faintly.

Suddenly, Roderic reached over and ruffled Auren's hair. "You're scrawny as a plucked chicken. Tomorrow we'll feed you properly."

"I'm not that skinny!" Auren protested.

Roderic gave a booming laugh. "Boy, my hammer weighs more than you."

Auren rolled his eyes but felt warmth spread through his chest.

The next morning, Roderic shoved a bowl into Auren's hands.

"Eat," he barked.

Auren peered into the bowl. Thick stew steamed inside, crammed with chunks of meat, potatoes, carrots, and what might have been turnips.

He hesitated.

"Well?" Roderic demanded. "You're not leaving this forge until that bowl's empty."

Auren tasted the stew and blinked. It was surprisingly delicious—savory, rich, and full of herbs. He devoured it so fast Roderic had to refill his bowl twice.

"Now that you've eaten," Roderic said, wiping his hands, "time for work."

He set Auren to sweeping ash from the forge floor. Then he made him scrub soot off the brick walls and oil the leather bellows.

Auren worked until his arms trembled. Yet he felt strangely satisfied, like each chore brought him closer to earning his blade.

By the time noon sunlight streamed through the forge windows, Roderic beckoned him over.

"Come look," he said.

Auren stepped closer. On the workbench lay a thin steel bar, glowing pale orange from heat. Roderic picked it up with tongs and gently pressed it into a groove in an iron mold. He hammered it flat, sparks jumping outward like tiny fireflies.

"This is your rapier blade," Roderic said, voice quiet with focus. "We'll shape it thin enough to bend—but strong enough not to snap. And I'll put those symbols along the steel. They're old runes for balance and truth."

Auren stared in wonder. "Can... can runes really make it stronger?"

"Not physically," Roderic said. "But they remind the wielder why they fight. Sometimes that's all the strength you need."

Over the next days, Roderic continued forging the rapier piece by piece. Auren watched every step—the folding of the steel, the quenching in oil, the slow grinding along the whetstone.

And in between forge work, Roderic drilled him relentlessly with the practice rapier.

Auren's movements grew sharper. He learned to slip aside from thrusts instead of blocking head-on. He learned to feel his balance in his toes. His wrists grew stronger.

Sometimes he got bruises across his arms. Once, Roderic accidentally clipped his chin and left a small cut that bled for hours.

Yet Auren kept coming back, sweat dripping into his eyes, determined not to quit.