The forge was quiet, as though it knew something was missing. The chill autumn air whistled through the bellows, slipping through the cracks, rattling the tools that had once sung with Max's laughter.

  Whatever embers remained had long since cooled, now nothing more than dull, lifeless coals.

  Even the soul of the place felt Max's absence.

  James could almost hear him, his voice teasing, his laughter bright. "Hurry up, ya flop." Or a barked, "Ya turn with da bellows." The echoes of memories that are just out of reach.

  Ser Edwin shut the large smithy doors for the first time since James came to live at the forge. The heavy creak of the hinges sent a finality through James' bones.

  Neither of them spoke as they made their way toward the house.

  Miss Silvia was waiting for them at the door, her face drawn with worry. The moment she saw them, she rushed forward, pulling Ser Edwin into a tight embrace before wrapping her arms around James.

  James pressed his face into her shoulder, gripping her tighter than he meant to. The warmth of her, the steady heartbeat beneath the layers of fabric. It nearly undid him.

  "There, there, dearie." She ran her fingers through his hair, voice soft as a lullaby. "Let it all out."

  And he did.

  The weight in his chest cracked open. Silent tears turned into quiet, aching sobs. He wasn't even sure what he was crying for—Max, Edwin, himself. All of it.

  Miss Silvia held him like his mother used to like she had always been meant to. The steady beat of her heart was calming, reassuring, and strong.

  By the time he pulled away, his nose was running, his throat raw. He wiped his face with his sleeve, feeling almost embarrassed. But Miss Silvia only smiled, warm and knowing.

  "Good," she said, hands on her hips. "Now, time to get to work."

  James blinked. "…What?"

  "We have got beds to turn out, floors to scrub, a house to prepare for winter. Can not let the dust settle while we mope, now can we?" She clapped her hands together, already moving toward the kitchen.

  James opened his mouth to argue—but Ser Edwin was already rolling up his sleeves.

  And just like that, the house descended into controlled chaos.

  There was no time to stop, no time to think, no time to sit and wallow. They swept out the dust, scrubbed the wooden floors raw, emptied every closet and storage trunk, and refilled the woodpile. Before long, their muscles ached from work rather than grief, their minds too occupied to dwell on loss.

  At some point, Miss Silvia began humming as she cooked, a simple melody that filled the house like the scent of baking bread. Something warm. Something safe.

  By the time the sun dipped below the trees, they were all half-collapsed at the kitchen table, exhausted in a way that felt… good.

  Miss Silvia piled their plates high with fresh bread, roasted vegetables, and a bowl of thick stew. It all smelt terrific.

  "Eat up," she ordered. "Growing boys and healing wounds need fuel. They need food."

  They ate in a weary stupor from the day, Miss Silvia singing, filling the small kitchen with a tune of joy, of family and friends. Before long, she was shoving hot mugs of tea at them. James could smell the lavender, the honey in the tea. The mug warmed his fingers.

  James hadn't realized how hungry he was until he scraped the last stew from his bowl. Ser Edwin downed the warm sweet tea in one gulp, giving James a look that said, What can we do?

  James finished his own drink, warmth settling into his chest. His eyes dropped, and his arms felt heavy. The smell of lavender filled his nose as he breathed a long sigh of relief. The day was nearly over.

  He barely remembered climbing the ladder to bed before sleep dragged him under—a deep, dreamless sleep for the first time in months.

  The next day, the day after, and the day after were much the same.

  Miss Silvia worked them from morning until night, her sharp eyes allowing no room for idleness. There was always something to be done, something to fix, something to prepare. She barely let them stop to eat, barely let them rest.

  Maybe that is her goal, to leave me too tired to even have feelings.

  James spent his days in the woods near the house, clearing trees, stripping branches, and hewing beams. His hands blistered, his muscles ached, but there was a steady rhythm to it, something grounding in the axe's swing, the solid weight of the logs against his shoulder. The cool sweat on his back.

  He could hear Miss Silvia's singing no matter how far he got. Something his mother used to sing. It was a song about a sailor who went to sea and fell in love with the sea but knew it would never love him back. So he came home to the girl he knew. It was a song about first love and growing up.

  James found himself humming along as he worked.

  Still healing but growing stronger by the day, Ser Edwin took up his place in the forge, hammering out nails, bolts, hinges, and anything useful. The clang of metal on metal was a familiar comfort, the sound of life marching forward.

  The days blurred together, the work consuming everything else. But James noticed the smaller things.

  How Miss Silvia spent more nights at the house. Ser Edwin's voice grew stronger, no longer plagued by coughs or hoarse with pain. How purpose seemed to drive Ser Edwin as much as Miss Silvia did.

  After the work was done at night and the fires had burned low, James would sneak to the kitchen door and listen, if just to hear their voices.

  "I do not want to walk home." Miss Silvia's voice was hushed but warm. "But I should."

  "Don't go. The weather's turning. You'll catch a cold." Ser Edwin's low chuckle. A beat of hesitation, then softer—almost sheepish. "Stay here. The fire is warm."

  James swore she always hesitated, just for a second, before answering. "I can not. You know this."

  But something in her voice sounded like she didn't quite believe it.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  It was the same familiar conversation—the words shifted, but the feeling behind them never did.

  One night, he heard something different.

  "I can build you a room." Ser Edwin's voice was rough but steady. "I need to give the boy a real one anyway."

  And just like that, the house began to grow.

  Ser Edwin, renewed with purpose, grew even stronger each day and showed James how to break down a wall to build a new one. How to measure, cut, and brace the beams.

  "How do you turn the empty space into something?" He would ask. "Start with a plan."

  The hammer became familiar in James' hands, its weight settling into his palms like it belonged there. Like he was meant to build to create, and the power in him stirred.

  First, the foundation. A mix of stone powder, water, and ash. Strong and even. Then, the walls. A blend of wood and stone, each one solid and steady. Forming the kind of structure that wouldn't falter against the coming storms. Then, the roof. A slope of timber and glass, open to the stars and the night sky.

  Miss Silvia watched their work with something close to pride. James felt his spirits rise, and each task was completed.

  "Good work, my boys." She kissed each of them on the cheek, lingering just a heartbeat longer on Ser Edwin's.

  Miss Silvia laughed, patting his cheek with a small, warm hand. James had noticed the lines around her eyes growing deeper, the ones made when she laughed or smiled at him. He felt warmth across his chest, and he stood a little taller. Ser Edwin smirked, nudging her arm with his own.

  "You need to shave, James."

  "I need to do what?" James blinked. "no, I don't."

  He ran a hand over his chin, feeling the coarse, uneven stubble that had started to grow there.

  "Oh, you are growing up. My boy is becoming a man." Miss Silvia grinned. Patting him on the chest now that he stood nearly a foot taller than her.

  James frowned, rubbing at the stubble again. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

  He turned his gaze to the house, tracing its new edges, its unfamiliar yet rightful shape. It had nearly doubled in size, not forced, but expanded—like something that had always been meant to grow. The second story stretched outward, its balcony wrapping around the two small rooms that had once stood alone. From there, one could see everything—the clearing, the forge, the trees line of the forest that wrapped the not-so-little home. A home built with purpose and care. With their family mind.

  A part of him had thought this place would feel emptier without Max.

  But instead, it felt fuller.

  He will come back when his time is up; when he's done serving, he will come back.

  Not the same. Never the same.

  But…Something closer to the whole.

  The evening air carried the first bite of winter, crisp and sharp, but James barely felt it. Sweat poured down his body as he circled his teacher, mentor, and friend. Ser Edwin did not strike, did not take the bait. He waited, patient as ever, sword raised high overhead.

  James no longer needed to think about the names of each move and no longer had to force himself to recognize what was coming. He could read the shifts in Edwin's stance, the minor weight adjustments in his feet, the angle of his blade.

  James feinted left, hoping to draw the older man's attention—it worked.

  Ser Edwin swung for his exposed legs, a quick, tactical strike. James caught the blade with a downward counter, steel meeting steel with a ringing clash. But the movement brought him too close—

  Crack.

  Pain exploded across his forehead. The force of bone on bone sent James staggering backward. Warm blood trickled down his face.

  "By the gods, that hurt." He wiped the blood with his sleeve, never taking his eyes off the older man.

  Ser Edwin smirked. "Gotta watch for the counter, boy."

  James gritted his teeth and rushed forward. Already, the wound had begun knitting itself back together.

  Another silvery scar, though this one, at least, would be hidden by my hairline.

  Their swords clashed in a flurry of motion. High, low, high. Parry. Block. Counter. Each strike faster than the last, each man pushing the other toward the pit's edge.

  They broke apart, breath heaving, circling once more. Two predators in perfect rhythm. Step. Move. Step.

  "You're getting predictable." Edwin's tone was sharp, but James heard the approval beneath it.

  Then Edwin moved. A blur of motion.

  James barely had time to react. The strikes came fast, relentless, no pattern—wild and unpredictable. James scrambled to keep up, parrying, blocking, stepping back. He was on the defensive, each impact jolting his arms. He needed an opening. He needed—

  Breathe.

  James exhaled, steadying himself. He reached inward, feeling the power in him. It called, and he pulled on it just slightly. Warmed him, making everything feel lighter, the weariness washing away.

  His movements sharpened.

  Edwin's next blow came down—James pivoted, steel sliding against steel, twisting the momentum. He swung his blade wide, feinting—then drove his fist straight into Ser Edwin's jaw.

  Edwin's head snapped to the side, but he didn't fall. He spun back, eyes burning with the heat of the moment.

  James grinned, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, sword held loose at his side.

  Ser Edwin pushed forward, faster this time. Right. Left. Right. Each strike more precise, more brutal.

  James met him blow for blow. Parry. Block. Dodge. He wasn't being pushed back any more. He was waiting. Watching.

  Then he saw it.

  A slip—just for a heartbeat. Edwin's boot skidded on the loose sand.

  James seized the moment. He batted Edwin's blade aside, stepped into his guard, and drove the hilt of his sword straight into the older man's gut with all the strength he could muster.

  Ser Edwin exhaled sharply, his body folding inward.

  For a single moment, shock flickered across his face. Then, pride.

  James grinned, ear to ear, as Edwin collapsed to one knee, coughing.

  "Blessed Mother," Edwin wheezed, spitting to the side. "You've got a mean right hook, boy."

  James wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, still trying to catch his breath. His whole body thrummed, energy still crackling beneath his skin like an unspent storm.

  "You were leaving too many openings," James said between breaths. He sheathed his sword, flexing his fingers, still tingling from the impact. "Figured I ought to take advantage."

  Edwin let out a short, breathless laugh, bracing a hand against his knee. "Openings, huh? You saying I'm getting slow?"

  "I'm saying you're getting old," James smirked.

  A sharp thwap landed against the back of James' head. It was not hard—just enough to remind him who he was talking to.

  "Alright, alright—lesson learned." James winced, rubbing his skull.

  But Edwin was smiling.

  Then they both heard it.

  Footsteps—quick and angry—followed by the furious rustling of skirts.

  James barely had time to step aside before Miss Silvia was at Edwin's side, hands already on his arm, gripping tight.

  "You stubborn, foolish, prideful—" she hissed, cutting off her words as she pressed a hand against his side. Her eyes went distant like they did when she used her magic.

  "It's nothing." Edwin flinched.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  James took a half step back.

  "You idiot," she snapped, voice thick with frustration. "What would you have done if that rib had broken again. Throwing yourself with live steel against a man half your age."

  "Half?" Edwin scoffed. "C'mon, Sil, at least let me have a little dignity—"

  She smacked his shoulder.

  Edwin winced harder this time but smiled.

  James choked on a laugh.

  "You think this is funny?" Miss Silvia turned on him, sharp-eyed, hands on her hips. "Encouraging him like this? He should be teaching you how to forge a blade now, not wield one. You're not a knight in one of his stories."

  "No, ma'am. I was just—" James straightened, shaking his head quickly.

  "Winning," Edwin muttered before hiding it behind a cough.

  "Yeah. Winning." James tried not to laugh.

  Miss Silvia turned back to Edwin with a sharp glare that could have cut through steel.

  "Get up," she ordered. "Slowly."

  Edwin groaned, pushing himself onto his feet, hand lingering over his ribs as he steadied himself. The old bruises from that fight had faded, but James could tell they still ached.

  Silvia clicked her tongue. "Come inside. I will make something for the pain."

  "I don't need anything," Edwin grumbled.

  Miss Silvia ignored him, already marching toward the house.

  "You really shouldn't push yourself so hard, you know." James watched her go, shaking his head before turning back to Edwin.

  "Yeah, well. Ain't got time to sit around being useless." Edwin exhaled, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders. The stiffness was apparent.

  "You're not useless, Edwin." James hesitated, then nudged him lightly.

  The older man didn't respond right away. He just looked down at James—really looked at him.

  Finally, he let out a long, slow breath.

  "You did good today, kid."

  James felt warmth bloom in his chest.

  Then Edwin smirked. "Even if you do fight like a little shit."

  James rolled his eyes, shoving Edwin's arm before walking toward the house.

  Edwin laughed, following.

  The forge stood quiet behind them.

  But James swore, for just a moment, it felt warmer.

  And as laughter faded into the night, the first cold drops of winter rain fell—light at first, barely a whisper against the earth. Then, the wind howled, the trees groaned, and the sky unleashed its fury.