The Blacksmith’s Burden

The first thing Agor felt was warmth. Not the burning heat of the flames that had devoured his home, nor the searing pain from his wounds, but a softer, more distant warmth—comforting and reassuring. It wrapped around him, urging him to stay in the quiet embrace of sleep.

But then came the aches. A deep, throbbing pain in his left arm, a sharp sting along his head, and a dull soreness in his right shoulder. His body was exhausted, and each wound pulsed with a reminder of what had been lost.

His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light of the cave. The air smelled of smoke, damp earth, and something metallic. His gaze landed on the fire flickering near the cave's entrance, its glow casting strange shadows along the rocky walls.

Then, movement.

A man sat hunched near the fire, sharpening a short dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. The sound of metal scraping against stone filled the silence, steady as a heartbeat. He looked older—gray streaks lined his thick, unkempt beard, and deep scars marred the skin along his forearms. Though aging, his muscles were still prominent, hardened by years of labor.

Agor blinked, suddenly aware of his own vulnerability. He was alone with this stranger. He tried to sit up, but pain flared through his body, forcing a small whimper from his lips.

The man's hand paused mid-motion. Without turning, he spoke.

"So, the boy wakes."

His voice was rough, like stone grinding against metal, yet there was something measured about it—something patient.

Agor swallowed, his throat dry and sore. "W-Who…?"

…The rest of his words couldn't quite leave his lips.

Yet the man understood.

He set the dagger aside and turned. His face was worn, lined with age and hardship. One of his eyes was clouded with an old wound, but the other was sharp—piercing, as if it could see straight through him.

"Garrick," he said simply. "And you?"

Agor hesitated. His mind was a haze, scattered memories fighting to surface. He remembered his home. The fire. His parents—

Mama! Papa!

Tears welled in his eyes as the weight of it all crashed over him. He wanted to speak, to scream, but his throat closed up. His small fingers clenched into the rough fabric of the blanket wrapped around him.

Garrick exhaled through his nose, watching the boy carefully.

"I reckon you don't remember much," he said, though not unkindly. "Happens when you go through something like that. You were barely breathing when I found you."

Agor's lips trembled. "M-My… parents…"

The old blacksmith sighed, his gaze flickering to the fire. For a moment, he didn't answer.

"I don't know," he finally said. "Didn't see anyone else when I found you by the river."

That wasn't what Agor wanted to hear. He shook his head, tears falling freely now. His small body trembled as grief clawed at his chest. He was truly alone.

Garrick shifted, his weathered hands reaching for a clay mug. He poured something from a kettle hanging over the fire and held it out. "Drink."

Agor hesitated.

Garrick arched a brow. "It's just tea, boy. Won't kill you. It's for your strength. Drink."

Agor's fingers curled around the warm mug. The scent was unfamiliar—not like what he tasted the previous night. This was much lighter but earthy and slightly bitter. He couldn't refuse; he was too exhausted to question it. He took a sip, wincing at the sour taste.

"Good," Garrick grunted. "Helps with the pain."

The boy glanced down at his arm. His left arm was wrapped in thick bandages, and his right shoulder was similarly bound. He could still feel the lingering burn where Garrick had cauterized the worst of his wounds.

The old man caught his gaze. "Hurts like the abyss, don't it?"

Agor swallowed and nodded.

"You're lucky I found you when I did. Blood that dark—" he gestured toward Agor's bandages, "...that ain't normal, at least not for common folk."

Agor looked away, uncertain. He had never seen his own blood like that before. The last thing he remembered was the pain, the fire… and then darkness.

Garrick watched him for a long moment. Then, he leaned back, stretching his injured leg with a small grunt. "I've seen blood like that before," he muttered. "But never in a boy so young."

Agor's head snapped up. "You have?"

Garrick's expression darkened. "Aye."

"Really? Could you change it back?" Agor quickly asked, his voice laced with hope.

Garrick smiled but remained silent.

A thick silence stretched between them, weighed down by unspoken thoughts.

Then, Garrick shook his head. "Normally, it's supposed to return to its original state after a while—at least for those of us who didn't give in to the darkness... But that's a story for another time."

He had spoken more than he was supposed to.

Answers would be found in Eaglestone. Perhaps his old friend would know more. But for now, no more talk of black blood.

Agor's fingers tightened around the mug. His body still ached, but the warmth of the tea settled in his chest. He had questions—countless questions—but something told him that pushing too hard wouldn't get him answers.

So instead, he whispered, "Where are we?"

Garrick glanced toward the cave's entrance. "A day's walk from Eaglestone."

Agor had heard of Eaglestone before. His parents had spoken of it in confidence.

His young eyes flickered with hope. Perhaps he would see his parents again.

The old man smirked slightly. "Surprised you've heard of it." He narrowed his eyes. "Who told you? Your pops?"

Agor nodded in affirmation.

Garrick stood with a quiet groan, moving toward a large sack resting against the cave wall. As he lifted it, Agor noticed something—a dark stain along the fabric, still fresh, still green.

Agor's breath hitched. That wasn't human blood.

Garrick caught his gaze and scoffed. "You've got sharp eyes for a half-dead boy."

Agor swallowed. His body tensed as Garrick untied the sack and pulled something free—a dark red orb wrapped in fabric.

"Where did you get that from?" Agor asked.

"For one so young, you ask a lot of questions."

Garrick smirked. Then, after a pause, he answered.

"An Enju's orb."

Even at ten, Agor had heard the stories. The beasts that had fallen from the sky—their bodies impervious to normal blades. Creatures of darkness, nightmares made flesh. Deep within their skulls rested a dark power.

It was just like the stories the elders had told in his settlement.

Agor swallowed hard. This was the first time he had seen one.

"How did you make the Enju give you that?" he asked.

Garrick laughed. For the first time that night, he laughed.

"What do you think, boy?" He grinned. "I asked nicely."

The air seemed to shift around them, a strange energy pulsing from within the orb. They could both feel it.

Agor couldn't tear his eyes away. "What does it do?"

Garrick turned the orb in his palm, his expression unreadable.

"Power," he said simply. "A necessary ingredient for crafting blades strong enough to cut through their kind."

Agor's stomach twisted. "You… you use their brains to make weapons?"

Garrick chuckled, tossing the stained cloth aside as he examined the orb properly. "Survival, boy. You take what you can from the enemy."

Agor's mind swirled with new fears, new questions.

What was happening? What was he? And why did Garrick seem to know more than he let on?

The old blacksmith wiped his hands and rolled his shoulders. "Enough talk. You need rest."

Agor hesitated. His heart was still racing, his mind struggling to grasp all he had seen. But exhaustion was already pulling at him.

Garrick nodded toward the blankets. "Sleep, boy. We leave for Eaglestone in the morning."

Agor lay back down. Sleep did not come easily.

In the darkness, his thoughts twisted like flickering flames.

What had happened to his parents?

Why was his blood dark?

Who was Garrick—the man who had saved him, yet held secrets of his own?

His thoughts wandered until, at last, his eyes closed.