Solo Voyage

"You already know my name—so no more introductions."

Frenel eased off his work, the rhythmic clang of metal fading as he glanced up at Azriel, eyes narrowing slightly with curiosity.

"Did Lucia send you?" he asked, setting his hammer down. "You look a bit young… an apprentice, maybe?"

Azriel had killed her—but there was no way he could say that. Not here. Not to this man. So he simply nodded, playing the role of the wandering student.

But something was off. From the moment he stepped into the forge, Azriel had felt it. Ever since Reflection started showing him the threads of connection others held, he'd seen many—Gio's was a blaze, Lysara's a storm. But this man… this blacksmith… his connection was just as strong. Just as alive. And yet, in Lucia's memories, Frenel had only been a blacksmith. A trainer. A kind father figure. So why…?

"Hello…?" Frenel waved a hand in front of Azriel's face.

Azriel blinked, snapped out of his thoughts. "Sorry—I was just awestruck by your connection. It's… powerful."

Frenel raised a brow, folding his arms. "So, you're one of those who can see connections, huh? Interesting. Lucia found a good one, then. Although I find it strange—she was never the type to take in disciples."

Azriel let out a nervous laugh. "Y-yeah, I was surprised too. She didn't exactly seem like the mentoring kind."

Frenel's face softened as he smiled faintly, the kind of smile that carried years of memories. "How is she? Still stubborn? How's her blade? Does the poison still hold up?"

He asked with such warmth, like a father checking in on a daughter. And it made Azriel's stomach turn. The truth was a blade he couldn't unswing. But if he were to speak it—what would that do? What would it break?

He clenched his fists and lowered his eyes.

"She… fought well."

"Hm? I don't quite get what you mean, but you've got the spirit!" Frenel chuckled, brushing off the strange comment. "You've got that fire in your eyes—Lucia must've respected that."

They ended up talking, exchanging the basics—where they were from, what they'd seen, what they hadn't seen but pretended they had. Azriel used his very "brilliant" and "convincing" manipulation tactics to keep up the act.

And by "brilliant," we mean don't look too closely at them. Seriously. For your own emotional wellbeing.

If you dig too deep, you might realize he was just a desperate, half-dead eighteen-something with a pretty face and a tragic backstory, bluffing his way through grief like a poker game he never learned the rules to.

Frenel, bless him, didn't question it.

"You've got Lucia's stance down," the blacksmith said at one point, observing Azriel's posture as he handled the chipped dagger. "Your grip's a little off, but your instincts are sharp. You could be better."

"I want to be," Azriel replied. "That's why I came."

Frenel raised an eyebrow. "To Wepah? Not exactly the center of the world."

"She told me about it," Azriel said—truthfully this time. "This place made her who she was. And I need to know what that meant."

The forge went quiet for a moment. Only the wind outside hummed through the gaps in the wooden walls.

Frenel let out a long breath. "Then you'd best get to training. Her first sword was made here. You want to walk her path? You'll need to forge your own. Literally."

Azriel looked at him, confused. "You mean…?"

The old man smirked. "Pick up the hammer, apprentice. Time to see if your arms can handle something other than waving around excuses."

They headed back into Frenel's workshop. Azriel picked up the hammer, and though he had only scraps of smithing knowledge from Lucia's memories, something clicked. For once, the Unblessed had found something he was naturally good at.

With every strike of the hammer, his movements became more confident, more precise. Sparks danced across the forge as metal met metal, and Frenel watched in growing surprise.

"That's a fine blade, kid!" he said, genuinely impressed. "Even Lucia couldn't craft something that refined her first time. You've got a damn good eye—and a better hand."

While Azriel didn't share Lucia's raw talent in swordplay, what he lacked in combat instinct, he made up for in craftsmanship. His blade was a short sword—sleek, fast, and razor-sharp. It had just enough weight to be reliable but not enough to slow him down. For someone still working on building strength, it was perfect.

Slowly but surely, Azriel grew accustomed to Frenel. The old blacksmith became like a grandfather to him—a figure who felt oddly familiar, like someone he'd known for years. Their bond ran deeper than mere mentorship, and that connection made Azriel miss Lysara and Gio even more. But he knew he couldn't afford to be distracted. He needed to become stronger—stronger than he had ever been. He couldn't keep relying on death and inherited strength. He wasn't a skilled warrior, nor a masterful mage. He was simply immortal—and that alone wasn't enough.

His power came only in fragments, stolen from the ones he'd died to.

Days turned into weeks, and in that time, Azriel and Frenel became nearly inseparable. Under Frenel's strict guidance, Azriel's body hardened. The old man was relentless—putting him through rigorous weight training, brutal sparring, and drills that forced him to dodge, endure, and persevere. It was hell, but it was exactly what Azriel needed.

And yet, the more he trained, the more Lucia's memories haunted him. Even those closest to the Graces were subjected to unthinkable torment—treated like tools, not people. To them, emotions were irrelevant.

But for Azriel? That pain only brought clarity.

He realized then: he wouldn't fight just for himself. He would fight for the people who stood by him—for Lysara, for Gio, for everyone oppressed by the Graces. If he fought alongside others, then he'd fight for them, too.

The next morning, Azriel and Frenel sat together over a warm meal, laughing over one of Frenel's ridiculous stories from his youth. Frenel had a knack for teasing Azriel—mocking the way he held a hammer or how seriously he took everything—and Azriel, for once, welcomed the lightheartedness.

Then, in the middle of their laughter, Frenel suddenly tilted his head and asked, "You mentioned your birthday the first day we met, right?"

Azriel raised an eyebrow, suspicious. "Yeah… why?"

Frenel smirked. "Wait here."

He got up, shuffling to the back room. When he returned, he was holding a small cupcake, lopsided and slightly burnt at the edges. "Sorry," he chuckled, setting it down, "this is all I knew how to bake."

Azriel stared at it—stunned into silence.

On Signo, birthdays were almost forgotten. Life was disposable. Celebrations like this were a luxury, usually reserved for children of the elite. But Azriel had never had that. Born into poverty, his childhood was a blur of survival, not celebration.

This small, imperfect cupcake wasn't just a dessert—it was a revelation. A spark of joy that hit him like a wave. He was eighteen now, and this… this was his first birthday.

As Frenel started to sing a birthday tune—off-key and half-forgotten—Azriel couldn't help but smile, wide and genuine. The lyrics were unfamiliar, but the warmth behind them was not. He blew out the candle, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling, and threw his arms around Frenel in a tight hug.

The old man froze for a moment, then patted Azriel on the back.

Frenel had never married, never had children of his own. The only person he'd ever raised was Lucia, plucked from the streets and taught to wield steel like it was an extension of herself. And now, there was Azriel.

Signo was cruel. The Graces were worse. But even in the shadow of their tyranny, this small flame of kindness burned bright.

And for Azriel, it was enough—for now.