“This one’s exciting.”

Rickshaw curiously held a letter. He was a young and energetic teenager, a scribe. He worked at the main branch of the blacksmith guild at the royal capital. He was to record the names of master blacksmiths being sent from all over the Empire via letters. His work wasn’t difficult, but his senior was.

“Don’t be naïve. The only thing exciting about the letter is the letter itself. The list of generic names of unimportant masters holds little value in reality.”

Rickshaw couldn’t ignore his seniors bleating. Everyone had warned him about the old man sitting on the other side of the rickety old table that he refused to change for some forsaken reason.

The man hadn’t considered it a necessity to look away from the book he was copying before hitting Rickshaw’s head with his stone-hard opinion. He was cold as a block of ice… cinders left from a long smoldered fire… and had the temper of a wild boar.

Listen, but do not take his words to heart. Answer, but don’t correct. They had told him because the old man had a special relationship with the guild. He had held back enough.

“I don’t think so, sir.” Rickshaw fought back. He also had an opinion, values, and dreams. “These names belong to people who are masters of their craft. Every one of them is the hope and backbone of our Empire. They are the pillars of our society; the Empire would fall without them. They are not generic names on a piece of paper that can be shredded and thrown in the dumpster!”

He had the old man’s attention. Rickshaws heart skipped a beat when Somwar stopped scribbling.

The old man raised his head and stared back at his assistant started at him with his dark, aged eyes. Where the boy expected a retort, the old man let out a snort.

“Tell me then… what’s so impressive about this letter that you are holding? What makes it special? How are these names different from the hundreds I have recorded over the years and forgotten with time.”

Rickshaw got up, leaned over the table, and raised the hand holding the letter toward Somwar. It was by this freak method that he passed the letter to the man.

Rickshaw wondered if the name would surprise his senior. The old man had been stuck in the same position for the last decade. Everyone knew the man was a blacksmith, but no one knew the story behind his transfer to the logistics department. Some said he was a traitor and was being punished for taking bribes. Others said he was trying to save someone. Despite what everyone believed, one thing was true, the old man was not daunted by letters.

The letter was was thick, grainy, and fibrous. It had retained the faint fragrance of mulberry trees from it, which caused the old man to raise a brow in surprise that in turn surprised his assistant.

“Is the letter from the southwest region?”

“Yes,”

“Did they send arrows as the proof of the persons reaching mastery?”

“How did you—” Rickshaw started but the old man cut him off.

“That’s so like those people to waste the time of a master blacksmith on reproducing something like arrows. What a tragedy. He should be leading a team of lesser smiths instead of slaving away to some counts oppressive nonsense!”

The old man’s disdain might have surprised Rickshaw, but the boy never expected his senior to gasp and stand up straight from his chair after reading the letter. He didn’t know what happened. The letter didn’t contain anything shocking, but the name of a single master blacksmith from the depleted south-west region--

-- Raesh.