The sound ringing from the blacksmith’s shop pealed through the air like the toll of a temple bell tower calling the faithful to prayer. As Seraphima walked toward the shop, she smirked at the analogy as she imagined that the young man making that sound had probably never darkened the door of any temple. She wasn’t wearing her priestly robes this morning but her simpler physic clothing, a modest blue tunic over white leggings. It allowed her a brisk pace as she walked across the streets of Garashire.

Gregory Thames, the blacksmith who owned the shop, had often heard complaints about the sound from his apprentice as he beat various metals into submission for hours each day. For some reason, the ring of the young man’s hammer sounded different than your typical blacksmith, and the shop owner was a little jealous. However, as Seraphima Donner entered his shop, he knew the ringing from his backroom didn’t drive everyone away. It was rare for the young woman not to show up when his apprentice worked. The older man was not confused as to why, either.

“Good morning, Master Thames,” Seraphima said, walking up to the counter with her usual flourish. She was short, with little of her torso visible above the tall counter. Her skin was dark like she had been tanning in the sun all weekend, even though it was only the early days of spring, and the weather wouldn’t allow much frolicking along the riverside beach on the eastern edge of town for some months yet. Her hair was light, a blonde almost bordering on white. She was smiling at the blacksmith, something she did to nearly everyone.

“Morning, Miss,” he replied in a deep baritone, the only sound you would expect from a sturdy but slightly rounded blacksmith. “You here for business?”

Often the young woman just came to ask his apprentice a meaningless question or try to settle an argument they had earlier. She nodded. “Yes, I have an order of needles for my mistress. One hundred, I believe.”

As if just remembering, Gregory nodded and turned around to a shelf where he stored the smaller orders. He found the box in question, dozens of the shiny metal needles glimmering back at him. He sighed in frustration as he looked at the perfectly identical sharp pieces of metal, each with a flattened end and a hole punched through. As his aged hands gently lifted the box, his fingers the size of quarter-pound sausages and as rough as sandpaper, he knew this detailed work was now beyond him. As hard as his young apprentice could pound metal, the master blacksmith felt his greater skill was in this fine, detailed work.

“One hundred needles,” he said, placing the small box gently on the counter. “I believe your mistress has an account with us. Is there anything else you need?”

Seraphima said nothing but moved to a section of the counter with a shallow depression carved into the hardwood designed to prevent small, round objects from rolling away. She dumped the needles out and began sorting them into groups of ten. It didn’t take the young woman long, her nimble fingers also used to fine, meticulous work. The last group only had eight. “Ethanial!” Her cry was timed to come between the constant pounding from the backroom, long enough after one, so the ring had stopped reverberating but far enough before the next to prevent the strike. Predictably, the pounding stopped. “Ethanial Sart, come out here!”

The blacksmith rolled his eyes and stepped away, not wishing to get in the middle of this game. Within a few moments, the young apprentice appeared, pushing aside the curtain that closed off the backrooms of the shop and stepping up to the counter. He was a massive young man, several inches over six feet, with a muscular appearance that made it obvious what he did for a living. His arms looked like pythons that had eaten too many melons, and his chest and shoulders would make a thoroughbred horse jealous. His skin was bronzed as if by the furnace’s heat, not as dark as Seraphima’s but darker than what was common in this northern city.

Ethanial was bare to the waist, and his right hand held a towel to try and wipe the persistent sweat from his forehead and face. He took one look down at the young woman who had summoned him and sighed. “Yes, Sera, what is it this time?” He placed the towel on the counter and looked at the collection of needles he had fashioned the previous day. He was clever enough and could quickly do the math.

“You are two needles short, Ethan,” she said. “My mistress ordered one hundred.”

“And I put 102 in that box,” he said, motioning to the empty container on the counter. “I made sure I didn’t accidentally short you this time.”

Sera gave the young man a stern look, trying not to stare at his glistening chest. Or, at least, trying to make it look like she wasn’t staring at his chest. “Are you saying I can’t do math? Would you like to count them?”

“May I?” he asked, mimicking her dismissive tone.

“Be my guest.”

Ethan pointed at each grouping with his left hand, counting by tens up to 90. When he indicated the last group of eight, he deftly dropped two more needles from his curled fingers onto the counter. “One hundred,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Even ten feet away, Gregory had seen his apprentice drop the extra needles onto the counter. Sera frowned at the skill of her opponent. Before he had left the back room, he had picked up the needles, already anticipating the complaint. She had lost this round.

“I guess I can’t count very well. I apologize for disrupting your work.”

Ethan bowed slightly. “No problem, Miss. Have a nice rest of your day.” He turned and walked through the curtain, the sound of banging metal resuming within a minute.

As Sera gathered her needles into the box, Gregory walked back to the counter. “Do you need a clean rag for that, Miss?”

“A rag?” Sera began, but as she turned over her hands, she saw a small trickle of blood from her left, where she had concealed the four missing needles against her palm. “Oh, this?” she laughed. “This is nothing. I must have just pricked it while gathering these into the box. They are definitely sharp. Your apprentice does good work.”

“He certainly does.” Gregory paused and couldn’t help himself. “But why the games? Aren’t you going to see him later this evening at Sir Gerhold’s?”

Sera nodded as she gathered the last of the needles. “Yes, I will. But he will be wearing a shirt then. Good day, Master Blacksmith.”

As the young woman turned to leave, Gregory just laughed.

Ethan walked out of Garashire to the north on the road that led to Stonehollow, his family’s village. At nineteen, his childhood should not seem that long ago, but three hard years apprenticing as a blacksmith felt like an eternity. While he had been a large youth at sixteen when he had started, his appearance now would allow few from his old village to recognize him. He had washed up a little, kneeling before a large tub in the back of the smith’s shop, and wasn’t sweating much now, though training with Sir Gerhold usually had him working up another lather before long. He wore a sleeveless gray tunic that extended just past his waist and loose black trousers tucked into his boots. The cool spring air against his bare arms felt refreshing, and with a few hours of daylight left, he wasn’t worried about getting cold.

The young man carried a large two-handed sword on his hip. It was a blade he had made himself and was his first experimentation with weaponsmithing, which was what he planned to do after he finished his apprenticeship in another few months. The hills and mountains north and west of town were becoming more violent with increased reports of bloodhounds and crawners daring to move about during the day. He feared not only for his family’s safety back in Stonehollow but for many other villagers living around the much larger city of Garashire.

The thriving settlement was surrounded by five main villages that provided stone, ore, wood, food, and a host of other resources necessary for the city of almost 5,000 people to survive. It was typical for the family-run mills, mines, quarries, and farms of the villages around the central city to produce many children. When the oldest one or two sons took over the business, the younger ones often went into Garashire to find their future. Ethan, being the youngest of five brothers, had done just that.

It was also common to take two different apprenticeships. Ethan’s primary talent lay in smithing, which he would use to earn a living, but he had also developed a love of weaponry, and Sir Gerhold Wentry, a retired paladin, had seen potential in the young man and had begun to train him. The activity earned Gerhold the unofficial title of the city’s weapon master. When others in the town and outlying villages saw the value in knowing how to swing a sword properly, the older man had earned several other students to keep his retirement years interesting.

One of these students came skipping up toward Ethan when he was still fifteen minutes from the secluded cabin, a mile into the woods off the main road. The large young man gave this diminutive newcomer a careful look as she slowed her pace, pulling alongside him on the road just before entering the narrow path into the woods. “Good evening, Ethanial,” she said pleasantly.

“Good evening, Seraphima. I hope your mistress enjoyed the needles.”

Sera bobbed her head in affirmation. “Yes, exactly what we ordered.”

“Exactly,” Ethan repeated slowly. “And it looks like your work in the temple was ended early?”

Sera shook her head. “Priestess Salindra isn’t feeling well. Our lessons for today will be postponed.”

Sera often showed up late to the training, arriving in her priestly robes and then having to change. She also only trained twice a week, compared to the three times Ethan worked with the paladin. Sera’s duties in the temple kept her away on the weekends. Sir Gerhold had offered her other times to practice, but she had insisted this worked best in her busy schedule. Taking a third apprenticeship was not uncommon, but Sera’s choices seemed unusually contradictory to Ethan.

The young man regarded the woman who walked beside him for a moment. She was dressed similarly to him, though she wore a long-sleeved white shirt beneath her gray tunic, which extended well past her waist, ending just above her knees and gathered at the waist with a belt. She wore tight black leggings underneath, and Ethan regretted that the length of her tunic hid her feminine curves. He knew that she dressed more conservatively during the sparring sessions on the days when he won their playful games. She swung her short sword a bit harder on those evenings as well.

Sera wore a slender sword on one hip, and a buckler hung on the other. Despite her divided disciplines, she was exceptional with her weapons. She had only been training with the old knight half as long as Ethan, but her technique was flawless, and she was quick as a fox. They rarely sparred against each other and never with the blades they carried now. Their teacher had many wooden poles to simulate all kinds of weapons. But when they did spar, Ethan realized that, despite her grace and skill, she wasn’t a match for him. She could keep him on his toes for a while, but after challenging him not to hold back, he had easily blasted her from her feet and almost broke her shield arm. Ethan had been surprised to see her effortlessly get her buckler up to block his strike, but she had still been tossed back several feet and didn’t get up for a while.

Sera had taken the defeat in stride and, contrary to Ethan’s continued apologies, acknowledged that she had asked for it. With extra time available to them tonight, Ethan wondered if they would have more opportunity to fight again. Since he had foiled her trickery that morning, he also wondered if she would be holding back any.

“What does Priestess Salindra think about your third choice of apprenticeship?” Ethan asked, venturing into a topic they had never fully explored. They didn’t really have that many long conversations. He usually walked her back to Garashire after their training sessions, but they lived on opposite sides of the large city, and their routes didn’t coincide beyond the wooded trail they now followed.

“What does she think about a priestess learning to fight with a sword?” Sera repeated the question, clarifying it a little. “There are female paladins. And I see our weapon master at temple every weekend. I haven’t seen you, though.”

Ethan waved off the last comment. “Sir Gerhold gave his life to the faith. A paladin has little room in his . . . uh . . . or her life for much outside of service to their order. They definitely don’t have time also to be a physic. And they don’t serve much in a temple but respond to concerns of their parishioners in the wild lands around a city.”

“You don’t see a connection between knowing how to inflict a wound, prevent a wound, and treat a wound?” Sera looked up at him for a reaction. He was confused by the response and didn’t give one. “Or how about knowing when you should do any of those three. My faith touches every part of my life, and I can’t see how it doesn’t coincide with anything I might choose. I, like you, see this land as becoming more violent, and I want to be able to help people, whether that is to treat their wounds or defend against them. But above all, I want to give them hope to continue despite the tragedies that life might bring.”

“For when the Savior comes,” Ethan added, and though he tried to take the contempt from his voice, he was not entirely successful.

Sera sighed, wondering if she wanted to get into this right now. They were only a few minutes from the cabin, hardly the right time to start a fierce theological debate, but she felt obliged to answer his question, even if he didn’t know he had asked one.

“Now, more than ever, you must see that we have a bigger purpose here than just living. It all has to mean something, doesn’t it? I mean, why are you training to be a weaponsmith if there is no purpose to life?”

Ethan didn’t want to have this conversation now either. Still, he knew that for their friendship – as awkward as it usually was – to develop into anything meaningful, they would have to come to grips with their differing worldview. He paused. What was a “meaningful” friendship? Where did meaning come from? He shook his head as he felt Sera in his mind, arguing against him. Meaning came from progress. From taking a barren plot of land and turning it into a farm. From taking an empty cavern and transforming it into a productive mine. Meaning came from protecting your family, your friends, and your city.

“There is a purpose,” Ethan began. “But it is my purpose, not someone else’s. Not the purpose of a god that chooses to make his followers wait for his return while the world around them suffers.”

“He does not choose to wait any more than you choose to when swinging your hammer. You wait until the metal is hot and pliable. Trying to bend cold ore is not a good use of your time. Instead, the steel must ‘suffer’ in the fire until it is-”

“Fire,” Ethan repeated, cutting her off, and she could tell he was doing more than just repeating her words. “The cabin is on fire!”

Sera looked away from him and saw that the paladin’s cabin was just visible ahead through the tightly packed trees. With the bright afternoon sun, the flames did not illuminate the forest, but now that they were close enough, they could make out a flickering light that was far too bright to be a candle in a window.

Ethan left the trail like a boar plowing through a field of corn. He dodged the larger trees and shouldered the smaller ones out of his way as he took a direct route to the secluded home. Sera could not follow that way but instead sprinted along the trail, which wove back and forth through the trees toward the cabin. She arrived only moments after Ethan, and they ran in opposite directions around the house.

The flames had not truly taken hold of the cabin yet, and only one small area was on fire. Ethan ran into the kitchen, where Gerhold always kept water on supply, filling several buckets. He fought the fire while Sera searched for their teacher. The knight was slumped in the sitting room amongst broken furniture and bloodstains on the floor. Her physic training kicked in, and she hurriedly checked his vital signs. He was still breathing, but his pulse was weak.

The wound was obvious as blood soaked through his clothes over his stomach. Sera ripped open the shirt and then tore it off him. She used her sharp sword to cut off the long sleeves and then tied them together. Wadding the rest of the shirt into a bandage, she tied it tightly around his midsection, struggling to lift his heavy frame off the ground to loop the sleeves under him. She was just securing the knot when Ethan ran in after dousing the flames and cried out at the sight of their teacher lying bloody on the floor. “No! Is he okay?”

Before Sera could reply, Gerhold’s eyes fluttered at the sound of his best pupil’s voice. “Ethan,” he whispered, barely audible. “Ethan, he took it.”

“What?” the young man cried. “Who took what?”

Gerhold tried to speak again, but he only gasped. Instead, he weakly lifted his arm and pointed to the side of the room. An open chest stood along the wall. Ethan had practiced with every weapon the old paladin had collected over the years and often wondered what was in that chest. It was the right size to hold a sword or axe, but the weapon master avoided talking about it, and the trunk had always been locked. Now, the lock lay broken on the floor, and the chest was empty.

The dying man was trying to communicate something, but Ethan didn’t know what it was. He looked up at Sera. “Is there anything we can do to make him more coherent? Should we move him to a bed off the floor?”

Sera was about to respond when Gerhold found the strength to speak again. “No. Leave me. The assassin. You must find him. You must . . . get the sword.”

Ethan looked again at the empty chest. “He took a sword?” he asked, but the old man’s eyes rolled back up into his head. Ethan returned his look to Sera, not knowing what to do.

“I think I can stop the bleeding,” Sera said. “It’s bad, but I think we got here just in time. I just need a few things from the kitchen before we can move him.”

“No!” the knight suddenly came back to life as he seemed to gain strength in waves. He gripped Ethan’s arm with surprising vigor. “You must go now! I got him. He couldn’t have gone far.”

“You got him?” Ethan asked, but then his eyes found the paladin’s sword lying in the corner of the room, blood on the blade.

“For the sake of the Savior, you must go . . .” but Gerhold’s strength faded again.

Ethan looked up again at Sera for guidance. “I think I can stabilize him on my own,” she said. She looked up from the wounded man for a moment to meet the intensity in Ethan’s eyes. “If you must go, then you better go now. He wouldn’t be wasting his strength like this if it wasn’t important.”

Ethan nodded, and with one last look at the pair on the floor, he turned out of the room and ran.