Geruke stabbed his shovel into a charcoal sack. Black powder splashed his face. Some of it crept into his mouth. He groaned and channelled his frustration, shoving the shovel deeper into the bag. But it collapsed on the floor. Charcoal banged, rattled, and skid across the stone tiles, blackening the ground that he just finished cleaning.

He shook his head and fell to his knees. Black powder covered his trousers, and dappled his apron, as he chucked charcoal into the sack and pushed it to lean against an anvil. He wished charcoal never existed.

Justifying that wish, he swiped sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, smearing wet and sticky ash across his face and short brown hair. Geruke sighed, strangled his shovel, and continued working. He scooped up some charcoal, and chucked it at the furnace. Inspiring him to take a break, a rebellious rock just had to bounce off the edge of the furnace, and smash into dozens of powdery pieces on the - previously - clean floor.

The forge hated Geruke, and he hated it too. He plunged his shovel into the charcoal sack, and threw his leather gloves off. They landed on the floor next to an empty armour stand. Hanging aprons and coats was all the useless thing could be good for, but his master was a delusional man. He thought he had the potential to one day hang a set of plate armour on the thing. So he kept it empty, and ripped all aprons and coats off it, ready for a day that would never exist. Stupid man.

An iron chandelier swung above him. Thin and rust-smothered chains held it to a stone ceiling. Embers flickered on the candles that wobbled on its rim. Geruke rubbed his hands and reached up to them, desperate to get rid of the cold. It normally wouldn't be hard to stay warm in a forge, but his greedy old nut of a master didn’t want him setting fire to the furnace until he started work, not wanting to waste any charcoal on keeping Geruke warm. He was just an apprentice; he didn’t matter.

He snatched his water satchel that leaned on one of the many racks that lined the forge’s walls, and held many shovels, hoes, and hammers. Leaning against a wall, he lurched as he wobbled an axe that hung on a wall-mounted rack. Fortunately, it didn’t fall on him. Geruke sighed, and shook his head - he had enough.

The sunrise’s orange lustre spread across the small wooden houses of Archi Town. Awful. Why did he even look outside? The sight of the sunrise just reminded him of how early he was awake, and how peacefully his scumbag Master was sleeping, and would continue to sleep until late in the morning.

Before he could pull his eyes away from the view behind the shutters, the sight of a huxkrana horse galloping across the Town’s cobbled street dragged them back. The green of its skin, Its large, pulsing and monstrous muscles, and its two swirling and gleaming white horns that curved out from underneath its black mane, waving in the wind, reminded Geruke of his past. Triggering even more memories was the vermillion embroidered shirt, and glimmering gold medallions and bracelets that the nobleman who rode the horse wore.

Fiddling with his sun necklace; his sister’s golden beaded necklace, Geruke’s heart ached as he wished to go back to wearing that, and riding that, and waking up whenever he wanted. He wanted to go back to eating food that sent his senses on a wild but refreshing ride, instead of eating slop that made him retch if he smelled it.

He wanted to turn around and be back in his childhood bedroom with its mahogany flooring, its gold and red silken bed, and his parents and sister eating food on a table in the corner, but when he turned around he didn’t see that; he saw an ashy and dirty mess of a forge. There was no wealth in sight. None on the horizon. Nothing to hope for.

The approaching tapping of paw against stone provided a brief reprieve from his melancholy. His Master’s dog, Pipper ran and jumped up at Geruke, tail wagging. He crouched to stroke the beige fur on the dog's head and under his chin. He licked Geruke's cheek.

He stood back up as Pipper finished his greeting and trotted away. Geruke shook his water satchel, hearing not much left inside it. He froze mid-sip just as Pipper pattered over to his empty water bowl and his wagging tail fell. Geruke paused. He hesitated. He finally sighed, walked across the forge, and emptied his satchel into the bowl. Pipper’s tail rose at the sight of it, and it wagged as he drank it.

Despite Geruke’s resulting thirst, Pipper’s appearance lifted his spirits. If he could replace half of humanity with dogs, he woul-

A knock on the door echoed through the forge. The sound lifted his spirits even more. He assumed it was Madrily, a member of the half of humanity who he wouldn’t replace with dogs. She occasionally visited him in his smithy. Sometimes early in the morning because she would start working at her job with the Town’s Watch at a similar time that Geruke would start his at the forge.

So he strolled to the door, and opened it with a skip in his step.

He was wrong. Madrily didn’t knock. The sight of the people behind the door ripped away all happiness, and all memory of how it felt. That seemed to be the case for his dog as well, who growled and barked at them.

“Don’t waste our time,” Friedroth said with a deep, gravelly, and bassy voice that rumbled Geruke’s ears as soon as the door hit the stone wall. “Give us the money now.”

Friedroth wore an eyepatch over his missing left eye, and his beard curved over the edges of his mouth, hiding any potential smile he could have ever had. He towered over Geruke, and his large and thick black plate armour made his imposing figure appear inhuman. The symbol of the Templaga Order, four red perpendicular swords shaped in a cross, gleamed against his black and enshadowed surcoat.

Four other warriors of the Templaga Order stood still behind him, wearing their black and red gambeson, black gorget, helmets, and pauldrons. Their hands rested on pommels.

Friedroth tapped his sabatons against stone tiles as Geruke gulped and panted. His mind raced for the right thing to say.

“You don’t have the money, do you?” Friedroth said, stepping closer.

“My Lord, please wait,” Geruke said as he turned, walking back into the forge. Pipper continued to bark. “May I just calm down my dog before we talk?”

“We won’t be waiting any longer,” Friedroth snatched the back of Geruke’s apron, and pulled him around. He stumbled into the Templaga Knight’s shadow. “We’re reaching the point where the only way we can fathom you paying back what you owe our organization is sending you to spend some time at the Infernal Fortress.”

Hearing the words ‘Infernal Foretress’ sent sweat oozing across Geruke's body, and drenching the neckline of his brown tunic. He would never let himself get sent to that hellish and barren wasteland to become hunting sport and breakfast for ranagraxa. “My Lord, I do not think there is any need to send me to the Infernal Fortress,” Geruke forced up the biggest smile he could muster; a thin, flat, and quivering line. “I believe I will be able to send you the money I owe you soon. I think the person to blame for my inability would be my master who ha--“

“You don’t get to blame your Master for anything,” Friedroth slammed his heavy and cold gauntleted palm onto Geruke’s shoulder, and squeezed. The pinky finger of that hand was missing. “Jarlunn has actually been helpful to us, but you’ve been nothing more than a leech.” He nodded at the warriors behind him. They streamed into the forge, and surrounded Geruke, exciting Pipper further.

“Look, my Lord, I think we have a misunderstanding.” Geruke held his palms in front of his face. “I have an old friend, who’s an incredibly wealthy merchant who will be co-“

Friedroth’s laugh flogged the forge. “You have a rich old friend, I’m the Herald of Fralil, and I can summon a tornado with a click of my fingers. You’re taking us for a troupe of jesters, aren’t you?”

His metal fist slammed into Geruke’s cheek. He stumbled back, but then he burst forward as a boot smashed into his spine, blasting him to the ground. His chin crashed against the coarse stone floor. His teeth rattled, and the taste of blood showered his mouth. The metal boots of the rest of the warriors pounded his back, arms, legs, and skull. He yelled as a piercing pain pulsed across his body. Blood splattered out of his mouth.

Pipper’s barking grew to a screech at the same time that a Templaga warrior yelled. The Templaga stopped stamping, and one screamed because the dog leapt at him, and bit into his arm, sinking fangs into his gambeson. The man punched him, and Pipper squeaked and whimpered. Geruke raged, and leapt to his feet, ignoring the pain. But his heart battered his sternum when he saw Friedroth snatch the hilt of his sword.

By attacking them, he’d end up waging war against the Templaga Order. He didn’t care. By killing them, he could save Pipper. He wouldn’t let them kill one of the few sources of happiness he had left. So he ran at the warrior who attacked his do-

Pipper belted out an ear-shanking squeal whilst Friedroth’s blade hissed out of its scabbard. The dog’s blood, and strands of stringy severed muscles, and organs rained off of the raised blade to merge with the dog’s growing pool of blood, slashed corpse, and writhing innards that oozed across the stone tiles.

“Give my regards to Jarlunn for me,” Friedrorth said, wiping the blood of his blade on a handkerchief he whipped out of his pocket. Drenching the cloth with blood and fragments of flesh, he flung it on Pipper’s corpse. “I hope he forgives me. I am sure he has the sense to see that it was your fault.”

He shoved his sword back in its scabbard, and turned to walk out. His underlings followed. “But if not, I won’t panic. He’s one polite and mediocre blacksmith amongst hundreds. For him; it’s a loss of good business. For me; an inconvenience. He nor you are anything special.”

The forge’s door slammed shut, the loss of light led to shadow devouring Pipper’s corpse.

“Have the money the next time we meet!" Friedroth shouted from behind the door, their footsteps pounding away on the cobbled street. "Or else!”

Geruke’s knees slammed on the stone tiles, splashing blood. It soaked into his trousers, but he didn’t care. Sorrow and rage ravaged his stomach, heart, and throat, leaving him a lifeless and empty shell. What was the point in caring about such things if you’re poor? He did not decide his destiny. Others decided it. Others much more willing to commit cruelty. Others much more desensitized to feelings of guilt.

He wished he was like them. He wished he could become rich like them so that he wouldn’t have to stare at such gruesome sights so much. The growing pool of blood, the writhing intestines, and the cadaver’s look of shock weren’t unfamiliar to him. The familiarity, however, didn’t make him numb to the pain, but the opposite. He leaned over Pipper to stroke his beige fur, and fiddle with his flappy ears one last time. Why did images of Pipper playing with balls, and sticks, and rolling on the grass on a summer noonday as a lively and happy puppy flash in his mind? His eyes burned.

Again, I’ve taken away another beloved and innocent life with my naivety. Geruke thought, slamming his fist on the ground, and shaking his head. Never again.

“I've had enough of you!” Jarlunn shouted, bashing a cupboard shut, wobbling a drawer. Rubbing and scratching his dirty, scraggly, and ugly beard, he stared at and shook a few dice in his hand, probably checking if they were his weighted ones or not. “You’ve never been a man of your word. Money is to be earned, not given. Stop trying to run away from that fact.”

Geruke’s arm ached and throbbed as he slammed his hammer on the anvil. Sparks spat up from a lump of metal’s orange glow with each hit. The metal slowly shifted and morphed into the shape of a shovel, but Jarlunn slowed the process even further by yapping and spraying Geruke’s cheeks with spit. He couldn’t even tell what the old coot was saying. Just a lot of mindless whining. Pipper made more sense.

Geruke didn’t feel sorry for the man-child whose fat-filled stomach was so magnificent that it was on the verge of bursting through and tearing his black apron apart. It already tore tiny holes in the vomit-green tunic that he wore underneath.

Geruke only felt guilty when he glanced to the side and saw Maladore, Jarlunn’s son, tiptoe past the forge from the house’s staircase with swollen and glistening eyes. As soon as his eyes entered the vicinity of Pipper’s water bowl, tears would stampede down his cheeks again. Poor kid.

“You better cough up the money you owe them immediately!” Jarlunn roared, slamming shut another cupboard. From which he pulled out a deck of cards. “Those Templaga are kind and honest people who I love to do business with. Don’t ruin that relationship or you’ll be out of here!”

Kind and honest? Geruke thought. Do you mean rich and vain? “Master, I think the reason I have been having trouble paying them back is because I promised an increase in my wages quite a long time ago.”

“And why were you promising an increase in wages?” He laughed. “I don’t even pay you a wage -- you’re an apprentice.”

Are you slow? Geruke slammed his hammer on the anvil a bit too hard, and he groaned as a sharp pain rushed up to his arm. He inhaled and ignored it to continue. “I am sorry if I am misunderstanding, Master, but I am twenty-one. I should have graduated from my apprenticeship many years ago. I should be a journ-“

“You're a stupid boy!” Jarlunn rapped him on the head with a pouch of coins. “You killed my dog and you think I’m gonna start paying you!? The only reason I took you as an apprentice was because your friend Lerute and Madrily are solid lads. My friends at the Guildhall think I should kick you out because of how you’ve behaved with the Templaga! You’re lucky I’m so kind!”

“Master, how could I pay off the Templaga if you’ll never let me graduate my apprenticeship?”

“I will, just not yet. I don’t have the money to do it right now.”

“Do you know when that will be? As you can see, the Templaga are getting impatient.”

“To the west, in Noria, a civil war has erupted.” He stared at the armour stand, and smiled. “I heard rumours from the Templaga that the Grand Ragope will announce another Holy Invasion. Lords, mercenaries and peasants from all over will scatter to blacksmiths so they can join the Holy Warriors in the battles in the west! We’ll be bathing in money at the end of it!”

“But Master, what happens after the Holy Invasion? I don’t think relying on a temporary boom in business is a good long-term strategy.”

“It depends on how well you do, boy!”

“Master, I really think you’re underestimating how much money you’re making normally. If you just stopped gambling away all your earnings at the Garmence Tavern, you could pay me an actual wage and then some.”

There was a pause. Silence filled the forge. Jarlunn grabbed a wooden plank and stabbed it against the oven’s smouldering charcoal, setting it aflame. The sight confused Gruke, but confusion was a familiar state of mind when around Jarlunn.

The old nutter then swung the flaming plank at his face. Geruke dashed back, and tripped to the ground. The metal he worked on fell off the anvil, and brushed against his leg before it hit the floor. He yelled as a burning sensation rushed across his leg, and a patch of his brown breeches burnt black, sticking to his skin.

“Stop screaming, you snivelling wretch!” Jarlunn roared, pointing the flames at him. Sweat streamed down Geruke’s forehead. The flaming wood warmed his face. He never liked the old man. He didn’t like how he spoke, how he looked, or how he lived his life. But he never thought he was crazy until then. “A lousy apprentice like you has no business loaning money from the Templaga! You don’t get to judge the way I live my life!”

“I had no choice to loan from them, you senile old man!” Geruke shouted. He bit his tongue after he spoke so harshly, but it also felt quite thrilling to let himself go. The old fart attacked him, so at least he had an excuse. “My friend, Lyrassa, was dying from Arginnium poisoning. The antidote for that poison is expensive, so I had to get some money somehow! My bad financial decision saved a life! What has gambling achieved!?”

Jarlunn slashed the flaming wood. “Why were you the one making the loan when it was her problem!?”

Geruke jumped to his feet, wobbled from his burnt leg, and snatched the flaming plank from the crazy man’s hands. “Have you ever even seen what it’s like to be poisoned by Arginnium!? Shiny red scales spread across her skin! She couldn’t stop vomiting! She couldn’t get out of bed! I had to do it!”

“Is that skull of your's hollow!?” Jarlunn shoved his fat pink finger at his face. “Why didn’t you get her to pay you back!?”

“I didn’t and I never will.” Geruke plunged the plank into a bucket of water. Smoke rose and swirled up from it. “She said that if she could choose, she’d rather die than waste her life paying off that loan. I made that loan without consulting her so it wouldn’t make sense to force her to pay me back.”

Jarlunn turned and grabbed the bag that he shoved his cards, die and coin pouch into. “Of course it’d make sense. Stuff like this is why you’re poor and will stay poor for the rest of your life.” He marched across the forge and flung the front door open.

“Master, she’s my friend. Why wouldn’t I do everything I could to save her life?” Geruke calmed down. Jarlunn seemed to finally begin to speak like a human and less like a rabid dog, so he actually listened. Geruke picked up the glowing metal lump and limped over to the anvil, putting it back.

Jarlunn paused in the doorway and glared back at Geruke. “Friends who need you to sacrifice yourself for them aren’t friends; they’re leeches. Focus on yourself and life will go smoothly.” The door slammed shut.

Except for the crackling charcoal of the furnace, some much-needed silence wafted through the forge. Jarlunn was right.

If everyone sacrificed themselves for others, then no one would be happy.

Success comes when you gain the power to sacrifice everyone for yourself. He already had it, but he just wasn't willing to use it.

So he strangled the handle of his hammer, flipped over the glowing and malformed shovel, and continued slamming on the anvil. He knew what he needed to do: bury the flickering embers of guilt that remained in petty fragments after years of cynicism and chase after what he wanted; all chains shattered and forgotten.

A knock on the door started Geruke. His experience earlier in the morning made him feel uneasy about the sound and made his heart thump as he approached the door. He flung off his gloves and swung the door open. The sight rattled his heart for an entirely different reason.

Madrily’s glimmering snow-white gambeson greeted his eyes. Her blonde hair waved in the wind and her brown eyes sparkled in the noon’s sunlight. Her smile lifted his spirits, but what lifted his spirits the most were her shining silver earrings, their imagined price reminding Geruke of the land she’d end up owning in the future; Archi Town.

The idea that someone so wealthy flung her arms around him and pulled him into a hug and kissed his cheek and said she was happy to see him birthed an unfamiliar emotion within his heart - hope. Only if he could marry her...

“Your gambeson seems clean,” Geruke reached past her hug and pushed the front door closed. “Peaceful day then?”

“A deserved one, yes.” She pulled away from the hug and wandered around the forge, her eyes scattering across the tool racks, but especially the weapon racks. “For the past few weeks, we’ve been getting far too many monster attacks. Most of them disions. We deserve a bit of a rest.”

“I hope it stays that way.” Geruke sat down on a bench and smiled up at her. “Then we’ll be able to spend more time together.”

“That’d be nice.” She grabbed a sword. With one hand, she twirled it, flipped it and slashed it at the air. “Where’s Pipper?”

Geruke paused and hesitated. “That one’s kinda hard to explain.”

He explained what happened earlier in the morning. Whilst he told the story, Madrily stopped playing with the sword and sat next to him on the bench.

“I’m so sorry,” she said as she stroked his cheek. "How could the Templaga just waltz in here, kill a dog, and stroll away without any consequences?”

“No use getting angry at the Templaga,” He stared at the floor. “It’s my fault. I should’ve never borrowed money from them.”

“Nonsense. If you didn’t borrow money from them, then Lyrassa would be dead!”

“I’d have a lot more money at least.”

“What’re you talking about? You did the right thing. The Templaga is the problem. They're a perfect example of why Discha is superior to Fralil. In the Rilan, Meguss said that money lending is supposed to be charity and expecting anything in return decays the soul, but in the Buline, it encourag-“

Geruke covered her mouth with his palm and shushed her. “You shouldn’t say such things so loudly!”

She pulled his hand away. “Why? I can trust you, can’t I?”

“Of course you can.”

She looked away from him. “You don’t dislike the fact that I’m a Dischan, do you?”

“I’m in full support of your beliefs, Maddy,” she smiled and her dilated eyes stared into his. “The issue is if other people hear. They’ll lynch you and burn you at the stake.” He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her sweet shoulders against his chest. “Well, they’d try. I’d never let them.”

“What do you mean you’d never let them?” She chuckled. Her soft thighs pressed against his and she wrapped an arm around his waist. “I’m the chief watchman of this Town. My job is to fight monsters, pirates and bandits. You make shovels. What could you even do?”

“Back when I was a nobleman, I fought in a few battles.” His spare hand fell to one of hers that hugged his waist and squeezed her warm palm.

She laughed. “Serving wine to the knight you squired doesn’t count.”

“I fought on the front lines. Why else do you think I beat you so often and so easily when we spar?”

“We’ve barely sparred and the times you beat me were down to luck.”

“We should spar more in the future.”

“There're swords lying around here. We could spar now.”

“No, it wouldn’t be appropriate here. What if Jarlunn’s son walks in?”

She snorted and flushed. “We’re still talking about sparring, right?”

He smirked and lowered his head towards hers, glowing pink in the cheeks. “It’s up to you. Do you want to keep talking about sparring?” He lowered his voice. “Or something else?”

She smiled and her face rose. Her hot and sweet breath caressed his face. His eyes focused on her approaching lips. He closed his eyes and felt her soft body press against his an-

Another knock on the door. They both froze. Who the fuck is this? He sighed, and he dragged his face and hands away from Madrily to stand up and walk to the door. After he opened it, he stiffened.

“Hi, um,” Barssanna said. She cocked her head and adjusted her gleaming silver medallions as she cleared her throat and paused. “Sorry, I can’t remember your name.”

The wind ruffled her blue bliaut dress and wobbled her silver earrings. Her blonde ringlets swirled to the bottom of her black bodice. Her beauty would usually make him feel at ease, but her accusing glare rumbled his heart.

“My name is Geruke, my Lady” He bowed, held out his hand and smiled as wide as he could. “You look wonderful today.”

“Ah, Geruke. I’ve heard my daughter say that name.” She strolled past him, ignoring his outstretched hand. Geruke’s smiling face twitched as he shook an invisible hand to weaken the blow to his ego and straightened his back. “Is she in here?”

“Yes, I’m here,” Madrily stood up from the bench.

“You need to be back home. Your tutor has arrived late today and you don’t have much of your lunch break left, do you?”

Madrily nodded and walked to the door. She paused at the doorway and looked back at Geruke. “You’ll be at the Garmence Tavern later tonight, right?”

“Of course,” He winked. “See you then.”

She left with a wave. Barssanna followed but then paused in the doorway. “Wait for me outside,” she turned and shot a skin wrinkling scowl at Geruke. “I need to have a word with him.”

“What about?” Madrily asked before Barssanna slammed the door shut and stomped towards Geruke. He stepped away with trembling legs.