The walk back to the hall was long. Kael dragged his feet at first, each step echoing like a hammer against stone, heavy in his own ears. His shoulders still ached from the weight of the hammer he had failed to control. His palms were raw, sore red marks pressed deep where the handle had bitten into his skin. He rubbed them absently, but the sting only reminded him of how clumsy he had looked.

  The forge’s heat still clung to his clothes, but it felt colder now, more like ashes than fire. It wasn’t warmth he carried, but shame. Every time he blinked, he saw Bren’s eyes again—hard, doubting. Those eyes had cut deeper than the hammer’s bite. Behind them he imagined the villagers’ whispers, curling and cruel like smoke: That’s the heir? That’s the boy? He can’t even hold a hammer.

  Kael’s throat tightened. He wanted to shout, to break something, to prove them wrong right there in the dirt of the forge. But he hadn’t. He had faltered. He had failed.

  Beside him, Daren walked in silence, his stick tapping against the stones in a rhythm as steady as breathing. That tapping was the only sound between them for a long while. The air was cool, washed clean by the rain that had fallen in the night. The path wound upward toward the ridge, slick with mud. A crow lifted off a fence post as they passed, its wings slapping the air. Birds shifted restlessly in the branches overhead, watching the two figures make their way up the lonely path.

  Kael kept his head down, jaw locked tight. His chest felt hot, his stomach sour. He hated that Bren had seen him falter. Hated even more that Bren had been right. His arms had been too weak. His strike had been crooked. He had looked like a boy in front of men.

  They passed the low wall marking the edge of the hall’s grounds. Stones had fallen loose here, moss spreading thick across the cracks. Kael slowed, running his hand along the rough surface as they walked by. The texture grounded him, but it also reminded him how broken things had become.

  His voice came out low, almost a growl. “I need help.”

  Daren gave him a quick look, but said nothing yet. His stick tapped on, steady, like the old man was waiting to see if Kael truly meant the words.

  Kael bit down on the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to try again. His voice was louder this time, sharper, as though the admission itself hurt. “I can’t do this alone. Not the ledgers. Not the repairs. Not the forge. None of it.”

  Daren’s face stayed calm, unreadable, but his eyes glinted in the gray light. “No one asked you to do it all alone.”

  Kael’s anger snapped, spilling over. He stopped in the path, fists clenching so tight his knuckles burned white. “But the people won’t follow me!” His voice rose, raw and breaking. “They don’t see me as anyone. Just a boy who swings a hammer wrong.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The silence stretched out between them, the crow’s cry echoing faintly across the fields below. Daren stopped too, leaning slightly on his stick. His gaze stayed fixed on Kael, quiet but firm, as if daring him to keep speaking.

  Kael’s breath came heavy. He wanted to turn away, but Daren’s eyes held him there.

  Then, slowly, something shifted in the old man’s face. The faintest crease eased from his brow, the harsh line softening. His eyes, though still steady, carried something gentler now.

  “You asked me to find someone,” Daren said, his voice even, “but do you even know who you want?”

  Kael looked away at once, unable to meet the question head-on. His teeth pressed together hard, almost grinding. He did know. He had known since the forge, since Bren’s words, since the whispers in the crowd. But speaking it out loud felt heavier than the hammer had in his hands.

  Daren took a slow step closer, the stick pressing into the wet earth with a dull thud. “Before you speak a name,” he said, voice low but cutting, “you must understand this: every name carries weight. Some names bring hope. Some stir anger. And some bring danger to your own door. If I am to send word, if I am to move my feet in this search, I must know not only the name but the reason.”

  Kael’s jaw worked, tight again. His eyes lifted toward the hall that rose above them on the ridge. Its roof sagged under years of neglect, weeds curling wild along its walls, but it still stood. The wide doors gaped in shadow, waiting like a mouth that had gone too long without a voice.

  “The reason…” Kael whispered, almost to himself.

  “Yes.” Daren’s voice sharpened, though it carried no anger. It was the sharpness of truth. “The reason must be more than pride. More than shame. If it is only to prove Bren wrong, or to hush the whispers of villagers, you will burn out before the month ends. And the hall will crumble all the same.”

  Kael stayed quiet. The words cut deep because they were true. Pride had driven him, yes. He had wanted to show Bren, to show them all, that he was worthy. But as he stood there on the muddy path, he knew there was more.

  He thought of the ledgers, the pages filled with names of people who had once given their hands and backs to these halls. He thought of the broken stalls in the courtyard, wood splintered and left to rot. Of the garden, strangled with weeds. Of the storehouse with no lock, its doors hanging loose. He thought of the hall itself, waiting, almost daring him to breathe life back into it.

  And he thought of the council. Of their voices, cold and hard as stone. One month. That was all the time left before judgment fell. One month before the house could be stripped from him forever.

  Finally, Kael turned back to Daren. The ache inside him burned hotter than before, but it no longer shook him. His eyes were steady now.

  “I want them found,” Kael said, voice low but certain, “because this hall cannot rise on me alone. I need someone who can stand where I fall. Someone who remembers what we were, even if I never saw it with my own eyes.”

  Daren studied him closely, his gaze searching Kael’s face as though weighing the truth of his words against the weakness he had shown. The silence dragged on, long enough that Kael’s chest began to tighten again. But at last, the old man gave a slow, small nod.

  “Then speak the name.”

  Kael froze. His throat was dry, his lips almost too heavy to part. The names pressed against his tongue like stones waiting to drop, each one heavier than the last. He could feel them, sharp and real, as if the very act of saying them would change the air around him.

  He drew a breath. His voice shook the first time, but he did not stop.

  “Orin.”

  The sound of it carried in the damp air, steady despite his trembling chest.

  He swallowed hard, then spoke again.

  “Rhea.”

  His chest tightened, the weight of each word growing heavier, but he forced himself forward.

  “Tarin.”

  The air between them seemed to thicken. Even the trees felt stiller, as if listening.

  “Joran.”

  Kael’s breath caught. He paused a long moment, the name lingering like a bell’s echo. Then, steadying his voice, he spoke the last.

  “And Lila.”

  The names hung there in the cool morning, sharp and unyielding, like the strike of steel against steel.