While it was still dark, they returned to Haldar’s workshop. This time, however, Larkin carried with him the most sought-after tool in the Realm. Mira had remarked that it made no difference whether they travelled by day or night, for the Hammer shone as though they hauled the sun on their backs. Fortunately, it was still early dawn, and the children were able to slip into the master’s forge under the laborious sound of Haldar’s snoring, which, to Mira, was scarier than the ghostly apparition they encountered earlier. She felt the boy’s expectant eyes fall on her suddenly.

  “Give me another blueprint,” said Larkin flatly.

  “Quiet,” hushed Mira; her eyes jerked to the old man slumped in a chair in the corner.

  “Do not worry,” Larkin said, strolling over to the anvil by his own bed, “he’s a heavy sleeper. You couldn’t wake him up even if you tried.”

  “Even if there was a fire?” asked Mira quietly.

  “It’s like you can read my mind,” Larkin said with a grin. He took out the flint Mira had given him earlier and lit the forge. The fire burned low, casting small shadows across the stoney floor.

  “You’re not-”

  “Yes,” interrupted Larkin gleefully, “give me all the blueprints you have.”

  “What do you think that I am? A blueprint dispenser?”

  “They have those?” asked Larkin; his eyebrows shot up. “You’re a thief, aren’t you?”

  “Stop calling me that,” scowled Mira, crossing her arms. “You’re starting to make me feel bad about myself...”

  “Oh, gods,” said Larkin, laughing. He laid down the Hammer and turned to his pot-bellied master.

  “I don’t like that look,” whispered Mira with a frown. “What are you thinking?”

  “He has a blueprint in his coat pocket,” said Larkin.

  “Oh, Larkin, you wouldn’t,” gasped the girl, “not from your own master, surely.”

  “Would you do it for me?”

  “Steal? Who do you take me for?” Mira said.

  “We don’t have much time before the sun comes up,” said Larkin, “I saw him put it in his pocket.”

  Mira glanced at the old man apprehensively, and then back at Larkin again. She sighed, “I don’t want to encourage you.”

  “We need that blueprint. I can’t level up without it,” he said, his voice filled with hope and desperation.”

  “I steal from the rich and the evil, Larkin; I don’t steal from poor old men,” answered Mira exasperatedly.

  “We’ll be rich,” returned Larkin quickly, appearing at her side in flash; “besides, he won’t mind...” his eyes were golden runes. “You’re my friend, right?”

  Mira was flustered. She eyed the sleeping Haldar, and said, her voice barely above a whisper, “You sure about this?”

  Larkin nodded firmly. Mira gulped, inching closer to the white-bearded man in the chair. Because of her years of experience as a thief, her footsteps were soft and deliberate, narrowly avoiding the wine bottles scattered on the floor. Although she was well practiced as a thief, and in the art of pickpocketing, often winning most of the competitions in her guild against the older boys, sweat still accumulated on her forehead. However, stealing from an old, destituted man was different.

  “You can do it,” encouraged Larkin, his eyes wide with hunger, his fingers curling in anxiety. “Don’t wake him, though,” he added.

  Mira cringed at the response, glaring at him from behind her shoulder with a scolding scowl. Suddenly, she heard Haldar shift slightly, a low groan escaping his throat. She froze; her breath caught in her chest. Her eyes then darted to the old man. The snores were growing louder, and so was the thunderous beating of her own, troubled heart. Mira’s throat became tight with worry. It took all her strength not to lose her footing.

  Another second she was beside the master blacksmith, looking down on him with a stoney expression. The man’s features reminded her of what she imagined her own father to look like: weathered and depressed, disappointed and afraid. Guilt wrenched her gut. If her father had the slightest inkling of the girl she had become, would he still take her back? She shook her head weakly; that was a thought for another time.

  Haldar’s chest rose in time with hers, oddly enough. Her eyes, calm and incredibly perceptive, slowly scanned his body from head to foot, until they settled firmly on something which caught their attention. It was a corner piece of a paper, rising in time with his breaths. She gulped, her cheeks bright red; though from heat, shame or nervousness she knew not, nor did she consider the matter all that important. It was too late to turn back now, she thought. A droplet of sweat rolled down her cheek and crashed to the floor. At the same moment, Mira reached down and pulled gently the paper from Haldar’s breast pocket. As the blueprint slipped out, so did the breath from her lungs. She managed to steal it just as Haldar shifted his bodyweight again, stashing the blueprint under her arm quickly.

  "Quick!” urged Larkin.

  The thief backed from the chair like a creeping cat, the old man appearing not to notice her; then, as though her own guilt had a ghostly keeper like the Hammer of the Eternal Forge, she saw the whites of his eyes flash suddenly. The arch of her foot pressed down on the neck of a bottle, disrupting the stillness of the workshop with a spine-tingling crack; and the two children shuddered in fear.

  “Eek!” shrieked Larkin.

  Haldar stirred, groaned and muttered something incoherent; but he appeared still asleep.

  “Sorry,” Mira breathed, her eyes wide and wavering.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Mira retreated to the forge carefully; she handed the excited blacksmith the blueprint, frowning deeply as she watched him study it without so much as a glance in her direction. She was extremely pale, gazing into the fire behind Larkin with a blankness of eyes that would have made the older boys she had grown up around tremble.

  “That was too close,” she muttered finally, interrupting the silence between them, “I won’t do that again.” The words came out as a choke, however.

  Larkin’s eyes remained fixed on the blueprint. “We did it. And we’ve got what we need,” he said.

  Mira’s eyes jerked to Larkin, lingering upon his rune-ridden skin. Even though the thought would never have dared crossed her mind earlier, the cracked, damp walls of the forge, much to her chagrin, seemed inappropriate for the blacksmith now. She too, questioned her own presence in Larkin’s future.

  It was not long before Larkin was back at it. The Hammer crashed down on the anvil, sending sparks spitting in all directions around the anvil. However, the crude iron put up a good fight, resisting the golden head of the Eternal Forge like the last defender of an ancient city as it tried to stay upright like its bottom half. It gave way in inches, and this frustrated the boy. His skill was still subpar, and he knew it; Larkin grimaced, his back aching with regret.

  “I’m tired,” Mira yawned, leaning against the jamb. Although her eyes struggled to remain open, she could not help but feel that someone was watching them. She glanced at the slumbering victim. He was no longer snoring.

  “Why do I feel so weak?” muttered Larkin, battering the edge of the iron bar miserably.

  Mira observed her friend’s distress and smiled slightly. “Planning to fight the iron or forge it? If you keep hammering like that you’ll end up with a pile of scrap.”

  Momentarily distracted by the thief’s quip, Larkin let his thumb approach dangerously close to the Hammer’s target; before he could retract them completely to safety, the head came down and caught the tip of his thumb. “Ouch!” he cried, bringing his injured extremity to soak between his chapped lips. The taste of his own blood humbled him for a moment as he glared at the girl with a savage expression.

  Mira chuckled. “You should start a new scrap-metal business,” she said.

  “Not funny,” replied Larkin, his eyes like daggers cutting across the room.

  Seeing that his feelings was clearly hurt, Mira’s expression softened. “I told you to stick to small household items,” she said.

  “Do I look like a common smith?” he snarled.

  “You look tired, Larkin,” answered Mira.

  “I want to craft epics."

  “But you can’t,” Mira said quickly; “Just because you have the Hammer of the Eternal Forge doesn’t make you any less of a Backwater urchin,” she continued. “Look,” she added quickly, nodding to the iron bar, “no wonder this place is called Backwater; even the metal’s trying to run away.”

  Suddenly she saw hate flash in the boy’s eyes; the brunette immediately regretted the poor choice of words, and the guilt of stealing from the old man returned doubly. She quickly looked away from Larkin, her cheeks crimson with anxiety. Larkin’s gaze burned into the side of her neck. Her lips quivered slightly; more words wanted to tumble out in desperate explanation, but they stopped in her throat.

  Larkin curled his lips. “You heard the Forge Keeper... It is my destiny to craft powerful weapons. Not bloody nails!” As he said this, his hand choked the handle. After a moment, he threw the hammer down once again on the iron bar. But this time he didn’t care where it struck.

  “You’re clinging to ghosts, Larkin,” Mira said. As soon as she said this, however, she felt once again the ominous presence watching them.

  “I refuse to give up,” he said, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

  “But you need too!” snapped Mira.

  “It’s not my fault your family’s given up on you!” Larkin snapped, hurling the Hammer down in a rage. “Why won’t this bar flatten?” he spluttered madly; his body quivered uncontrollably, and he was forced to let go of the Hammer. The instant it rested on the anvil, however, he let out a cry of despair; and he threw his face into his hands.

  “Why, oh why, gods, have you cursed me? Why have you thrown me into this Backwater hell?” he cried, his jaw clenched. “If you want to keep mocking me then you can go to hell!”

  The fires behind him grew larger, illuminating the soot-stained insignia on Larkin’s left; this, coupled with the look of twisted anger in the girl’s face, turned the blacksmith pale. He studied the insignia. It bared the emblem of the Forgotten Era – a time when Backwater was known for producing weapons for the emperor. At that moment, he too felt he was not alone in this quiet appreciation of the town’s legendary past; the back of his neck tickled with goosebumps, and he sweated greatly.

  He creased his forehead in thought, and said, “The capital didn’t build itself. It was blades from places like this that won them their thrones. My grandfather’s sword was carried into the Emperor’s Hall. He stood where kings knelt.”

  Mira stepped forward, gritting her teeth, and glared at him with a frown. “Don’t forget it was I who brought you to the Hammer,” she said passionately, jabbing her chest with her thumb. With a sigh, she shrugged and leant against the anvil, tapping it melodically while gazing at the insignia, which flickered with long shadows in the orange light. Her eyes shifted back to Larkin, and said, “I just don’t want you to stab yourself with your own failures." But when he did not reply, she said, “Backwater couldn’t keep up. I heard the capital’s smiths churn out blades sharper than dragon teeth now. Ever since-”

  “Thalindra Ironhart,” came a voice from behind.

  A cry of surprise escaped the lips of the children, whose eyes widened in horror at the ghost. Mira was the first, however, to latch onto the fact that it was none other than the master blacksmith; but it took Larkin a few more seconds to catch on that it was not the apparition.

  “Please don’t take it back!” cried Larkin, immediately reaching for the Hammer. The hairs stood tall on his arms.

  Mira glanced at the boy questioningly.

  As though the forge had a mind of its own, the flames nearest to the insignia withered. Haldar was subsequently cast in its stead. The surprised boy frowned.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “The girl’s right,” murmured Haldar; “I don’t see any kings kneeling now.”

  Larkin seized the blueprint and brought it to eye level, and said, his lips curled, “What’s the meaning of this?” The paper crumbled between his fingers.

  “You were never meant to see that,” replied Haldar. His face took on a reflective, stoic expression as he stroked his beard.

  “Get the hint,” Mira interjected, “you don’t have what it takes to craft anything of value. And now you’ve been caught. You’ll have to give the Hammer back now.”

  “If you’re so skilled, why don’t you craft this,” snapped Larkin, throwing the blueprint at her. Because it was simply paper, it floated to the floor between them gently like a feather.

  “Because I know my limits,” Mira replied, bending down to pick up the blueprint, “You clearly don’t.” She examined it curiously. It detailed a greatsword design. “Vanguard’s Requiem...” she muttered.

  “What a load a crap,” Larkin said bitterly. His eyes narrowed on his former master, and he snarled, “How long have you been keeping this to yourself?"

  “Larkin!” Mira said.

  The old man said, in a low voice from his rickety chair: “In this realm, blueprints represent the knowledge, skill and power of the craftsmanship required for their consummation. Larkin is right: crafters are the backbone of the High Council, and blueprints are the currency that governs its commerce and trade. Therefore, I understand the boy’s frustration.”

  “Frustration isn’t the start of it,” said Larkin, scowling. “We’ve been toiling away under the thumb of the High Council for years. It’s their leadership who put us here!”

  “That’s still no excuse to talk to your master like that!” exclaimed the girl. She shook her head, sickened by the betrayal, and added, “No, not for anything, Larkin; least not ghosts.”

  “I’m not forging ghosts,” said Larkin sharply.

  “So what he kept the blueprint from you? He doesn’t have to show you,” Mira said.

  “Larkin thinks that because he has been my apprentice for a few years that my problems are his-”

  “They are mine,” interrupted Larkin, pointing his finger at him, “because we sleep, eat and work in the same forge. I thought we lived like this because we had no choice. But we always had a choice...” his voice rose several octaves in anger, “no, you had the choice. You alone. You kept a legendary weapon to yourself. And I’ve paid the price.”

  “It’s a blueprint,” replied Haldar, struggling to restrain his embittered voice, “not a weapon.” Then he laughed, and added, “What’s with that look? You’ve just tried to craft it, and you couldn’t. Not even with the gods’ help. It was forged during the war that shaped the foundations of the Realm. It’s not for little boys like you, that’s for sure. I warned you, Larkin Forgeheart, but you’ve never taken ‘no’ for an answer. Never. Not since you sucked on your mother’s tit.”

  At this remark Larkin blushed and quickly glanced at the girl beside him.

  “Hey!” he said, “do you have to be so crass?”

  “Do you have to be such a pain in the ass?” replied Haldar, laughing even harder this time.

  “That blueprint could have made us rich,” said Larkin, ignoring the old man’s jab; “it could have gotten us out of this garbage dump years ago. Heck, we could have been polishing the weapons for the emperor’s personal guard if you had sold the blueprint for the right price.”

  “I would never sell it,” Haldar said.

  “And why not?” asked Larkin.

  “Does he have to tell you?” Mira said; but deep down she was curious to hear more of the tale of the legendary weapon.

  Haldar sighed, “I can see that both of you are tired.”

  “Nice try,” said Larkin, swinging the Hammer over his shoulder; “but I know you too well. I’ll end up waking up in a ditch somewhere. Two gobby orphans find out that you’ve got a legendary blueprint, and sooner or later you’ve got the whole town after it like long lost treasure.”

  Haldar bit his lip. “I’ll pay,” he offered weakly.

  "Do you have no shame?” snapped Mira, her eyes trained on Larkin. She pulled out the Soulrend, looking upon him with indescribable anger, and held it to his throat. “You don’t deserve someone looking out for you,” she said.

  “Shame?” Larkin snapped back, “Shame?” He scowled at Haldar, his teeth exposed like a feral dog, and hissed, “This man threw me out. And by the looks of it he doesn’t feel an ounce of regret.”

  Haldar mumbled something imperceptibly, turning away.

  “Why didn’t you forge it yourself?” Larkin asked.

  “It would draw too much attention,” answered Haldar. “The High Council would stop at nothing to obtain it. I’d be forced to give it up.”

  “Because even if you tried to leave Backwater with it, they’d catch you at the border,” said Mira.

  “Yes,” said Haldar, impressed by the girl’s intelligence. “The Requiem means too much to me, anyway. It’s a replica of the one I had originally.”

  “What happened to it?” Larkin asked.

  After a pause, Haldar finally said, "It was stolen by my brother – your father.”

  “Eh, eh, eh!” stammered Larkin. He shuddered at this unexpected revelation. “You’re my uncle?” he asked.

  “Only by marriage,” said Haldar, waving off the questions he knew were on the tip of the budding blacksmith’s tongue.

  “So…I am a blacksmith!” declared Larkin triumphantly, whose weakened countenance seemed to have been rejuvenated in an instant. He tore the blueprint from Mira’s hand and turned to his anvil, wasting no time in propping up the iron bar against its edge. Larkin pounded the iron bar for the hundredth time that night.

  Mira glanced at Haldar expectantly.

  Haldar sighed, folding his arms, and said with a frown, “He’s always been like this.”

  “He’s going to seriously hurt himself,” she said, stepping towards Larkin. “You’ve been at it all night. At least try something easier.”

  “I’ll craft the most powerful weapons the Realm has ever seen,” he said, swinging the Hammer higher and higher for each strike. But as the Hammer hurtled towards the iron this time, it suddenly slipped out of his blistered red palms. It crashed to the floor, splattering molten metal dangerously close to his foot.

  “Larkin are you okay?” cried Mira. She grabbed his arm and yanked him away from the anvil. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” she screamed as she shook him vigorously, “or are you just trying to show off?”

  “Let go,” said Larkin, struggling against her tightening grip, “I don’t need your help.”

  “No, but you clearly need a babysitter,” Mira snapped.

  “Let me work,” said Larkin.

  “Work? You’re chasing people who don’t care about you,” Mira said emphatically, her voice cracking, “Your parents obviously don’t care about you. They’ve moved on. The Realm has moved on; but you are still stuck trying to live through your grandfather’s shadow.” She looked helplessly at Haldar.

  The old man gazed at the Hammer lying on the floor, basking in the glow of the fire. Then he examined his apprentice straining against the girl’s arms, striving desperately for the Hammer. It reminded him of the buzzing flies that accidentally burn themselves by flying into the forge. His eyes moved glacially over to the fiery sparks spitting out of the fire. After slowly stroking his white-pointy beard for several moments, he shrugged his shoulders and sighed.

  “Strength is a skill earned in time, not through reckless ambition,” the master blacksmith said. “Even your father knew his limits.”

  “My father?” gasped Larkin, pausing his frantic struggle to listen to the old man. “Tell me about him.”

  “Oh, but you already know,” returned the old man, smiling: “there’s nothing much for me to add that will do you any good, except to say that he was even more of a pain in the ass than you. Also, he wasn’t half as whiny, which, now that I think about it, I shouldn’t have taken for granted.”

  “I’m whiny?” asked Larkin, frowning incredulously.

  Mira smiled despite herself.

  Haldar stood up, immediately wincing. “You remind me of myself,” he said as he rubbed his back. “Your father knew that a great blacksmith was not just made from talent but from someone who’s been shaped by the craft.”

  The two orphans watched as the old man limped over to the anvil. He picked up the Hammer and studied it. His eyes filled with tears.

  “You’re going to hand it over to the High Council, aren’t you?” he said. Larkin gulped, his hands balling into fists, and added, defiantly, “Well over my immortal body.” His eyes flashed brilliantly.

  “Yes,” said the old man, smiling mournfully, “your immortal body indeed…” He gazed into the fire, and said, absently, “You’re stubborn-”

  “Hey-” began Larkin.

  “Listen to him,” interrupted Mira.

  “You’re reckless-”

  “Not fair-”

  “Larkin!” snapped Mira.

  “And you’re a whiny little-”

  “Save it, Haldar; you’ll never see me again. Don’t you worry about that!” yelled Larkin. He yanked his arm free and stormed over to Haldar, gnashing his teeth, and reached for the Hammer.

  A slight movement of the Hammer by Haldar made Larkin grab the air instead.

  “Impatient too,” chuckled the master blacksmith. He looked at Mira and said, “Keep him on a short leash or I won’t do it.”

  “Do what?” asked Larkin, glancing at Mira.

  “You’re a dimwit,” Haldar said.

  “I think he gets it,” Mira said, stifling a chuckle.

  “What’s going on?” Larkin asked.

  “Thank your lass over there,” said Haldar; “If she hadn’t told me about what happened to my workshop, you’d be wishing you weren’t born.”

  “Wait, what? But I told you about what happened. And you didn’t believe me!”

  “Yes, well… it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Halder replied.

  “Don’t you owe me an apology?”

  Suddenly, the old man’s upper lip twitched.

  “Larkin you bastard,” cursed Mira breathlessly, rolling her eyes.

  “Listen to your friend, Larky boy,” smiled Haldar; “I’m giving you a second chance. You’ll learn the craft the right way… under my watch. But if you screw up, there’ll be no more second chances. Understood?”

  Larkin turned up his nose, crossing his arms against his chest, and said, “Look, I know that you’re a master blacksmith and all, but this is the Hammer of the Eternal Forge we’re talking about.” He narrowed his eyes.

  The challenge was not lost on the old man. Returning the glare, Haldar replied, “You may have the strength to wield it, but do you have the patience it takes to master it?”

  “But I’ve been your apprentice for years… Why are you now taking me seriously? Because I have the Hammer?”

  “There’s something that I see in you, something that I’ve never seen before in any of my apprentices… not even in your father.”

  Instantly, Haldar raised his hand in protest, expecting a barrage of questions from the boy’s mouth. But none came. Instead, he saw that Larkin simply gazed at him with an incredulous expression, almost child-like in its innocence.

  “I… I want to find my father,” Larkin said, furrowing his brows in determination. He raised his hand and clenched it, his nails biting into his blistered palm.

  Mira looked at the newly reinstated apprentice with an envious disposition. ‘I’m fine where I am,’ she thought bitterly; ‘but watching him fight for something better is so infuriating…’

  “So, start small,” she said, snapping herself out of her trance. She stepped forward and placed her hand on Larkin’s shoulder.

  “Blacksmithing,” continued Haldar, “is not just about forging, but about the spirit and the mastering of one’s emotions.”

  “But I still don’t get it. Why did you tell Mira where the Hammer was? After all that grief you gave me…”

  Mira and Haldar exchanged a quiet look.

  “Never you mind,” barked Haldar, rummaging through his pocket. He pulled out a blueprint and handed it to the boy. “Since you have so much energy, why don’t you craft me fifty horseshoes?”

  “Fifty?” scoffed Larkin, “I’d rather not…”

  “It’s the only way you’ll level,” explained Haldar, pressing the Hammer into Larkin’s chest. He turned and hobbled back to his chair. “Keep your voices low… I’m going to try and get some shuteye. Big day tomorrow: I hear there’s going to be a scrap iron flash sale,” he said with a huge grin.

  Larkin looked at the paper in disgust. Its edges were torn, and its design faded. Mira watched as it crumpled between the boy’s fingers. She smiled imperceptibly, hidden in the shadows of the dwindling fire. “We can always put it back,” she said.

  “Good idea,” Haldar chortled. “The Hammer can easily rob you of your health, sanity, and even your humanity. That’s why it’s been locked up in the temple for centuries.”

  “You locked it up?” asked Larkin, raising his eyes.

  “Of course. How else would I know where it was?” replied Haldar. He shifted in his chair with a yawn. “Perhaps I should have hidden it better. But what good would that have done, eh? The Hammer would have found you anyway.”

  Larkin wondered at the Hammer in his hand, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.

  “The Hammer doesn’t care about you,” warned Haldar; “all it cares about is testing you in ways that you can’t even imagine. If you fail, however, it will break you. So, before I teach you to use it to craft epic weapons, you must first learn to let go. Only then…” Haldar let his head fall.

  “‘Only then’, what?” Larkin demanded.

  “Only then…will you become…” Haldar’s voice grew quieter, his head struggling to remain upright. In a few seconds he was snoring.

  Larkin let out a groan, letting his eyes fall upon his own feet. The paper was at his side.

  “What’s the matter?” Mira asked, her tone soft.

  “This Hammer…” he said, lifting the Hammer to the girl, “crafted the emperor’s armor.”

  “And now its crafting horseshoes,” Mira said, smiling gently. She waited a few moments, before placing a hand on his arm, “Listen, Larkin…”

  “Yes,” he said, turning to face the girl. He was astonished to see how beautiful she looked in the firelight. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” Mira said, letting fall her arm. ‘I admire your determination, Larkin, I really do; but it leaves me feeling smaller… like I’m trapped by something that no one else can see.’ She yawned.

  Larkin nodded to his bed. “Go to sleep,” he said.

  As Larkin set about forging a horseshoe, Mira laid down, warmed by the crackling fire. For two hours, she watched through a half-open eyelid Larkin craft horseshoe after horseshoe. Every so often she would catch herself drifting off into the dreamscape, but whenever she did so her body would jolt awake. Not by the strikes of the Hammer, but by the fact that a thief in Backwater was trained from birth to always be on the alert.

  After the tenth horseshoe, Mira had a good idea on how such a tool was made. First, Larkin had to choose the type of metal to forge with. This was always a shoddy piece of iron, for that was all that was available to a crafter from Backwater. She had been told that this was so the High Council could control the quality of crafts coming out of the outpost. After cutting the iron to the desired length, he would douse it in the flames until it was as hot as his own face. Invariably, Larkin would always tell her that the colour of his cheeks was due to the extreme temperatures of the forge and not because he was blushing at being watched by a girl. Mira suspected that he was lying. Either way, the metal was made easier to shape by this process.

  No part of the process tested Mira’s resolve to stay awake more than when the metal had to be hammered into shape. Once the metal was heated, it was placed on the anvil and put to the Hammer. She watched, mesmerized, as the once rigid iron bar slowly bent into a U-shape under the thunderous strikes of the Hammer. The rhythmic bombardment, the retracting metal, lulled her into a trance – only deepening further when Larkin began filing the edges to form the heels.

  The smile on Mira’s face made her face glow all the more in the firelight. The blacksmith, with all the coolness he could muster, tried desperately to keep his eyes trained on the scrap iron. He pounded the metal harder, as though taking his frustration out upon it instead. However, now and then his eyes, burning with quiet defiance, flickered upon the sleeping girl. It felt sacrilegious.

  “She’s just a thief,” he muttered to himself, turning to heat the iron in the forge.

  Mira’s smile instantly evaporated, and she forced her teary eyes to shut. ‘Screw you, Larkin,’ her mind screamed, remembering how hard she had tried to find her parents; the resentment boiled her blood. ‘When will you understand how hard it is to leave this place? If you ever did, though, would you leave me behind? Me, a no-good thief?’

  Soon, the great desire to sleep was too much to quell, and her body became as light as the moon in the night sky. So too, did her mind focus completely upon it, that she had forgotten for a spectacular moment that she was a street urchin in Backwater. In this dream, she was a swashbuckler, fighting green demonic pirates on the Infernal Tide like in the stories her father used to read to her when she was little.

  She was startled by Larkin’s exultation.

  “Finally!” exclaimed Larkin, wiping the perspiration from his brow, “I’ve done it.”

  Mira saw the horseshoe in the boy’s hands. “Not bad. At least the horses won’t complain about uneven edges. They don’t come with lofty expectations,” she said.

  “You can critique after you forge something better,” he replied.

  “I would, but I’d hate to outshine you in front of the horses,” she smirked.

  Larkin yawned, stretching his arms. His eyes grew heavy. “Wake me up when its light,” he said.

  Mira started up, but Larkin shook his head. Instead, he fell upon the anvil and immediately went to sleep.

  ‘Of course he succeeds,” she thought, turning away from the forge. The opportunities she squandered and the bridges she burned came flooding into her mind. ‘I wonder if they would take me back if I had something to show them…’ It gnawed on her. She wanted to believe that she could escape Backwater and return to her parents. ‘Is that why I’m doing this?’

  She heard Larkin mutter in his sleep: “They might have forgotten Backwater… but I haven’t.”