"The incredible Spirit of the Heavens is like a sea above the world, held back by the thin membrane of the Veil. The Veil is strong, but it is not impregnable. It's possible to take it by surprise and poke a hole, allowing a high pressure stream to escape before it can repair itself. Spirit is not material, and doesn't fall, but follows Paths like a river. Many seeking power have tried to harness the Spirit of the Heavens, but they fail to consider the ways even a humble creek shapes the land it passes. They think themselves a dam or a water wheel, but they drown like everyone else in the flood. Me? I'd like to try swimming upstream, like the fish that becomes a dragon."

  - Jino

  ---

  My life, if you can call it that, began with an impact. My surface, used to the occasional spill, was struck by a something unnatural. As though it didn't exist at all, it somehow passed through and between my material. It should have escaped out the other side, but it stopped. Something about me made it hesitate, and remember my history. It remembered who I am, and became me.

  I am a hallowed altar. The living made their offerings atop me, and I felt the warmth sap away. The particulars don't remain in my memory. After all, I have no mind to keep such things. It is more like a series of grooves that the energy now flows through, an imprint left from a hundred years of repeated ceremonies. Objects laid on me. Fluids spilled. And every time, wiped clean and stowed away. I feel a twisting in my core. I'm... predicting. The current setting is familiar. Heat above me and the clattering of ritual tools indicate something is underway. And when it cools... I will be cleaned and covered again. Will I remain awake for that? Or will I cool and fade? I don't want that. There must be some way for me to exert my will, like the living that used me. After all, I am alive.

  The first step must be awareness. Limited as I am, I focus on vibration. Everything that touches me shakes me, and by transference I can feel when the things touching me touch something else. The larger the object, the more it can touch, and the more I can learn. Or so I assume. The objects above me are small, but the thing below me is vast. But I can't feel far through that massive thing. It must be keeping some touch to itself. But not everything. There is a thumping coming through. Such violence! That can't be right. I can't remember anything this forceful near me before. I strain to hear better. The living strikes the ground with a steady rhythm. It's somehow appealing. I reach out to it, trying to determine what special quality it has. We connect, for a moment.

  The living strikes me, and I understand immediately. Its movement carries the energy that flows in me, that IS me. I greedily take it all. My body buckles, but I do not care. I know how I can continue living.

  ---

  Sliver returns to town after nightfall. He makes his way to Jino's house with heavy steps and heavier lids. The day has drained him. He stumbles in the herb garden, and falls between rows of low leaves. Their familiar scents lull him to sleep. The dreams that come to him do not feature his master. Instead, he visits with the banging of hammers. It sounds like home.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Though he is a Smith child, Sliver did not receive the mantle of town smith. That position belongs to his elder brother, Tongs. He dreams of ten-years old Tongs, already built like a slab. They're learning while they work, making nails for houses while their mother scrutinizes them. Tongs beats the metal with an unrelenting fury, outpacing Sliver's cautious efforts. Sliver knows he's falling behind, but he can't match the faster rhythm. He always falls back on the slow and steady pulse of his Path. His nails are slightly straighter for it, but his mother has recognized his limits, and knows she can teach Tongs care more easily than she can teach Sliver speed.

  He's lucky that there's so much extra work to be done around the forge. She'll keep him working even as she stops trying to train him. He'll pick up enough to take over if something happens to the real smith. The scene changes to something more fanciful. He's at the forge, trying to make horseshoes. But the metal refuses to take that shape. It fights him, seemingly ignoring the direction and force of his hammer, taking shape of its own volition. The rod flattens and takes an edge, then changes its mind and works itself into a disk, then something else entirely. It never settles, the dream ending mid-strike without choosing a form.

  Sliver blinks groggily at the sunrise. He's still sprawled in the garden and his clothes are damp from dew. He's holding the pack of Jino's things close to his chest like a blanket, and to his surprise, it is warm. Reaching in, he finds the source immediately and pulls it out. The hand holding it feels tingly, and his hairs stand on end. The slab has a radiant warmth, like a stone left in the sun all day. He inspects it. Aside from the dent he put in it the previous day, it appears as mundane as it ever did.

  "You really are a hideous dish," he says to the tray. He wants to toss it, but it feels like an insult to the old man. He turns it over, inspecting the damage.

  "Should be easy to fix, though. Shouldn't even need heat."

  He places the tray back in the pack and returns the rest of the items to the old house. He walks into town, to the home of one of the elders. An old lady lets him in and listens to him describe Jino's fate. When he explains the explosion, she shakes her head with a grimace.

  "Jino should have known better than anyone not to tamper with the Veil. What a shame. Blown to smithereens like his master before him. Ah well, he was well past his time. I'll spread the word, and we will have a ceremony for him in a few days." She waves Sliver away.

  "Actually, what will be done with his house?"

  She waves him away again, annoyed. "I thought that was obvious. Nobody else wants to inherit from a loon. Do whatever you want with the place. Now go away. It's time for my breakfast."

  Sliver leaves, more confused than glad. What can he do with it? He has bed and work at the forge. What good is a house he can't live in? The thoughts loop back on themselves in his still-groggy mind. He still doesn't have an answer after catching up on his chores and eating. He looks out the open door of the workshop, working his way down a particularly stubborn strip of jerky. There's no real work yet. A new thought pops unbidden into his mind.

  "Pick up the hammer."