Mist clung to the gravestones like ghostly shrouds, the early morning light scattering pale gold across the damp earth. Robert Darnaval knelt at a solitary grave a short walk from home, his shoulders bowed, his cane leaning against the marker like a weary companion. His lips moved soundlessly in prayer, but his scarred hands, clenched before him, betrayed the storm within. Beneath the moss-speckled stone, a name was etched, its letters blurred by time and sorrow.

  Prayers rendered, he rose with a grunt and limped back toward the house, the familiar outline of the forge beside it sharpening through the haze. The boys would be along soon—Joyce had sent them after breakfast, their footsteps already a faint echo on the cobblestone path between cottage and workshop. Robert stepped into the forge's shadowed mouth, the air thick with coal dust and memory, and reached for the latest envelope on the workbench. His rough fingers tore it open, revealing the bear-and-oak seal of Elias Thornhart, a hunter whose letters always carried trouble.

  Unfolding the letter, Robert began to read aloud, his deep voice carrying the weight of years spent in both battle and the forge:

  "Robrt,

  Hope dis letta find u gud. We huntin hard now. Gam is scaaared. Woods unnatural. Need strong arrowheeds to kill monsta. Can u make more? We need dem soon for survival. Help me fasd.

  ET"

  Robert snorted, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "What's the old fool hunting now, an elephant?" he muttered, shaking his head as he folded the letter and set it aside. The humor, however, faded quickly as his thoughts lingered on Elias's words. Unnatural. The forest had felt wrong lately—too quiet, as though the trees themselves held their breath.

  The sound of footsteps drew his attention, and he turned to see Leon and Michael entering the forge. Their contrasting demeanors was as familiar as it was amusing: Leon, calm and precise, already focused on the tasks ahead, while Michael seemed to drift in on a wave of restless energy.

  "You're late," Robert said gruffly, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of warmth.

  "Sorry," Leon replied with practiced promptness, stepping forward as if reporting for duty.

  Michael, however, only nodded vaguely, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

  "Michael, gather the scrap. Leon, ready the molds," Robert barked, motioning toward the cluttered corners of the forge.

  Michael sighed but shuffled to the pile of discarded metal—rusted sword blades, dented shields, and unclaimed scraps from years past. He hefted them with a groan, dumping each piece into the blackened cauldron at the forge's heart, the clatter echoing off the stone walls. "Why's it always the heavy stuff?" he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow despite the morning chill.

  Leon moved to the workbench, his hands swift and sure as he arranged clay molds—sharp-edged and angular, designed for arrowheads per Elias's plea. Each bore the precision of his tireless mind, their surfaces smooth but unyielding.

  Robert nodded approval, then turned to Michael. "Bellows, boy. Get it hot."

  Michael grabbed the bellows handle with a grimace, pumping hard. The leather wheezed, forcing air into the coals until they flared white-hot, the heat swelling in a roar that drowned his protests. Sparks spiraled upward, and the cauldron's contents began to glow—first red, then a molten orange as the old steel surrendered to the fire. Michael's arms trembled, his breaths ragged. "It's like this thing gets heavier every time," he muttered under his breath."

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  Robert glanced at him, his expression tightening. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then thought better of it and strode into the forge.

  The metal pooled into a shimmering liquid, its surface rippling like a trapped beast. Robert stepped forward, his scarred hands bare and steady. He gripped the cauldron's edge—no gloves, no hesitation—his fingers sinking into the heat as if it were cool earth. The fire licked at his skin, but he didn't flinch; years of burns had forged his hands into something beyond flesh, thick with calluses that mocked the flames. He tilted the cauldron, pouring the molten steel into Leon's molds with a steady stream, the liquid hissing as it settled into shape.

  Leon paused at the sight, his breath caught somewhere between admiration and unease. This was no ordinary man; he knew that much. The forge had whispered as much in its fiery tongue, and Robert's unflinching manner only confirmed it. "You'll need the molds ready, boy," Robert said, his voice steady, unbothered by the inferno mere inches from his face. He did not glance up, but his command brooked no delay.

  "Keep 'em coming," he grunted to Leon, who slid another mold into place without a word.

  Once the molds were filled, Robert plucked a half-cooled arrowhead from the clay, its edges still glowing faintly. He set it on the anvil, his bare hands curling around a hammer. Each strike rang out sharp and true, flattening the metal, sharpening its point—his fingers brushing the heat without a wince. The fire had scarred him too deeply in battles long past, leaving his hands numb to its bite. He turned the piece, tapped the tip into a wicked curve, then dunked it into a barrel of water. Steam erupted in a furious cloud, but his grip stayed firm, unshaken by the scalding mist.

  Leon watched, his breath shallow, cataloging every move. "Temperature's steady," he called, inspecting a mold's edge for flaws.

  Michael slumped against the bellows, panting. "Can we be done now?"

  Robert shot him a look, setting the finished arrowhead aside. "That'll be all. Get to the academy before you're late."

  Michael dropped the bellows handle like it was on fire, dashing out of the forge with a speed that made Robert shake his head. He grabbed Leon's arm and practically dragged him toward the village road. The small mechanical toy perched on Leon's shoulder beeped in alarm, its lights flashing faintly as it swayed with the motion.

  "Careful," Leon said, his tone sharp. "There's no need to rush."

  "Yes, there is!" Michael grinned, his excitement spilling over into his steps, his enthusiasm infectious even as it puzzled Leon.

  As they trotted through the cobblestone lanes of Ashford Heath, Leon cast a sidelong glance at Michael. "Why so eager? Your behavior this morning suggests a significant event."

  Michael flushed, his cheeks reddening as he hesitated. "I'm going to tell Lily how I feel," he admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush.

  Leon considered this revelation, his mind immediately calculating probabilities. "Have you had encouraging prior interactions to statistically support a favorable outcome?"

  Michael laughed, his nervous energy bubbling into humor. "Not really, but I'm trying anyway."

  "The probability of success is low," Leon said bluntly.

  "Always the optimist," Michael teased. "Sometimes you have to ignore the odds."

  Leon tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. "Ignoring data doesn't change outcomes."

  "Maybe not," Michael said with a shrug, "but I've got a feeling." He hurried ahead, leaving Leon to follow at his usual measured pace, his mind churning with the illogical notion of ignoring probabilities.

  They reached the schoolhouse, nestled among ancient oaks whose twisted branches framed the roof like protective arms. The yard was alive with the chatter of children, their laughter spilling into the crisp morning air.

  Michael stopped at the edge of the yard, his expression turning serious as he took a deep breath. "Well... here goes nothing," he muttered.

  Leon blinked, his head tilting slightly. "Here goes what, exactly?"

  Michael chuckled nervously, shaking his head. "Just an expression, Leon. See you later."

  Leon watched him stride away, his mind whirling with possibilities and uncertainties. He might not fully understand the subtleties of human emotion, but he recognized that this moment mattered to Michael in ways logic couldn't quantify. Still, pragmatism prevailed.

  "If you require assistance in managing emotional distress following an unfavorable outcome, I will be available this afternoon!" he called after him.

  Leon tilted his head, watching Michael disappear into the crowd of children. The mechanical toy on his shoulder tilted its head as well, its green lights dimming. For the first time, Leon wondered if the odds Michael spoke of were far more complicated than his mind could calculate.