Michael and Leon trudged from the academy, their minds burdened by the harrowing trial they had endured. The midday sun cast long shadows upon the cobbled road, yet its warmth could not banish the pall of unease that clung to them. They had poured weeks of relentless effort into their craft, yet in the end, they had failed to land a single blow on Aiden. Robert had departed ahead of them, and each step home bore the dread of his verdict.

  The village streets were uncharacteristically subdued, the usual din of commerce hushed in the wake of the academy's early dismissal. Side by side, the brothers walked in silence, their thoughts a tangled web of exhaustion and apprehension.

  "Why hasn't he come back yet?" Leon murmured, his gaze flicking about as if expecting Robert to materialize from the silence. His mind raced, analyzing every possibility, even as his heart clenched at the sight of Michael's limping stride, his hand bandaged and his eye darkened with fresh bruises. Guilt gnawed at Leon—his own body bore no such marks, and the disparity sat ill with him.

  Nearing home, the forge's warm glow pierced the evening haze, spilling across the threshold. Robert stood there, a massive ham under one arm, mirth lighting his face.

  "Joyce! They're here! Here come the young warriors!" he bellowed, his voice rich with amusement. Before either brother could react, Robert clapped Michael on the back with such force that the boy nearly toppled, his wounded hand clutched tightly to his chest.

  Michael blinked, half-convinced he had died earlier in battle and now stood at the gates of heaven. Leon, ever the observer, noted the festivity in Robert's stance, the air of celebration that hung about him like a cloak.

  Inside, the dining table groaned under the weight of a feast. Robert, in high spirits, recounted the night's events with dramatic flourishes, seizing the salt to represent Michael, the pepper for Leon. At each turn of the tale, he sent cutlery skidding across the table, his enthusiasm undiminished by their silence.

  "See here," he declared, hoisting the salt shaker aloft, "Michael, charging headlong into the citadel's number-one protégé!" He punctuated the statement with a hearty laugh, entirely unconcerned as the ham bore the brunt of his exuberance.

  But beneath the revelry, Leon's thoughts churned. He watched his brother, saw the lines of pain etched into Michael's face, the exhaustion pooling in his half-lidded eyes. As the evening waned, Michael slumped back, sleep overtaking him where he sat. Joyce, with quiet efficiency, lifted him and bore him to bed, her hands deft as she tended his wounds.

  As evening waned, Michael slumped back in his chair, sleep overtaking him mid-meal. Joyce rose with quiet grace, lifting him gently and bearing him to bed, her hands deft as she tended his wounds. The dining room fell still, the clatter of Robert's storytelling fading into the crackle of the hearth.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Leon lingered by the fire, its light dancing across the stone walls. Shadows played over his face as he stared into the flames, the day's weight settling—an unshakable knot in his chest. His fingers twitched, tracing an invisible coil, his mind replaying Michael's battered form against Aiden's untouchable blur. A slow breath escaped him, heavy with unspoken strain.

  Robert, nursing his wine, watched from the table. He tilted the glass toward Leon, a rare softness in his gruff voice. "Sip?" he offered, sliding it over.

  Leon hesitated, then took it, the sharp tang bracing against his lips. He handed it back, the warmth loosening his tongue. "Why's it always Michael?" he murmured, almost to himself, eyes still on the fire. "He takes the hits—while I... I just stand back."

  Robert's brow arched, but he stayed silent, letting the boy unravel.

  Leon's voice tightened, guilt seeping through. "You're so hard on him—every day, every swing—and I'm safe behind my gadgets. Today, he bled, and I didn't. If I'd aimed better—if the bowcoil hadn't failed..." He trailed off, jaw clenching. "There's got to be a better way."

  Robert leaned forward, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "You think too much, lad," he said, tone even. "It's a fine weapon."

  "It's limited," Leon countered, meeting his gaze. "Energy's everything. More coils? Different metal? I'm stuck in increments—I need something to change it, to keep him safe."

  Robert's eyes drifted, a distant flicker crossing them as if peering through time. He rose abruptly, wine abandoned. "Come with me."

  Leon followed to the back room, where dust veiled a massive trunk. Robert hauled it open with a grunt, revealing translucent crystals shimmering faintly in the dimness—each a hollow prism catching the firelight.

  "These," Robert said, his voice tinged with reverence, "are remnants from the war. I fought a man who wielded all four energy types, something thought to be impossible. His staff, his amulet, his very armor—they were adorned with these. Back then, they shone with color. Now, they are clear. Hollow."

  He met Leon's gaze. "I never discovered how they worked, but I know they were part of his power. I had planned to set them into a necklace for Joyce—imagine her, the blacksmith's wife, walking about town adorned with war relics." He chuckled, shaking his head. "But I think they'll serve better in your hands."

  Leon reached out, his fingers skimming the cool surface of the crystals. A current of possibility surged through him, his mind already racing ahead. "If I can harness their properties—if they can store energy—then we could amplify the bowcoil's potential. A rapid-fire mechanism, energy-based traps, a new communication device, kinetic projectiles—"

  Robert laughed, draining the last of his wine. "And here I thought I was just giving you a handful of old rocks."

  Leon barely heard him, already lost in the flood of ideas. His thoughts tumbled forth in an eager rush. "Flight stabilization. A defensive barrier. Maybe even—"

  Robert held up a hand. "Enough, lad, enough. You'll collapse under the weight of your own thoughts." He slapped Leon on the back, nearly sending him sprawling. "Start with one. The rest will follow."

  Leon nodded, but his mind was already far ahead, leaping toward the endless possibilities that lay before him.

  As the fire crackled and the night deepened, the house grew quiet once more. But in Leon's mind, the spark had only just been kindled.