The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobbled streets of the village of Edric's Rest, a name whispered in reverence by those who lived there. It was a place of simple folk, of farmers and merchants, of hunters and blacksmiths. And it was a place where stories clung to the air like the scent of smelted iron.
A young girl, no more than ten years old, trudged toward the village forge. Her mother had sent her on an errand — something about fixing an old kettle and a bent kitchen knife — but she had her own reasons for coming. She was bored.
The forge was dimly lit, the glow of embers casting an orange hue on the soot-stained walls. The heat wrapped around her as she stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room for the man who could fix her mother's things.
The blacksmith was exactly where she expected him to be, hammering away at a glowing bar of iron. He was an old man, hunched but strong, his muscles hardened by years of labor. His hair was silver, his face creased with lines that made him look both wise and weary.
She cleared her throat. "Mother sent me. The kettle's broken, and so's a knife." She placed them on the wooden workbench.
The blacksmith looked up, setting his hammer aside. He picked up the items, turning them over in his calloused hands. "I can fix these," he said, voice gruff yet kind. "But it'll cost you two gold coins."
The girl frowned. "That much?"
"Not for the repairs," the blacksmith said with a knowing smile. "For a story."
Her eyes widened. "A story?"
He nodded. "A tale worth far more than two gold coins, I assure you."
She hesitated for a moment but then dug into the small pouch tied to her waist. Two dull coins clinked against the workbench.
"Alright," she said, hopping onto a nearby stool. "Tell me."
The blacksmith placed the kettle and knife aside, dusted off his apron, and leaned on the table, eyes dark with memory.
"There was once a boy," he began, "born with no talent, no strength, and no name worth remembering. He was neither noble nor gifted, but he had a fire in him that could not be extinguished.
"He longed to be a knight, to serve his kingdom with honor. But the nobles, the sons of lords and commanders, laughed at him. 'A peasant cannot be a knight,' they told him. 'You'll never hold a sword as we do.'
"But the boy trained harder than any of them. When they slept, he ran. When they feasted, he fought. When they laughed, he bled. He trained so relentlessly that the king's army had no choice but to accept him."
The girl leaned forward, already entranced.
"Even as an army cadet, he was far behind his peers. But he refused to be left behind. He pushed himself until even those who mocked him had to acknowledge his skill.
"And then, when war came, he proved himself. Again and again, he did what others could not. He led charges that should have failed. He defended villages that should have fallen. He saved lives that should have been lost.
"In time, they stopped calling him a peasant. They called him a knight.
"And after years of battle, when the war was won, the king himself granted him the title of noble — a man chosen not by birth but by merit.
"He became the first royal in a hundred years not born into power. And with that title, he earned something even greater — a family.
"A wife, beautiful and kind. A daughter, his little star. He thought he had finally found peace.
"But," the blacksmith's voice lowered, a shadow falling over his face, "peace is a fragile thing.
"There was another — a knight who had once trained beside him, one who had watched the peasant rise above his station, surpassing those born into greatness.
"Jealousy is a bitter poison.
"And so, on one cruel night, that jealous man took everything from him. His home burned. His wife and daughter were lost to the flames."
The girl's fingers curled around the edge of the stool, her breath held tight in her chest.
"The noble knight searched for years, hunting the traitor through shadow and ruin. And when he finally found him…"
The blacksmith's hand tightened into a fist.
"He killed him. Not for vengeance. Not for war. But for balance."
Silence stretched between them.
The girl swallowed hard. "And then?"
The blacksmith met her gaze. "Then he laid down his sword and walked away. He came to a small village, a quiet place, and lived out his days as a simple blacksmith."
The forge crackled, embers snapping in the air. The girl looked at him, really looked at him, as realization settled into her bones.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted, standing suddenly.
"Come," he said, wiping his hands on his apron. "I have something to show you."
She followed him out of the forge, blinking against the late afternoon sun. They walked in silence, winding through the village until the homes gave way to rolling hills and the quiet hush of a graveyard.
The tombstones stood in neat rows, their names etched by time and sorrow. The blacksmith led her to two of them — simple, yet well cared for. Flowers rested at their bases, fresh and bright.
She watched as the blacksmith reached into his satchel and pulled out two delicate tiaras. They were small, beautifully crafted, each shaped from silver and adorned with tiny, intricate gemstones.
He knelt, placing one on each grave with careful reverence.
"One for my wife," he murmured. "One for my daughter."
The girl felt a lump rise in her throat.
"You're the knight," she whispered.
The blacksmith sighed, staring at the names on the stones. "I was."
The wind rustled the trees, carrying with it the sounds of the village — the life he had rebuilt.
The girl took a deep breath, then stepped forward, pulling a single gold coin from her pouch and placing it between the two graves.
The blacksmith raised an eyebrow.
"For another story," she said softly. "Next time."
For the first time in a long while, the old blacksmith smiled.
And in the quiet of the graveyard, beneath the weight of memory and loss, he nodded.
"Next time."