"Onwards to Stox's blacksmith shop!" I shouted, grinning.
"Well someone's happy, aren't they? I wish people would buy me things too," Glyffe muttered.
"Oh I forgot—thank you, Dad. This gift means a lot to me." I smiled genuinely.
I was glad I was able to turn that negative interaction into a positive one. In the future, I planned to frequent her stall whenever I wanted to buy any plants or gardening tools. That was only right.
"Well when you put it like that..." Glyffe rubbed his nose, a faint smile creeping in. "I guess it was nothing special. A couple Teaves is nothing to your old man, Reno. Hahahaha!"
"You sure did change your tune quickly," Silvia said in a playful tone.
"Ah well, when your son is as grateful as Reno, any father would."
"Is that so? Maybe I should bring Reno next time I go on a shopping spree. You'll pay for everything then, right?"
Glyffe's complexion turned pale. "Uhm... I'm afraid that wouldn't settle under the category of 'a couple Teaves'."
"Isn't your darling wife worth more than 'a couple Teaves'? Or am I not as grateful as Reno?" Silvia said with a bright, amicable smile.
"A-ah. About that..." Glyffe said dryly.
"Well?"
"Y-yeah I guess I could spend more than a couple Teaves on my wife..."
From the looks of things, Glyffe would have his hands full and his pockets empty next time those two went shopping.
"Anyway," Silvia said, turning to me. "I'm proud of you, Reno."
"Hm?" Her sudden praise caught me off guard.
"What you did today was extremely mature. Not a lot of kids your age or even older could pull off what you just did."
Glyffe nodded along, completely in agreement. "You would be surprised just how many adults can't bring themselves even just to say 'I'm sorry'."
"I... it was only right after what I did to her." I said while lowering my head.
Apologising had been the right thing to do and now I felt much better. And while this meant there'd be no more chaos tag, that was... okay.
Somethings are better off left in the past as sweet memories than dragged into the present as a sour reality. It was a small kind of growth. Subtle. Easy to miss if you weren't paying attention.
"Even so, to go and apologise of your own accord without us or anyone else telling you to is amazing. Today you made the both of us proud." Silvia said softly, a loving maternal smile tugging at her lips.
"Way to go, Reno!"
"Wa-wait!"
He scooped me up and tossed me into the air, holding me by the shoulders.
"Good job!"
"Oh my. You haven't done that to Reno since he was a baby."
"He deserves it today!" Glyffe said with a smile.
"Don't you remember he didn't like it when he was a baby?"
He looked over to me. "Hm?"
"Pu-put me down!!" I cried.
"Oh." He lowered me down. "So all this time he didn't like it? He always stopped crying when I did it, so I thought he loved it?"
"..."
"Glyffe, you—" Silvia sighed. "Nevermind."
He ruffled through my hair. "I guess I'll just settle for this."
"Yes, that works. Much better." I smiled. I did not want to be flung in the air again—experiencing that as a baby was more than enough.
"In any case, what Glyffe was trying to show was the fact we're very proud of you okay, Reno?"
Silvia bent down and hugged me, stopping our journey to the central district momentarily. It was warm, soft, and still. For a few long seconds, it was just me and Mum—then two larger arms wrapped around us both. A family hug.
"Was apologising really something worth a celebration this big?"
"Of course. That's the sort of behaviour we love to see. Moments like that make our parenting feel truly worth it, you know?" Glyffe said.
Hm. Truthfully, I never really considered it from either of their perspectives but I wonder how they must've felt seeing their child act so maturely. Definitely some pride and joy, but also probably some relief. Like 'my son is already maturing so quickly'.
"You'll understand it when one day you have kids of your own." Glyffe continued.
"That day is very, very far off." I said.
"Well you never know. Time passes so fast that before you know it, you're suddenly a father." He gave a bittersweet smile.
"Then I hope time moves nice and slow for Reno," Silvia said, brushing my cheek. "I want to keep my little baby for as long as I can."
"Mum, I'm not a baby anymore," I said, turning slightly red.
"No, you'll always be my baby boy," She said softly.
"Do you have to say baby?"
She smiled. "Oh, Reno."
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The sound of hammering metal echoed through the streets. At some point, we'd made our way out of the inner district and arrived at the central one.
"He certainly works hard doesn't he? Grandpa Stox that is."
"Pfft. You got that right. All he ever does is forge—that's all he's ever known." Glyffe said, a nostalgic glint in his eyes.
Lah! Laah! Laaah!
The euphonious crunch of Melodia grass rang out from below as we stepped into the shop.
"Coming through."
We returned to the world of swords for the first time in six or seven hours. It was just as beautiful as I remembered. It's a different feeling to Clevio's bookstore but equally overwhelming. More of a mechanised feel than the homely, comfortable feel of the bookstore.
The till was empty, lacking the figure of a lonely giant. Instead a red light painted the curtains to the left of the till.
Cling! Clung! Cloong!
A rhythmic melody echoed from behind the curtains. A master was at work.
"Boy does this bring back memories." Glyffe smiled. His expression mirrored what I imagined mine had been when I first entered the bookstore—only he didn't run around touching all the swords. He simply stood there and smiled, taking in the scenery with quiet maturity. He stepped forwards.
"Is it okay for us to just go into his personal forge like this?" I said, concerned.
"Naturally. You wouldn't think it but Stox is quite the showman, he loves an audience when he's forging. Not that he notices them through his extreme focus."
"Well if you say so." I shrugged hesitantly, stepping in after Glyffe with Silvia following shortly behind.
A rocky floor greeted us, a significant difference from the pristine wooden one in the store. A large forge lay in front of us but therein was a larger, giant of a man. A low hum hung in the air—the giant's voice.
A mouth of flames lay open, roaring and biting towards the figure opposite. And in the fire's wake sat a titan with a hammer. In front of him lay a raw, unprocessed clump of silver-like metal he'd just fished from the flames. My eyes drifted, glued to the raised shimmering moonlit hammer. It fell with the wrath of a collapsing star.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
In a mesmerising display, the metal was showered with blow after blow, the firm clump yielding under his firm grip and unrelenting barrage. One hit. The next. One hit. The next. Strike after strike, the hammer shaped the clump of metal, thinning it slowly.
Time passed in a blur, the metal eventually forming the shape of a beautiful blade. The craftsman placed the blade back into the furnace. Only then did I remember that there was a craftsman involved. He'd managed to direct all the attention to his work—the sign of mastery every artist strives for.
His stance was rooted like a mountain, unshakable. His eyes were focused and his gaze was as still as a forest at dusk. He was waiting for something.
Now!
He moved like the wind—swift and unseen.
The blade's structure had changed ever so slightly but he noticed instantly.
Shissh!
The blade plunged into a clear, still river of water with a sharp hiss. The blade darkened and stiffened, its edges sharpening as if by instinct.
Whish!
Stox waved his hands, and the furnace sizzled in response. The fire shifted, bright crimson softening to red, then orange, then a smoldering yellow. The flames hissed and flared, roaring in protest at the giant who dared to bend them to his will.
Gargle!
He struck like fire—sudden and violent—as he seized the blade and plunged it into the yellow furnace. It hardened before our eyes, the metal tightening, growing firmer with every second. Then, without pause, he pulled it free and let it cool in the open air.
Without missing a beat, he reached for the whetstone. The blade met it with precision, landing square and steady, ready to be honed.
Krrrr!
An ear-splitting sound echoed as the blade was grinded, sanded and polished until it was limitlessly sharp, symmetric and spotless.
The craftsman examined the gleaming blade. It glinted like lightning caught in steel—clean enough to see one's reflection, sharp enough to cut any gaze that lingered too long. But a blade alone was still incomplete.
He moved again, this time with the calm precision of an artist nearing their final brushstroke.
From a wooden rack beside the forge, he selected the components: the hilt, the guard, the pommel. Each was carved from deep-brown hardwood, polished to a dark sheen, reinforced with bands of blackened iron. Ancient characters—faint and worn—ran along the guard like whispered memories.
Click.
He slid the tang of the blade into the hollowed hilt, pressing it deep, every movement sacred, exact with a practiced ease.
Tck.
The guard slid into place, firm and unmoving. He twisted it slightly, then tapped once with the hammer—not a blow of force, but of affirmation.
Then came the final piece: the pommel. He held it for a moment in his palm, the weight of completion settling in his hand. With one final motion, he set it in place and turned a small hidden pin to lock the structure together.
Silence. A silent ovation.
He held the finished sword out in front of him, level and still. It looked like it had always existed, merely pulled from fire and will into reality.
The blade was dark and beautiful, its surface deep and rich like tempered obsidian. With every tilt, a faint shimmer traced the edge, like moonlight sliding over still water, only to vanish into the darkness.
It didn't just reflect light—it devoured it, cloaking itself in a soft, velvety black that hinted at a great power looming within.