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Part 6 – The Talking Robe
The forge still smelled of ash and sweat when Jofyn finally leaned back against the wall, staring at the twitching fabric sprawled across his anvil.
The robe stretched like a lazy cat, seams creaking. "You really don't know how to sew, do you? One side's tighter than the other. I look like a drunk noble's bedsheet."
Jofyn blinked, still pale from shock. "You… can talk."
"Talk? Hah. I can complain, too. And walk, maybe, if you stitched legs on me. But nooo, you had to make me a robe. A robe! You couldn't have aimed for a sword, or armor, or—heaven forbid—a crown? No, I get to be your sweaty nightshirt."
Jofyn slapped his own cheek to see if he was dreaming. He wasn't. His skin stung. His heart still hammered like a wild drum.
"You're… alive," he whispered.
"Alive?" the robe scoffed. "Barely. I'm stitched together with bargain-bin shards and a half-broken hammer. You should thank me for not falling apart the moment I yawned. Honestly, you're lucky I'm here. Without me, you'd still be whispering to coal like a lonely old widow."
Jofyn's lips twitched despite himself. The voice was absurd. The very fact of it was absurd. And yet, warmth spread in his chest, melting weeks of silence and isolation.
He let out a shaky laugh. "You're… you're really something."
"'Something'?" the robe said, indignant. "That's my grand title? Not 'Lord of Cloth,' not 'Mystic Garment,' not even 'Sir Stitch-a-lot'? Just something?"
Jofyn shook his head, running a hand down his face. "I think I made a mistake…"
"Oh, you did," the robe said smugly. "But lucky for you, I'm your mistake now."
It hopped—actually hopped—from the anvil and draped itself around his shoulders. The shards embedded in the seams pulsed faintly, and for the first time in years, Jofyn felt a warmth that wasn't from the forge fire.
The robe gave a satisfied hum. "There. Better. I'll admit… it feels right. Cozy. Like I belong here."
Jofyn froze. Belong… The word cut deep. He swallowed hard, blinking fast, before muttering, "You'll need a name."
"Oh, now you're talking sense. Yes, name me. But make it grand. Legendary. Something that makes kings bow and maidens faint."
Jofyn snorted. "How about Rag?"
"RAG?!" The robe stiffened in outrage. "Do I look like a floor mop to you?"
His laughter filled the forge again, louder this time, raw and unrestrained. For the first time in a long, long while—Jofyn Vale did not feel alone.
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