Leofric woke feeling renewed, though his mind was heavy with the decision before him. The dawn air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew and iron. He stepped outside, recalling Edith's words from the night before:
"I suggest we stay here a while. I think we should trust the old man. Better to rest here than to wander a road without a destination."
Leofric sighed, muttering, "Then it seems I'll have to work with this old man."
"I've told you not to call me old," came a dry voice behind him.
Leofric started and turned sharply. Eldric stood there, hands folded behind his back, eyes calm but unreadable.
"When did you get here?" Leofric asked.
"When you did," Eldric replied simply.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get."
Leofric stared, half annoyed, half amused. Strange man, he thought, though there was a hint of respect in it.
"You didn't even ask for my response," Leofric pressed.
"There was no need. I heard it already," Eldric said, stepping toward the forge.
Leofric muttered, "He's strange," and followed after him.
---
The forge glowed with a deep orange light, its heat licking at the air. Sparks leapt like fireflies as the hammer struck metal. The smell of smoke and hot iron filled the room. Hammers and tongs hung neatly along the walls, while a wooden bench was cluttered with half-finished blades and scraps of steel. Chains swayed faintly from the beams above.
Hours passed as the forge hissed and roared. When they finally stepped outside again, the morning had ripened into a warm, golden day. The wide land stretched fresh and green before them.
"This land was my father's," Eldric said quietly, eyes softening. "He was a great forger. My hands learned their craft from his."
Leofric nodded in silence, a rare look of respect crossing his face.
Then came a cry from the cottage.
"Leofric! Leofric!"
He turned just as Edith burst through the door, her face pale with panic.
"I thought you'd left me!" she gasped, rushing toward him.
"I'm here," he said, raising a hand. "And good morning to you too."
"Good morning, old man," she added quickly to Eldric.
Eldric groaned.
"So that is my curse then—forever called old by those who know not the weight of years."
He walked away with an exaggerated sigh. Edith blinked.
"What's wrong with him?"
"He doesn't like to be called old," Leofric replied, smirking.
Her eyes widened.
"Oh…"
"Now, why were you calling for me so frantically?" he asked.
"Because I thought you'd left me!" she said, pouting as she punched his arm.
Leofric clutched his hand in mock agony.
"Ah! My hand! Edith, you've crippled me!"
Her eyes filled with alarm.
"What? Did I—?"
He burst out laughing.
Her cheeks flushed crimson.
"You fool!" she shouted, striking him again—harder this time.
From a distance, Eldric looked back, the faintest smile curling his lips.
"Cute couple," he murmured.
But as he turned again, his steps slowed. Standing before the house was a familiar figure.
"Orren," Eldric called.
The merchant raised his head. He was stout, gray-streaked, and sharp-eyed, dressed in worn brown and green suitable for long roads. His cart behind him brimmed with tools—hammers, tongs, coils of wire, and bundles of iron neatly tied. His voice was smooth, but his eyes were wary.
"Eldric," Orren greeted, "I bring news… grave news."
A hush fell.
"Queen Hilda is dead."
The words struck like steel on stone.
Edith froze. Tears welled instantly in her eyes.
Leofric's chest tightened, breath catching in his throat.
"She destroyed the crown herself," Orren went on, his voice shaking. "To keep it from her brother Gerald. He's been accused of drawing strength from some dark force. Now he calls himself king—and rules with an iron hand. None dare oppose him."
Edith trembled, tears spilling freely now.
Leofric looked away, sorrow shadowing his face.
Eldric's tone was grave.
"A shame… a great shame."
Orren's gaze drifted toward Leofric and Edith.
"And who might these—"
"Where's Olivia?" Leofric cut in, voice raw. His eyes were hard, but his hand trembled slightly at his side.
---
Meanwhile, far away in Osric, the shadows deepened.
Lucifer sat in his darkened chamber, the air around him thick and cold. Morvain knelt before him, head bowed low.
"So," Lucifer's voice slithered like smoke, "you mean to say we need the map to find the crystals?"
"Yes, my lord," Morvain replied, steady but cautious.
Lucifer's gaze sharpened, like twin embers.
"And where is this map?"
"It was with Queen Hilda."
Lucifer's hand slammed down on the table—CRACK!—splinters leapt from the wood.
"Then search her chambers!"
Morvain looked up, a faint smirk playing at the edge of his mouth.
"It will not help, my lord. The map was bound to the crown. When the crown was destroyed, the map perished with it."
A deadly silence followed. The air itself seemed to recoil.
Lucifer's eyes burned brighter, and his voice dropped to a hiss.
"Then how do we find it?"
"There is one lead," Morvain said. "Queen Hilda had a daughter. Her servants fled with her when the city fell. If there is any key to the crown's secret—it lies with that girl."
Lucifer rose slowly from his seat. Power pulsed through the room like a storm. Morvain bowed lower, the weight of it pressing him into the floor.
Lucifer's lips curved into a cruel smile.
"Then bring me that girl."