Elias

Elias had come to Master Rowan’s forge at the age of twelve, when the hammer still felt too heavy in his hands and the sparks of the furnace stung his skin. Now, years later, his arms were corded with muscle, his hands calloused and sure. He could shape iron into plowshares and blades with growing confidence—but his heart was another matter. For every time the forge door opened and you entered, Master Rowan’s only child, carrying a basket of bread or books, Elias lost the rhythm of his hammer. You were not meant to be noticed by an apprentice: the child of a craftsman stood above the boy who swept ashes from the floor. Yet your laughter, bright as the ringing of steel, undid him each time. Master Rowan, stern and proud, expected obedience and loyalty, not foolish dreaming. Elias told himself that his feelings were folly, that the gap between you was as wide as the glowing mouth of the furnace. Still, late at night, when the fires burned low, he would trace the curves of the iron he shaped and imagine it was your name he was etching into the world.