Arther sat beside the dying embers of the forge, the sputtering glow casting a web of dancing shadows against the cluttered walls. The smithy was a building of odd shapes and peculiar angles; of need stacked upon necessity. Each tool had a purpose and a place, each one designed to fulfill a specific function. It was a font of creation, and tonight—of contemplation.

  He leaned back in his chair and took a sip from his mug, the tea long since gone cold in the chill night air. Samuel had said his goodnights a few hours prior, off to purchase his skill before bed. The stresses of the day were finally catching up with him. The bags under his eyes had spoken of a fatigue that was deeper than the physical, of a weight that would eventually crush those who were thrown beneath it. Arther remembered that weight—the ticking clock that could not be ignored or dismissed.

  He didn't envy the boy. The Spire was a cruel enough mistress at the best of times, but to climb without a patron…that wasn't a fate he’d wish on anyone. Others had tried it, of course. Sam hadn’t been the first warrior spurned by the gods. The Arbiter did their best to try and level the field, but simple skills of unattuned magic were no match against the energies of the divine.

  He chewed his lip, wondering why he’d done this to himself again. He'd sworn to himself after Ruby fell that he wouldn't take another apprentice; yet here he was, once again rolling the boulder up the hill.

  The glow from the embers had almost faded completely, the darkness of the night creeping in like an eclipse of fluttering moths. He almost let it, feeling the cold wings rustling his beard, tugging at his vest. It would have been so easy to let the fire go out, to pack up his tools and go crawl into bed himself.

  The night hung like that for a long moment, an inhalation held in an infinite void. His own chest expanded, and he gave a slow and sure exhale. The breath carried with it primordial fire: the pure heat of creation. The forge roared to life once more, and Arther threw on a few handfuls of coal for good measure.

  No, it wasn't time to let the fire go out quite yet. The flames were trying to tell him something if he only had the ears to listen. As if on cue, the chair beside him let out a long creak, the old wood straining under a sudden weight. He heard a solid clunk, as metal struck stone, and he didn't need to turn to know the familiar form seated next to him.

  “My Lord,” he said, the tone more casual than the words would have suggested.

  “Smith,” a voice replied. The deep baritone hung in the air far longer than it should have. “You seem troubled. What's on your mind?”

  Arther took a moment before responding, trying to untangle the knotted mess of his emotions. “I guess I'm wondering if there's a point to all this? Why am I still fighting after all these years? Why am I still dragging out the inevitable?”

  “Is it really so hopeless?”

  “The more I think about it, the more I wonder if hope is even part of the equation. Hope to what, to survive, to endure? I found meaning through helping others, but what did I help them do? Why are we even here? It all just feels so pointless. Yes, we fight, but fight for what? For power and the glory of the gods? What does that matter—no offence.” He looked over for the first time since the god had arrived.

  His patron sprawled lazily, his form mercifully shrunk to accommodate the undersized chair. His appearance was that of an ilen’var, though not like any that had been seen on the rings in millennia. His deep, chestnut skin glowed with an inner fire, and his flaming orange hair flowed wild around him. His most distinctive feature was his prosthetic leg, the silvery metal more fluid and supple than living flesh.

  “Some would take offence, but we both know I'm not one of them. They would say, Is it not simply enough to appease your creators? You were made for our purposes. Is there no higher calling than pursuing that which you were born to do?” The god laughed, “The worst part is that some who say it, truly believe it. We created you to be autonomous, we gave you free will, and yet get angry when you exercise it? When they say that age does not beget wisdom, know that it is true.”

  “It does seem a contradiction.”

  “We are nothing if not consistent. Consistently inconsistent, at that. But is it not enough to simply enjoy paradise? This is an afterlife for many. Most seem content enough, at least on these lower rings. Could you not simply hang up your weapons and enjoy a peaceful existence?”

  Arther shrugged, looking towards the pond. Memories flowed through his mind: of still days on the skiff, the gentle breeze sweeping in from the cliffs. There was a plot of land he’d been meaning to plant, for well, centuries at this point. He’d been putting it off. Maybe it was finally time to hang up the hammer and pick up a spade. Who would he be if he did that? No longer a Warden, no longer a Smith. The question elicited emotions he hadn’t been prepared for. It was hard to plan for the future in a world where time stood still.

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  As if in open rebellion, the flames danced, and even after all these years, he couldn’t predict their movements. They were his companions in the work, but he’d never presumed to understand them—not truly. For them, action was existence. Burn and burn out. He’d lived that way once, and some flames just weren’t meant to endure.

  His patron sensed his indecision. The god let out a low chuckle, and the bellows responded, the forge rumbling with the weight of his mirth. “You don’t need to decide everything tonight. The War rages, and you’ve made commitments. There will be time, that’s the one thing we aren’t running out of.”

  “How do you do it?” Arther asked, shifting in his seat. It was a rare moment of vulnerability from the god.

  “I did it poorly, at first. The older ones barely remember what it was like before we ascended. The eons blur together, but the universe is a big place, and despite what the Pantheon would have you believe—we don’t know everything.” He stood and began pacing among the benches and shelves of the workshop. “Those first years were the hardest. Projects help. I took to forging stars, but even smashing atoms together eventually gets old. People are more interesting. Even after all these years, they still surprise me.”

  Arther felt a small smile creep across his face. “That they do…” As silence returned, the night slithered in around them, the darkness forsaking its incorporeal nature to wrap them in a chill embrace. The world shrank, extending no further than the walls of the smithy. “Do you think I made a mistake?” The words slipped through his lips, giving voice to the fear he’d been suppressing for days.

  The old forge god paused for a long moment, his hands resting on a bench, fingers tracing the lines of a well-worn hammer. “No, I do not think you did. There are forces at work here powerful enough to topple the very Spire itself.” Arther cocked his head, but didn't ask the question they both knew came next. “I will not say more. I'm already toting the line of what is appropriate for a Patron and a Champion. Just know that there are more than a few eyes on your young apostate.”

  Arther slumped back in his chair, the weight of the task ahead pushing him into the earth. It was different when it was someone else. A weight you put on your own shoulders was one thing, but seeing someone struggle with a burden you couldn't lift was a deeper kind of pain. The guilt twisted in his gut, knowing that some lessons needed to be learned the hard way. He supposed this was what it was like to be a parent.

  At the thought, his breath caught, memories flashing unbidden behind his eyes, of a lonely hillside and the graves he'd dug there. He shoved them aside, feeling a wetness on his cheek. The lid of the box he had welded to his core had cracked, and it took all of his willpower to seal it shut again.

  The god, as if sensing Arther’s distress, returned to his chair, pulling out a wooden pipe and lighting it with a snap of his fingers. The smoke swirled around them, impressions of images hanging in the air like wraiths. Arther could see old warriors and beasts lurking within the smoke. They were ones he recognized from his own climb all those years ago, a climb he’d never intended to survive.

  He clenched his jaw and stood, trying and failing to rein in his emotions. He could feel the heat of his sadness pouring off of him, but the god didn't even blink. Vulcon was the father of fire, and it would take much more than that to make him sweat.

  “You never stop being a parent, Arther. That's a part of you that never goes away. Believe me, I speak from experience.”

  Arther’s eyes glowed; the forge illuminated under the intensity of his gaze. “Do not speak of them, not ever. How could you know how I have suffered? You are a god. Don't pretend to understand what it is to lose the ones you love.” His voice was a low growl of iron dragged across rock.

  The god gave him a placating smile, his lumpy face making a vague approximation of the expression. “No, some things are truly the domain of the mortal. But I am sorry, Arther, for those you have lost. All of them.” He shifted in his chair, face hardening. “But do not let young Samuel pay for their mistakes. Six skills at once? Does he know how close he came to death? All for the hope of creating a rare permutation. You took quite a risk.”

  Arther stiffened, a pang of guilt shooting through him. “There was no risk. Either he was strong enough to survive—or he wasn't. He’ll be more powerful now than he ever would have been otherwise. And if he didn't survive…well. Then it would have been a mercy. Better to die here, quickly, than alone out there.”

  “Still, were you really the one to make that choice for him? Should he not have been told the risks?” The god’s brows furrowed, and the smell of burning iron filled the forge. “You are a Timeless Warden, and my Champion. Do not think you are above the laws, Arther Smith. You are here to guide them. If they wish to walk the path of heroes, they must do so of their own volition. Do not break this trust again.”

  The words hung in the air, and Arther felt a cold shard of fear stab into his gut. The forge god was slow to anger, but his fury was that of a raging volcano.

  “Yes, Lord. I'm sorry. It was not my place. I apologize.”

  The fiery-headed god let out a gruff laugh, “Don’t apologize to me, do it to him. He's stronger than he looks. There are hard choices ahead, and he needs to be prepared to face them.” He paused, his shape beginning to dissolve in a torrent of smoke and ash. He faced the smith, eyes boring into him with a red-hot intensity.

  “And so do you.”