Fea'en returned to her home after a long time away. She'd seen and done more in the last year, or two than in the previous twenty, and the craft master suddenly felt so very old. Setting down her pack on the table she'd made early on in her career, she looked around at the condition of her home and sighed.

The craft master tilted up a chair and swiped off a couple years' worth of dust before settling it on the ground and easing herself into it. She'd handcrafted this chair, and though it lacked the ornamentation she'd typically add for a noble's chair, it was still one of her better works and fit the older argu'n like a glove. It was the second most comfortable chair she'd ever sat in, after the one she and that old stubborn guard captain of hers used to fight over. Well, and maybe the one she'd crafted based on that chair...

With a sigh, Fea'en reached into her pack, pulled out a mug and a skin of mead, and then poured herself a generous amount. Looking around, she raised her mug to the ghosts of those who'd gone on before, particularly that old guard of hers. "Well, we did it. Those stupid kids fought for and won their futures."

Then, taking a drink and setting down her mug, Fea'en stared into the distance, feeling old and new aches. "Maybe it's time I retire..."

Just then, there was a light, almost timid knocking on her door. It had been so long since she'd had an actual door rather than a tent flap that, at first, she started responding too quietly before raising her voice loud enough to be properly heard. "Come... come in!"

As the door creaked open, the young face of Fea'en's granddaughter poked in and looked around before the Sare'en finally walked in, her head still swiveling around as she inspected the state of Fea'en's home while tisking lightly before she spoke. "Matron, your home could use some cleaning." Then her gaze fixed on the craft master, and the younger female's eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me you're just sitting alone in the dark getting drunk! Weren't you the one who always told me I should go out and spend more time with people rather than staying inside and isolating myself?"

Fea'en's own eyes narrowed as she answered. "First of all, it'll take a lot more than one mug of ale to get me drunk! Second, since when did my young timid granddaughter develop the kind of teeth and claws it takes to tell me what I should or should not do?"

Sare'en smiled as she dusted off her own chair and sat down. "Since I was pushed out the door and went on a grand adventure. You might be as frightening as a wolgen, but I've tamed three of those now, and I know when someone's howl is worse than their teeth!"

Fea'en tilted back her head and laughed. "Good for you! Looks like my kid's pup is finally starting to grow her claws out a little!"

As the old craft master settled down, Sare'en continued to examine her matron. "So what will you do now? Are you going to take back over as craft master?"

Fae'en chuckled but shook her head. "Well, I'll always be a craft master, that's not something they can just take away from me, but I think my time of running a bunch of pups ragged has passed. Jan'kul has already taken over and seems to be doing an acceptable job."

Sare'en smiled as she reached over and grabbed the meed skin and poured herself some into a mug she'd dug out of somewhere. "Doing an acceptable job is high praise coming from you, matron. So what then, will you just sit here in the dark, drinking alone every night?"

The matron glared at her son's offspring. "And what if I do? Haven't I earned that right?"

Sare'en took a drink and nodded. "You have, and if that's what you want, I won't stop you, but... Ah well, never mind."

Fea'en's glare hardened. "But what? Don't play games with your matron. I may be getting old, but not so old I've lost all my edge!"

The younger herder girl nodded shyly, but Fea'en noticed she still had the hint of a smile as she spoke. "It's just that, Lady Em'brel was thinking about installing wells and even a windmill here in the village, but with all the originals and their plans buried under half a mountainside, she will have to start from scratch. But if you think Jan'kul is acceptable, I suppose he can handle the work..."

The older craft master snorted. "Good enough to teach kids to use a hammer and chisel, maybe, but this kind of precision work requires a true master if you want it to last more than a year or two!"

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Sare'en's smile deepened as she took another drink. "Well then, I'll be sure to tell Lady Em'brel you'll be happy to take on the job!"

-

Tel'ron looked over his old workstation, wondering if he'd ever left it such a mess. The oil stains were fine, that was part of the job, but there were still metal shavings from whatever the worker who used this station had been working on. With a grunt, he brushed the savings off and straightened the tools, organizing them in a way that would be more efficient for most jobs so the first tools were closer at hand.

Feeling a presence behind him, Tel'ron turned around only to see old Mar'kon standing there, his usual greasy rag in hand. The older craftmaster grunted. "Didn't think I'd be seeing you again after you lot went and picked a fight with Lord A'ngles."

Tel'ron raised an eye ridge as he responded. "It wasn't us who picked that fight."

Mar'kon shrugged. "Fair enough, I suppose. So what now? You thinking about taking your old job back? Or maybe taking over as master? I hear you've been doing impressive work, and you know what you're doing these days."

The younger craft master shrugged back. "My work is decent enough, I suppose, but I still got a long way to go."

Tilting his head to the side, the older craft master grinned. "Then how bout you show me?" Nodding over to a workstation, he continued. "We got some refined ore over there. Make a knife. Show me what you can do."

Tel'ron raised an eye ridge. As a fellow master, he was no longer obligated to do as Mar'kon ordered, but even though he couldn't say what was different, he felt like this was more of a request between equals than an order from master to apprentice. Besides, it had been far too long since the metal worker had gotten to use a proper workstation. It would almost be relaxing after trying to constantly make do on the go.

With motions built on long practice, Tel'ron started up the furnace and prepped his station while planning what kind of knife he wanted to make. The ore itself was of decent quality but nothing special. It could stand to be folded a few times. At least he couldn't have to consolidate several bars of ore into one for a small knife so that shaved off almost half the work. Still, to fold it, he'd have to draw the steel out to a length that could be folded. Pulling it out, he placed the ore onto the anvil and got to work hammering it into shape.

As the metal worker struck the metal, the blows echoed around them. Thankfully it was common enough for a worker or two to have to work late into the night, so the metal working area was far from anyone's resting space, meaning no one would come to poke their snouts into his business.

As he worked, Tel'ron's mind wandered. He'd never been the emotional type, but so much had happened that he couldn't help but dwell on it between the swings of his hammer. The loss of the outpost, the hundreds of miles of marching, the death of his father and Lady Angela, one by one, the memories flashed through his mind as he worked, but his eyes never lost focus, and his hammer never wavered.

Eventually, the bar was long enough, but he knew from experience all that hammering had worked out plenty of the silica they used in the steel. So as he folded over the metal, he slopped on the flux slurry the metal workers here preferred, then hammered the two segments into one. After repeating the process a few times, the sound of the hammer striking the metal changed from what he'd describe as a thud to a ring, and he knew it was finally ready.

Now, if he were making a sword, this is where he'd start folding two separate billets into one, but that would be a multiple-day job, and he felt that, in this instance, simple perfection was better than getting too flashy. Instead, he began hammering it into shape.

As the metal began to take on the general shape of the knife he'd imagined, his mind wandered again. If he'd become a guard like his father had wanted, could he have had a more significant impact in the battles in the wilderness? Would his father still be alive? Would Lady Angela? Of course, alternatively, things might have gone worse, and it's possible that no one would have survived. In the end, it didn't matter; he'd made his choices, and things had turned out the way they had. Now he just had to accept that fact and move on.

Finally, it was time to begin sharpening the knife. While he used a grinding wheel, Tel'ron's mind finally went blank, and he fell into the comforting embrace of a job that required focus. His thoughts and memories fell away like the excess metal as he brought the edge to a point. Finally, when the edge was nearly ready, he began sharpening it on a whetstone, getting lost in the scraping sound as he filed away the last of the excess metal, left only with the blade he'd initially envisioned.

Holding up the blade, Tel'ron inspected his work. It wasn't perfect, no job ever was, but it was good enough to be used in someone's kitchen. Then a grunt beside him reminded the metal worker he wasn't alone. Old Mar'kon glanced over his shoulder to the blade, and Tel'ron turned and handed it to the older craft master.

Mar'kon held the knife close to his face and inspected it for imperfections or weak spots. Eventually, with a grunt of satisfaction, he turned and grabbed a piece of leather before cutting it with the knife, then repeated his examination.

Finally, the craft master handed the blade back to Tel'ron as he spoke. "It's a good knife. Not something I'd want to fight with, but more than adequate for most everyday uses. I don't know if I could do any better that quickly. You used to have talent. Now you have skill. Keep it up."

With that, Mar'kon walked off to get what little rest he could before the next day, rubbing his hands on those perpetually oily rags, leaving Tel'ron alone with his thoughts again. The words, "You used to have talent. Now you have skill." ran through his mind repeatedly. Eventually, the younger craft master grinned and walked off to get his own rest.