Three months have passed.

"What news from the cave dweller?" Doren asked when Arn walked into the dining hall.

The man wore a mischievous grin that quickly faded when no one took the bait. Arn stared off blankly as he walked to the table and sat down - as far from Doren as possible. He'd developed the habit of receding into his thoughts after the events three months ago. Rana's and De'al's words repeatedly played in his mind, never producing anything new, yet he always returned to the memories. In doing so, Arn often ignored his surroundings and that included people as much as objects.

In this instance, though, Arn simply didn't want to respond to his least favourite uncle. Doren always sought things to poke at, ways to aggravate people - the man was insufferable.

"Are you awake?" Doren said and chuckled, then looked at everyone else around the table. No one reacted. "I've asked you a question, boy!" he went on.

Now that the man was getting mad, Arn had to continue ignoring him. It wasn't a choice, really, just the way things had to be. Doren didn't have to call Arn names, and if he didn't speak to Arn at all, it would be a blessing.

Besides, Arn didn't have time for this. He was just thinking of the latest scroll he'd read at the Nysaros Archives Vault. In the past three months, Arn had mentored under a historian in Nysaros and recently earned the right to access the forbidden scrolls. 'Earned' may have been a stretch - Mallory, his mentor, had a habit of leaving Arn to himself for days. "You've earned the right to perform your duties independently," the portly man said, but Arn knew the truth - the man spent most of his time at the Inn on the outskirts of Nysaros looking for stories from newcomers. During one such day, Arn dared venture into the forbidden section and has continued doing so ever since. To his surprise, the metal gate wasn't even locked - just jammed from apparent disuse. He pushed hard against it, and the gate creaked open. Arn's heart leapt. He was sure someone had heard - but no one came. No one ever came to the vaults aside from Mallory and himself.

Arn couldn't stop thinking about the casual mention of someone diverting enough rocks to cover sixty feet of a road. He had to read more of the scrolls to find similar accounts - what if Rana gave him a fake scroll, a forgery? Doren, meanwhile, had moved on to another victim.

Alas, of all the scrolls he managed to access that were also written in the common tongue, most contained records that proved the authenticity of Rana's scroll. He almost wished that she was lying. Life would be so much simpler. Now though, now he couldn't stop thinking about it.

"Hey! Arney! Can you hear me?" his little sister's voice broke through his concentration.

"Yes, what?"

"How is your mentorship? Did you like it better here or back there, in the other town?"

"It's fine. It doesn't matter where it is - I just like not having to look over my shoulder every second," Arn said. Though he still had to do that in the forbidden scrolls section. Sarhaa recoiled a little at his words. He reminded himself that she was only thirteen years old.

"I mean," he started, "I meant that it's just nicer to be home and not so far from everything, that's all."

"Yeah," Sarhaa agreed, though her suspiciously narrowed eyes betrayed her real feelings. Nevertheless, she smiled at him and poked at some potatoes on her plate. Arn sighed but let it go.

"Dad, you have nothing else to discuss?" Kenon said sharply.

"I don't see how it's any of your business. I'm just pointing out the obvious, and someone has to." Doren said.

"Elar'Saga save us," Vena whispered and touched a hand to her forehead.

"You have nothing to discuss, no other topics besides the one thing we all agreed not to mention?" Kenon said.

"Well, I don't understand why I shouldn't mention it!" Doren said.

"Mention away!" Arn cut in, a little louder than he intended. His heart raced, and a fire smoulder in his belly. He felt the sensation more often after his ordeal. The fire was always close, and it waited for a chance to overtake him. "What do you want to know, Uncle? All the grizzly details? Did you want me to describe how they interrogated me? Is that it?"

"See what you are doing, Doren Dar!" Arn's mother joined the conversation.

"The boy has anger issues, that's what I see - I'm just asking politely, and he goes off like that - how did you raise him, Nyra?" Doren shot back, and his voice rose to a near shout.

After that, Arn couldn't quite make out the individual sounds as everyone spoke all at once. He hated that he became the reason for this; he preferred it when other people or events set these shouting matches off.

Arn tuned everything out and returned to his musings about the scrolls. Each of the Inspectorate agents that appeared in the history tomes had some training in Charmcrafting. The detail didn't stand out initially, not until he considered changing his apprenticeship to something more exciting than reading. The tomes and scrolls contained only the historical accounts but no explanations, so he had limited means of uncovering the reasons behind the things he learned. He did, however, note that Charmcrafting was less of a unique profession and more of a point of esteem in the older records. It was almost equated with overall prowess - what a strange concept, he thought. Perhaps if he took up the craft, he'd learn more about the Inspectorate and eventually figure out how to make another Tjoreal. Besides, even today, a Charmcrafter was a well-respected figure in society. Oh, Elar'Saga, how am I going to remake the bloody thing? He cringed. Thus far, Arn managed to avoid either using or talking about the Tjoreal, but he knew that it couldn't last forever.

"Arn!"

"What?" he realized that everyone had left, and Sarhaa alone was staring at him.

"Are you ok?"

"Stop asking me that. I am fine."

"You just blanked out most of the breakfast."

"I need to go back to the archives. See you tonight at the great hall."

"Oh, alright."

"I'm sorry, I just have a lot on my mind."

"It's ok."

"Yeah, it's ok."

"Well, I have to go too, so bye."

Arn winced. He kept unintentionally hurting people lately, but he couldn't help it, his mind simply wandered too much, and he couldn't keep his thoughts off the archives. So once more, he put all his worries aside and left for the vault.

Evening came quickly - almost too quickly. He'd only just put down his first scroll - or was it second? Suddenly it was time to attend the dinner ceremony at the great hall. Since his return, Arn learned to appreciate the little things. He glanced at the scholar's table, he'd never even noticed it before, but now all he could see were young people sitting awkwardly, uncertain where to look.

Traditional tables at the great hall were round and made of thick wood. At their center was a fire pit layered with rocks to serve as insulation. The rocks heat up quite a bit, and where they touched the wood, it blackened. Today a small fire crackled, and Arn stared into it as he thought. The undulating flames mesmerized and drew him in. He felt their warmth and energy, and the fire grew closer in his mind as though reaching out to him. The crackling and popping intensified, and ever taller flames rose in the fire pit. Sweat beaded on his face from the fire's heat, and he noticed with a start that everyone was looking at the flames, perplexed and worried expressions upon their faces. Arn shook his head, and the peculiar reverie broke, the fire diminished to its previous state.

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"What was that?" Sarhaa asked.

"Must have been a draft or something," Arn replied. The tension melted away as the murmur of voices around them grew. No one seemed to be overly concerned. Arn wondered what had just happened - was it his doing?

"I, for, one couldn't wait for winter when I was a girl," his grandmother said. "I used to love skiing and tobogganing. Don't know if I can do it now, though," she added and winked at Arn.

His great uncle Sead chuckled, "ah, but those were good days," he said. "Why. I recall little Vena, Leod, and Patos, together with your Nyra, practically begging to go out into the woods and ski and sled. The memory brings me warmth and comfort it does."

"Weren't we all like that once?" Goren, Arn's grandfather, said. "You know, Tena, before we met, when I still was a young boy in the Hillsnow clan, my brothers and sisters and I used to beg our parents to take us out into the forest. Nothing quite like the open air and the wild woods."

All of the elders of the clan smiled and nodded at each other. Even Doren kept quiet. That was amazing, Arn thought. He was always impressed with the quiet authority that his grandparents carried. One day he hoped to match it, though he knew of no path to reach that goal.

"History helps us remember our roots," Sead said. "Without it, we know not where we come from, and a path must always be between two points, you see." All nodded, though Arn suspected not everyone agreed or understood quite what Sead meant. He wasn't sure himself, though the sentiment seemed wise.

"Who knows, perhaps in time, I'll teach you the craft of my golems that help make the stories come alive." At that, Arn's eyes widened. Sead always kept secret the manner of his dolls that he used when telling the old tales. Arn thought that it was some sort of magic that his great uncle performed with the Tjoreal. But, having learned all that he did recently, he wasn't so sure. What are golems? He wondered.

"Sead, we should take care to keep our words," Arn's grandmother said, "this talk is better had at the clan house."

"True, Tena Elo," Sead agreed and bowed his head lightly.

"Do I have to continue being a Historian for that?" Arn asked.

"Well, that depends, but perhaps we discuss later, as your grandmother suggested."

"It's just that my time at the archives - well, I am not sure that I wish to continue," Arn said.

"No shame in that," Vena said.

"I am not -" Arn started.

"It's not for everyone, you know - nose in the books and all," his father cut him off. "If you choose the Apothecary path, your grandmother will help you along; she's quite renowned, you know."

"Oh, no need for all that, Atrel Dar," Tena said. "Arn should be free to choose a path, and we will help in the capacity that we can."

"I haven't decided yet. I just feel that I want more - more movement, or agency, perhaps."

"You should visit the Heartland," his mother said, "you must see Indarapan - it's full of such beautiful architecture, and the fields of flowers on the banks of Arngosadar river, nothing quite like it."

"Maybe," Arn replied. He gave little thought to seeing the marvels of Nedreal. Instead, his mind focused on his missing Tjoreal. He hadn't revealed it yet to anyone, though he knew the day would come when he'll have to use it. De'al didn't need one - so Arn thought.

The dinner at the great hall ended, and the family managed to keep the peace until that time. The road back to the clan house wasn't long; Stonefather residence was quite close to the town's center, a point of pride, especially for Arn's mother. On the way, Arn's grandmother approached him and put a hand on his back.

"There are some things which hold their value even as time passes," she said,

"I know, I know that history is important, but - "

"I don't mean books and scrolls, though they have a value of their own," she said and smiled at Arn. "We each hold a promise to ourselves, to seek our potential faithfully and fully. Each step on that path gains in value with each breath you take. Each step you miss weighs the more heavily as time passes and youth diminishes."

Arn didn't have a response to that. He wasn't sure that he understood it fully, though a sense of a distant epiphany slowly blossomed in him.

"We each view your path from our own treetop, and different branches obscure the vision. So trust your eyes most of all, and heed the council which you deem wise. But don't forget that each step you take is your own," Mama Elo said.

After that, they walked in silence. Arn heard the rest of the family but couldn't quite make anything out. His grandmother's words took up his thoughts until he was back in his room, and even then, they only faded as he fell asleep.

The following day Arn entered the dining hall of the clan house. It was strangely empty with just his parents. He stopped in the doorway and blinked at them. His mother and father were deep in a discussion and didn't notice him. He sat down next to his mother. She was mildly startled but happy to see him.

"Good morning. Glad to see that you're breaking fast with us today," she said.

Arn smiled as his father wished him good morning as well. In the last few weeks, he'd often skipped breakfast or took it with him to the archives. There was too much noise around the table with all of his uncles and cousins. They asked so many questions.

"Today is quiet, so why not?" He said.

Sarhaa came into the room with a plate full of baked vegetables, nuts, and mushrooms. She sat down opposite him.

"Hi," Arn said.

"Mofnin," she replied, mouth already stuffed.

"I guess I might as well get my food," Arn said and went to the kitchen. No one spoke as he returned. "Where is everyone?" he asked.

"I thought you'd be glad that they're away," his father replied.

"Well, yes - but where are they?"

"Your uncles had errands, and your grandparents are at the apothecary shop, something your grandmother needed them for," Arn's mother said.

He nodded and sat down with a plate quite similar to his sister's but with more food than she took. The baked vegetables were warm and fragrant, full of savoury spices. He bit into a juicy chunk and slurped as it nearly leaked out. Sarhaa giggled a little. Arn smiled as he chewed.

"So I think I want to study Charmcrafting," he said after they all finished and were having tea.

"Charmcrafting!" his father exclaimed, "that's quite a shift from historian, isn't it?"

"Well, sure, yes - but I keep reading about them, you know?"

"I hear people travel quite a bit when they study it. So perhaps you'll get to visit the Heartland after all," his father replied.

"Oh, if only you knew the beauty of it, you'd have packed your bags, Charmcrafting or no, and ran off to Indarapan," his mother said wistfully.

"Mom likes the Heartland," Sarhaa chimed in. They all laughed.

"Charmcrafting is highly respectable, and it is challenging - I dare say you'll be tested quite thoroughly before you earn the profession," his father said.

"What do you mean?" Arn replied.

"Alas, it's not something I can explain - all I can say is that the studies are difficult, trying even. You must be quite certain before you take the path."

"Atrel, don't scare him. It's difficult, yes, but he's young still, and he can always change his mind again," Nyra said.

"Hey, wait a second, I am not changing because being a historian is difficult. I just don't want it," Arn protested. He leaned back in his seat and glared at his parents.

"No need for that," his father replied. "I'm sure your mother didn't mean anything aside from reassurance that at any rate, you have a fallback right here with your grandmother."

"Why are we talking about a fallback? You're so certain that I can't do it?"

"No, Arn, that's not what we're saying," his mother said, her tone softened, and her expression turned to concern. "There are many things to consider which you haven't seen yet, and having a fallback is a luxury more than a precaution."

"Well, I don't need either the luxury or the precaution. If I choose to become a Charmcrafter, I will, no matter the trials and whatnot," Arn was on his feet at that.

His parents didn't understand what he went through. Arn thought that they might have faith in him, but clearly, they still saw him as nothing but a child, one who requires luxury or fallbacks.

"Maybe we should move on from the logistics of the matter. Arn's right; he'll manage just fine, Nyra." his father said. Arn, meanwhile, sat back down, feeling somewhat acknowledged.

Arn's mother looked at his father for a long moment, then relented. "Oh fine," she said, "he's shown himself to be capable, so there is no cause to doubt him."

Arn looked at them suspiciously. This seemed a little too good to be genuine. Too sharp of a shift from their previous thought process.

"What about Charmcrafting drew your attention?" his father asked.

That wasn't a question which Arn wished to discuss - in truth, it was Rana's words and De'al's abilities, and his destroyed Tjoreal. None of which he told his parents - or even to Ossagar during their ride back. Arn still didn't trust the man. What could he tell them? Arn suddenly felt the cool metal of his leaf charm that his parents gave him before leaving for the Inspection.

"Metal charms," he blurted out, "so rare, right?"

"Ah, of course," his mother said with a knowing smile on her face. "You inspired the boy," she said to Arn's father.

"Metal charms," his father said, propping his chin with a hand. "You'd learn about them alright, but it will be a while. They require the highest degree of mastery, you know."

"Where did you get this then?" Arn took out the leaf charm.

His father straightened and chuckled. "This, ah yes, well, it's an old story. The charm was passed down in our family."

Arn raised an eyebrow. "Like an heirloom?"

"I suppose you could say so - and don't worry, Sarhaa, we have something for you as well," he said.

"I'm not worried. I don't need trinkets and praise to feel good about myself." They all stared at her in stunned silence. "What?" she said.

Everyone then burst out laughing, the tension melted away, and Arn had to wipe a tear - he laughed so hard.