I wake up in pain. Laura’s head rests in my lap while the back of my head presses uncomfortably against the brick wall. Mildly annoyed, I flick her forehead, waking her up. She scolds me for being mean, but I feel petty enough to think she deserves it.

Part of the pain is from the awkward sleeping position; the rest is from my sore shoulders. It hurts, but I can’t help but smile, knowing that if this keeps up, I’ll be massive in a couple of years. I already feel like I’ve lost at least 20 pounds—these undersized clothes are starting to fit me better.

I limp out of the shed, noticing that Laura seems to be in better shape than I am. Henrik is already preparing the forge for today’s torture. Even though my body protests, I can’t deny it—I actually had fun yesterday.

Henrik stuffs the forge with coal and, to my surprise, sticks his bare hand inside. The coals ignite with a magnificent blue hue. Henrik is a mage.

“You don’t look like a mage,” I remark.

“I used to be, back when I was young,” he replies.

“I’m not sure how it works,” I say, hesitating for a moment, “but why is a Blue Flame mage forging horseshoes in the middle of nowhere?”

He looks at me sternly. “Horseshoes are important, lad,” he says, pausing for emphasis. “Blue Flame is a tool like any other—use it with purpose, and damn what anyone else says.”

Laura returns, and she looks different. Henrik glances at her briefly before turning back to tend the now blazing forge. I, however, can’t seem to take my eyes off her.

“Practical, but still feminine,” I say.

She smiles at my pragmatic compliment, running a hand through her hair—which now doesn’t go past her ears. I run my blistered fingers through my own greasy, blonde locks, dirty and tangled from days of labor.

“I should probably cut this mess off too,” I say, wincing as my fingers get stuck in a tangle.

Henrik slaps my shoulder with a pair of gloves. “Put these on before those delicate hands of yours fall off,” he grumbles.

And so the day begins. We make various tools—shovel heads, pitchforks, scythe blades—each one more exhausting than the last. By noon, my fingers are throbbing, but I push through.

Laura’s task is easier than mine today: running back and forth from the shed, fetching whatever Henrik needs. Still, I catch her rolling her eyes every time she passes by, clearly unimpressed by my complaints.

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I work shirtless alongside Henrik, the cold October air masked by the blazing heat of the forge. His physique, carved by years of hard labor, sharply contrasts with my much “softer” appearance.

For lunch, we eat the same soup as yesterday, though each bite feels like heaven compared to the hell of the forge. I eat double the amount Laura or Henrik does, guilt creeping in with every extra spoonful. But Henrik grabs my bowl and pours me more without a second thought.

“Muscles don’t appear from hard work alone, lad. You’ve got to eat to get strong, especially for someone as tall as you,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact.

The hammering resumes after lunch. Some villagers arrive to pick up the tools we made earlier in the day. Henrik counts the coins—a modest amount compared to the pouch we gave the merchant—but this time, it’s an honest payment.

Later, as we sit at the table in his house, Henrik slides half the coins across to us. Laura and I exchange glances, smiles creeping onto our faces.

“For today,” he says with a grin. “Go have fun, kids.”

We thank him wholeheartedly and decide to visit Kundor. This time, not as beggars or burdens to society, but as honest, working individuals.

I keep the gloves on, having noticed that covering the blisters with Red Water alleviates some of the pain. When I summon every bit I have, I realize it’s grown to at least thirty milliliters.

“What can we buy with this much?” I ask, holding up the coins. “I don’t know how much buying power these pieces of copper have.”

“It’s enough to buy what we need,” she replies confidently.

“And what do we need, exactly?” I ask.

She turns to me with a serious look on her face. “Pillows.”

How could I have been so blind? My thoughts immediately drifted to the hedonistic, but Laura knows what’s truly important. Where would I be without her?

“You think someone just has extra pillows lying around?” I ask skeptically.

“Out of two thousand residents, someone is bound to hoard more than they need,” she replies. “We’ll pay extra if they refuse.”

At the end of our haul, after what feels like visiting every residence in the city, we manage to secure a grand total of one pillow. The excitement from before fades into despair. Still, it’s better than nothing.

“We’ll share,” I say, trying to sound optimistic. “Somehow.”

The sun begins to set as we make our way back to Henrik’s. With nothing left to do for the day, we head toward the shack. Pillow in hand, tonight promises to be bliss.

But first, I need to get rid of this mop on my head. Using an old razor we found in the shed, Laura shaves my head. No more blonde hair—I’m now bald. The autumn chill stings more than I expected.

I get ready for bed, thinking the day is over, but Laura grabs my shirt, stopping me in my tracks.

“There’s still some daylight left,” she says firmly. “I want you to help me with something.”

I follow her into the woods. We walk for a while, eventually reaching a clearing. It’s farther than I expected, and I can’t help but hope we don’t get lost.

“I don’t want to run away from myself anymore,” she says.

The cool October air turns even colder. Her breath becomes frosty, tinged with red, and ice crystals begin to form around her feet—large, jagged, and irregular. Her power is raw, unrefined, clearly something she’s never trained before.

“If we’re ever in danger,” she continues, her voice steady but solemn, “I don’t want to be a burden to you.”