We get to work immediately after eating Laura’s soup. Back home, I was never a fan of soup, but it seems to have grown on me. The dull bread and porridge must have reset my taste buds. I thought the food in a medieval world would be one of the worst parts, but maybe I’m just less picky than I thought.

Henrik is quieter than usual, his stoic demeanor now tinged with a subtle heaviness. The earlier conversation clearly weighed on him. A mysterious man, to say the least. What are the chances of him being connected to the hero summoning? Could it be divine intervention? Did she—if she’s even involved—lead us here on purpose?

Whatever the case, I can’t deny how fortunate I feel to have him as my mentor. A seasoned warrior who, for some reason, chose to take a liking to us. Perhaps it’s as good a time as any to ask.

“I don’t get it. Why did you take us in?” I ask, my words punctuated by the rhythm of hammer strikes.

“I needed an apprentice,” he answers quickly, almost dismissively.

“That’s obviously not true. You hate people,” I counter, glancing at him.

Henrik pauses mid-strike, the hammer hovering over the glowing metal. For a moment, the forge is silent. Then, without a word, he resumes his work, letting the question hang unanswered.

Enigmatic, reserved, and frustrating. Is it really that hard to answer a simple question?

“We won’t stay here forever,” I say, attempting to match his tone.

Henrik pauses his hammering again, the silence between strikes louder than words. After a beat, he resumes. “I know,” he answers simply.

“Strangers won’t jus—”

“You two looked desperate,” Henrik interrupts. “I tested you, tried to break you by overworking you as much as I could. Your hands were destroyed, but you kept smiling like an idiot.” He glances briefly at me, then at Laura. “The lass is a good girl, but you...” He pauses, his expression unreadable. “You are strange.”

“Strange? You’re one to talk,” I pout, crossing my arms.

“Me?” He raises an eyebrow, his expression tinged with scorn. “I’m old and bitter. You’re too young to be like me.”

I blink, confused. What is this man blabbering about? I’m nothing like him. Is this his way of deflecting my questions? If so, it’s working perfectly. But why am I so mad anyway?

I grab the glowing iron with the tongs and turn around, unaware that Laura is standing directly behind me.

The searing metal grazes her arm.

I gasp, and so does she. Time seems to slow as the radiating heat is abruptly replaced by a bone-chilling cold. Her breath turns red, and frost crystals begin forming rapidly around the spot where the metal made contact. The crystals grow faster than I can react, spreading like wildfire.

A hand grips my shoulder, and in an instant, the forge erupts in a radiant blue blaze. I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut and bracing for the searing pain that never comes. Instead, the fire feels warm and soothing, like the gentle rays of the morning sun.

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The frost crystals on Laura’s arm begin to melt away, the blue flame enveloping her and effortlessly overpowering her magic. She stares at her hand, wide-eyed, as tears stream down her face. Without a word, she turns and runs, disappearing from view. As quickly as it appeared, the blue fire dissipates, leaving the forge eerily silent.

I turn to face Henrik, his hand still firm on my shoulder. The remnants of the Blue Flame linger in the air, its gentle warmth a stark contrast to the chaos moments ago. A master mage, effortlessly wielding the very flame that just overpowered Laura’s magic—a power I once thought was immense.

“I can explain—” I begin, my voice shaking.

“Talk to the lass first,” Henrik interrupts, his tone steady but commanding.

Without a second thought, I run after her. It doesn’t take long to find her; she’s in the shed, curled up against the wall in our makeshift sleeping spot. Her face is buried in her hands, muffling the quiet sobs that shake her small frame.

I approach slowly, careful not to startle her. “Are you okay?” I ask, my voice soft.

“Me?” she snaps, her words choked with emotion. “If Henrik weren’t there, you’d be dead. I’m dangerous—stay away!” Her sobs grow louder as she pulls her knees closer to her chest.

“I’m fine,” I insist gently, trying to steady my voice. “Let’s apologize to Henrik, okay?”

I take a cautious step forward, but the air grows colder with each movement, the chill biting at my skin and filling my lungs with sharp stabs of frost. My breath thickens into visible plumes of steam. Her tears, now frozen, fall like tiny crystals, clinking softly as they land on the frost-covered floor.

I halt, realizing the danger of getting any closer. “Laura…” I say softly, my voice barely cutting through the icy air.

“If you’re gone, I’m alone again!” she cries out, her voice breaking.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say firmly, trying to reassure her. “Listen, if we explain everything to Henrik, he’ll understand. He took us in when we had nowhere else to go, when we were at our lowest. He said you’re a good lass, remember? This place... it’s the closest thing we have to home in this world.”

Her eyes widen at the word "home," and the chill in the air begins to dissipate. Taking the chance, I step closer and pull her into a tight hug. Her heartbeat thuds against my chest, her breaths uneven, her body trembling in my arms.

“It’s okay,” I whisper softly, as much for her as for myself.

After a moment, I gently take her hand, her fingers cold but no longer freezing. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go back to Henrik. It’s time we told him the truth.”

Without a word, she nods, and together we walk back toward the forge, leaving the frosted shed behind.

Henrik is still at the anvil, hammering away at a glowing sheet of iron. Without lifting his head, he glances up at us, then back down at his work. The rhythmic clanging fills the forge, matching the pounding in my chest as I stand before him, Laura’s hand clasped tightly in mine.

“I’m the Great Hero,” I say, my voice steady despite my nerves. “And she’s the mage who took your place.”

Henrik freezes mid-swing. The hammer lingers above the anvil for a moment before he sets it down with deliberate care. Finally, he looks at us, his face a mask of unreadable calm.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. I hold my breath, waiting for a response that doesn’t come.

“I spoke to the Goddess,” I continue, my voice steady despite the growing lump in my throat. “She gave me a gift—not Red Frost, not Blue Flame, but something... unique. The clergy called it blasphemous.”

Henrik raises an eyebrow, his expression otherwise unreadable. He leans slightly on the anvil, arms crossed.

“That so?” he says, his tone calm, almost detached.

“What do you think?” I ask, my voice tinged with expectation, searching his face for any sign of a reaction.

Henrik scratches his beard, looks back at the anvil, and shrugs. “We finish this pan, and then we move onto the pot. What else?” he says matter-of-factly.

“That’s it? You have nothing else to say?” I ask, disbelief dripping from my tone.

Henrik glances at me briefly before turning back to the forge. “You’re no great hero—at least, not yet,” he says, his voice steady. Then, without missing a beat, he barks, “Now stop standing around and help me before the metal gets cold!”