Morning found Ezril at the smithy after mass. It was as hot as every smithy he had ever had the displeasure of entering. Its walls bore scorches at random spots that had him wondering if the blacksmith shaped only metals or if the man had a propensity to forget the walls were made of stone and brick. Despite the scorch marks, the smithy was in surprising order.

Weapons intended for repairs laid arranged at one corner while the man’s works dangled from nails fastened to the walls, each sword and axe, a beauty in their form, waiting in hopes that one day they would draw the blood of men. The weapons needing sharpened blades laid atop a table closest to the inner room where the man did all his forging.

The realm armor was not something Ezril ever found pleasing to look upon. Those that rested for repairs were even less pleasing. He would choose the priestly cassock over them any day. Even his war cloak which proved void of any form of armor, to aid easy movement, was more acceptable to him than what the soldiers wore. Still, he understood the need for armor.

The blacksmith was like his smithy, big, scorched, and black. One of his eye lids was scalded shut, leaving him with only one eye to work with. But it seemed it did nothing to hinder his work. If he was less efficient for it, Ezril could only wonder just how efficient he would’ve been when he had both eyes.

The man disappeared into the inner room with both of Lenaria’s swords. She had identified him as Eduka. It was a strange name for one who lived in the realm. However, the man didn’t look like any race he had seen in the realm, and though his skin color reminded him of Unkuti, it was considerably darker. He had no doubt the man would blend very well in a dark room.

“He’s from the south.”

Ezril turned to observe Lenaria. “The south? How do you know this?”

“Because that’s the only place you find people with skin so dark and lips so big.”

“But you haven’t been before.”

“No, I haven’t,” she conceded. “However, the abbess has. And so has Rin.” The second part she added in a whisper.

“They forge metal quite well over there, I assume.”

Lenaria shook her head. “They are a primitive people when it comes to the use of metal,” she said. “The abbess said they are yet to discover the use of Asmidian ore, and when they do, it would be many more years before they learn how to forge it.”

Ezril tipped his head towards the inner room of the smithy where Eduka had vanished. “And him?” he asked. “How did he come to know how to do these things.”

Lenaria shrugged. “A mentor of some sort perhaps,” she answered. “Apparently a very good one. Besides, his people are well suited to hot environments, with tough skin and mental strength. They do very well with suffering. So it’s no surprise he found no difficulty growing accustomed to the smithy.”

Ezril flexed his hand. The calluses looked back at him. “Is he Hallowed?” he asked. “Do they have Halloweds?”

“There are Hallowed and Tainted all over Vayla, Ezril. There is no place free of them.”

Ezril nodded. Lenaria knew too much. So much so that he often forgot how childish she could be. Abbess Lyniah knew too much. Rin knew too much…

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…Cyrinth knew too much.

And, yet, he knew only that which the seminary and the underbelly taught him. He turned and caught Lenaria staring at him, the question he had, lost from memory at the sight of her knowing smile. “What?”

Her smile widened, she tilted her head back to observe him, affording him a better view of her face as well as the glint in her eyes.

She smirked. “I impressed you.”

He frowned and she giggled. It was a strange sound coming from her, but it fit her so perfectly. He shook his head in disagreement but she nodded in return, still smiling.

She continued to impress him.

The question returned to mind, and as quickly as it came he let it out for fear of losing it again: “What of the war of the Scorned?”

Lenaria’s eyes wandered in thought. Satisfied with whatever she remembered, she spoke, her voice lacking its usual confidence. “She never told it; she never liked it.”

“Why?” Ezril asked, perplexed.

“Because it was the worst time of the gods. Not even the dead god had caused them so much trouble,” she answered. “She said the gods had almost despaired.”

“Because of a single man?”

Lenaria shook her head. “No. He wasn’t a simple man. He was immortal. Men are not immortal. The gods called him ‘Chance’ because he was a man they could never understand. He could be good at a moment and bad the next, and his decisions always carried a weight upon Vayla. Once, when they spoke of him, one of them had claimed they would need luck to defeat him. Tarr had said then, ‘Luck is not on our side; he’s on that of the humans.’”

Rin never spoke of the war, but the fact that she spoke of the immortal told a lot of the man’s power. Chance. It was a strange way to describe a man.

Eduka walked back into the room. His night skin glistened with sweat that spoke of the demands of his labor. Lenaria’s swords rested in hands. When he offered it to her, he made certain to avoid eye contact, an action he had ensured since their arrival. Ezril had noted the man’s demeanor from the moment they stepped into the smithy; eyes turned away, head slightly bowed and too much respect in every action pertaining to them.

“Where are you from?” Ezril found himself asking.

“The south, Father.” Even the man’s deep voice seemed intentionally subdued.

“Where to the south? There are many places south of the realm.”

“Ulunukwu, Father.”

Ezril paused in thought. “Does the realm know of this village?”

“I do not believe so, Father,” Eduka answered. His accent was the strangest one Ezril had heard, and he found himself wondering how well the scholar could imitate it. “It is a small village,” Eduka continued, “of little significance, surrounded by smaller villages of equal insignificance.”

“Then how did you come to be in the realm?”

“Foolishness.” The words came without pause, the voice still subdued. “As a young man I sought to see beyond my village,” he continued. “After a year, I was found by a soldier of the realm who sought to make a slave of me.” His gaze lowered considerably more. “I killed him. Sadly, I was caught and arrested. Eventually my master got me out of the King's dungeons and I’ve worked for him ever since.”

“Did you plead your case?” Ezril asked. “It is a crime to take slaves in the realm. It could have exonerated you.”

The man looked up, not quite meeting his gaze. “Who would you believe, Father; the death of one of your own soldiers or an outsider with a different skin color?”

Ezril understood what the blacksmith meant, it would not have gone any well for the man. “How many people know what truly happened?”

The man gave an involuntary shrug, his face no longer a thing of pain. “You and the priestess, Father.”

Ezril found it baffling. “Why?”

Another suppressed shrug. “I am not so stupid that I would go proclaiming it to anyone. The King's dungeons are vile, and I would rather not return to them, for my sake… and my mentor’s.”

“Then why tell us?”

“Because you are priest,” he said, as though it was the most natural answer there was. “In my people’s land the greatest sin a man can commit is to lie to a priest,” he continued, inspired by Ezril’s absence of a response. “Why fear a king, a man whose ancestors were chosen by men, and not fear a priest, a man chosen by god. Among my people, a priest is more important than any king.”

Ezril watched brown eyes look everywhere but at him and Lenaria. He found himself wondering if he had indeed ever seen eyes of brown that dark before. As an evangelist, he would come to see more than most men. This he promised himself.

“Did you see it?” Ezril found himself asking. “What was beyond your village.”

Eduka gave a gentle nod.

“Was it worth it.”

There was a pause. However, the man did not seem to seek an answer. It seemed a pause born of something else. His answer, in the end, was simple.

“No.”