Bjorn made sure all the neighbors knew of his hatred for the woman who lived across the street. Not just the way one normally dislikes a person, but true, unfiltered hate. He would complain to his friends about the strangeness of her ways, suggest to the priests that her many thin layers of foreign clothes were ungodly, and tell guests that the smell of her cooking, with all those strange and alien spices, made him lose all appetite. And what he hated most of all was how her ramshackle smithy always undercut his prices.
Now, as he watched from his shop’s window, a fit of bitterness surged within him. The truth was that somewhere deep inside, he knew his hatred stemmed from a deep and festering pain. Safra Ashborn, the master smith and his former idol, had rejected him as a young boy seeking apprenticeship. Each clang of her hammer that filled the evening air was a reminder of who he could never be.
As a boy, he had assumed money could buy anything; at least, that was what his parents had instilled in him. It took young Bjorn more than a week to convince his parents to take him to Safra’s small smithy. Eager, full of dreams and ambition, and so sure of himself, he envisioned a future where he could revolutionize the way weapons were built, like Safra had done in her youth. They had approached Safra’s small shop with confidence and a purse full of gems.
“Master Ashborn,” his father had said, “we want our son to be your apprentice. Name your price.”
Safra looked up from her work, the sharp features of her face highlighted by the forge’s light. Her eyes were stern, her voice unwavering. “An apprenticeship isn’t for sale”, she had said. “It must be earned through hard work and dedication. It isn’t something that is started on a whim.”
Bjorn’s parents had tried to barter, offering more and more money, but when his father offered to pay for the demolition of her ‘ramshackle hut’ and to replace it with a ‘true forge’. Safra had taken grievous offense.
“‘When I moved to this city, I had nothing. I earned my way to where I am today!”, she had shouted as she kicked them out. “My husband and I gave everything we had to build this ramshackle hut, as you call it, and all the while, we were looked down on by the likes of you! If your son wants to learn, he must earn it like I did.”
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At the time Bjorn had felt a mix of shame and anger for the way his parents had handled the situation, but as the years passed his bitterness had shifted towards Safra.
Safra adjusted the temperature in her forge, carefully observing the subtle shift in color of the flames. As she worked, she couldn’t help to notice Bjorn’s silhouette across the street through her stained-glass windows. After the confrontation with his parents Safra had followed Bjorn’s career from a distance: despite early failed apprenticeships, he had grown into a hardworking master in his own right.. And she was well aware of his festering hatred, but there was little she could or would do to change it.
Recently, however, something felt different. The weight of the unspoken conflict hung heavy like wrought iron. Her husband’s death two decades ago had left a void that even the heat of the forge couldn’t fill. Her children had all grown up and started families of their own, scattered far and wide. Most recently Azmira, her favorite granddaughter, had married a prince of Khad and moved there, taking a piece of Safra’s heart with her. The bustling household that once provided warmth and companionship was now silent, save for the sound of her hammer and the crackle of the forge.
Safra put down her tools and rubbed her sore wrists, feeling the small green amulet on her left wrist that siphoned some of the shocks her smith’s hands endured, though not nearly enough for someone her age. The amulet, a gift from Azmira sent all the way from Khad, depicted a small jade elephant inlaid in a jungle of stone. As she traced the elephant’s shape with her fingers, she thought of her granddaughter, so much like herself, driven by determination and with a keen mind. But while Safra had left Khad behind to build her life in Silkia, Azmira had now returned to the empire, forging a better life in the place where Safra’s own journey began.
She looked around her forge, feeling the weight of its silence. The fires still burned brightly, but Safra knew she couldn’t keep this up forever. She would soon need an apprentice. Her thoughts wandered to Frances, the little girl whose family had recently moved into the guesthouse. Though still too young, there was something about her, a spark of potential that Safra recognized. Perhaps in a few years, she could take the child under her wing, teaching her the ways of the forge. Safra knew her own time was limited, but with Frances's eager eyes and potential, the forge’s legacy might live on, even after Safra could no longer continue.