Forging Balance

Rokuro’s foot tapped impatiently against the stone floor, the clang echoing in the Ironwood forge. The place was all heat and emberlight—walls braced by Ironwood beams, racks of spears and blades gleaming dully in the fire’s glow. Basko had been bent over his anvil for half an hour, hammer striking in steady rhythm after measuring and prodding Rokuro’s gauntlet.

In the meantime, Rokuro had resorted to grabbing Sana by the back of the shirt every time she tried to wander toward the furnaces.

“Sit still, tornado. You’ll set your hair on fire.”

“But it’s so shiny in here!” Sana squirmed, eyes wide as the sparks flew.

“Uh, Basko-san…” Rokuro called over the hammer’s beat, “What are you even… making?”

Basko didn’t look up, his voice booming over the forge. “Something to keep you from fighting like a wild dog.”

Rokuro scowled. “Hah? You saying I fight sloppy?”

“I’m saying you fight reckless. There’s a difference.”

Rokuro muttered under his breath. “Don’t see how a hunk of metal’s supposed to fix that.”

At that, Basko barked a laugh that shook the rafters. “Good. Keep thinking that way. The moment you believe the tool makes the man, you’re already weak.”

Before Rokuro could retort, the ever energetic Sana piped up, “This place looks very old!”

“Oi!” Rokuro hissed.

Instead of taking offense, Basko chuckled.

“It’s as old as the rebellion itself. My father, and his father… they all worked this forge before me.” Basko grinned, “Although, nothing has ever been forged for the Lock of Legend before.”

“Don’t know about being a legend just yet…” Rokuro smiled wryly, “Feels like I’ve just been punching stuff.”

“Good. Legends who forget how to throw a punch don’t last long. You just keep hitting till the right doors open.”

“Huh, seems everybody isn’t all that strict about the prophecy.” Rokuro shrugged, although relieved to hear Basko’s opinion.

“Steel doesn’t lie. You put strength in, it shows. You slack, it shatters. People ought to be the same.”

“Well sometimes people break easier than steel.”

“It’s just about finding a good match. Not every hunk of steel gets to be a blade. Others become doorknobs.”

Sana piped up, “Mister Basko, if you’re so good at fixing and making things, can you make me taller too?”

Basko smiled, “Sure sprout, I’ll put you on a shelf.”

“That’s cheating!” Sana pouted.

Finally, with one last heavy strike, Basko set his hammer aside. He lifted a newly forged counterweight ring—ironwood alloy gleaming with faint etchings that shimmered ethereal in the firelight.

“Done.” He motioned Rokuro forward. “Give me your arm.”

Rokuro held out the gauntlet. With careful precision, Basko clamped the piece beneath the wrist joint, tightening the fit. The faint hum of the gauntlet shifted just slightly. It felt sharper… almost steadier.

“Try it.”

Rokuro grinned, stepping back. He swung his fist through the air once—then again. His eyes widened. The wild drag he was used to was gone. His punches snapped straighter, faster, tighter.

“…Whoa.” Rokuro blinked. “Feels like… like aim assist or something.”

“Aim what?” Sana tilted her head.

“Ah, nothing…” Rokuro muttered.

Basko folded his arms, satisfied. “That piece won’t make you stronger. But it’ll keep you from wasting strength. Even gods’ tools need balance.”

Sana clapped her hands. “See! I told you he’s got a heart beneath all that beard!”

“Oi—!” Rokuro hissed, but Basko only laughed, a booming sound that filled the forge.

“Your turn, sprout,” he said, holding out a massive hand. “Show me that pendant.”

Sana’s eyes sparkled. “Yay! I knew you wouldn’t ignore it!” She slapped the trinket into his palm like it was a crown jewel.

So he did overhear Sana speak about him…

Rokuro raised a brow. “…Didn’t think a forge master would waste his time on trinkets.”

Basko didn’t look up as he carefully straightened the dent, polish glinting off the silver in the firelight. His voice rumbled steady. “It doesn’t matter what the tools fix. As long as it’s something important to someone.”

“Sure is important! Grandma said my mom used to wear it.”

Her mother… Rokuro thought. He had never asked what had happened to her parents…

Basko handed it back. Sana clutched it to her chest like treasure, grinning ear to ear.

“Thank you, Thank you!”

Seeing her so elated, one couldn’t help but smile.

“Off you go, then.” Basko ushered them out, “The celebration is about to begin and I have to forge some more steel for the big day.”

“You’re not coming?” Rokuro raised a brow.

“Not yet. The troops won’t arm themselves, boy.”

“Yes, boy!” Sana parroted.

Rokuro rolled his eyes and nodded.

“Normally I’d forge you proper armor too. That… coat is an insult to steel.”

Basko cast a scornful look at Rokuro’s jacket.

“But I was told it has sentimental value to you, so I won’t interfere.”

“No thank you, I paid ten thousand yen for this online! No way I’m swapping it now.”

Rokuro turned away, holding the sleeves of his jacket defensively.

“Yen?” Basko repeated.

“On… line? What line?” Sana’s face twisted in confusion.

“Never mind…” Rokuro shook his head, straightening his flamboyant jacket, “So uh, thank you. For this.” He pointed to his gauntlet.

“If you wanna thank me, just use it for good reasons.” Basko shrugged it off, going back to his workbench.

Weird guy… Rokuro thought as he looked on. Yet… he was kinder than he had made him out to be.

╒ 🗝 ╛

The path wound upward toward the training grounds, and Sana was practically skipping the whole way.

“It’s at the Bellbark, it’s at the Bellbark!” she sang, bouncing like her feet barely touched the wood.

“If I flip her over will her batteries fall out?”

Rokuro muttered under his breath.

The answer didn’t come from Sana—she was too busy twirling around to the faint sound of drums echoing above. The closer they climbed, the stronger it grew: flutes, strings, a rhythm pulsing through the canopy.

When they reached the Bellbark, the gathering was already taking shape. Lanterns swayed from the branches, stalls lined the walkways with spits of roasted meat and baskets of fruit, and everywhere rebels were laughing, singing, pulling each other toward the music.

Rokuro slowed, eyes flicking from one detail to the next. Instruments he almost recognized—flutes with jagged spirals, drums with shimmering crystal skins—were being played in ways that made his head tilt. Same notes, different voices. This wasn’t Earth.

Sana, however, only saw food. “Meat skewers! Flatbread! Look, candied berries!” She dashed forward, only to be yanked back mid-run as Rokuro caught her shirt without even looking, his expression deadpan as her arms flailed around.

“Stay.” He sighed.

“You two.” Kagi’s voice drifted over before Sana could start whining. “All finished with Basko?”

Rokuro shrugged, “As long as he doesn’t force me to wear any armor, we’re good.”

Kagi smirked, crossing her arms.

“Everybody’s waiting at the table.”

“What table?”

“The long one. The Rootfire Gathering isn’t a market stroll apparently. Everyone eats together. Side by side. Or that’s what they told me at least.”

She gestured, and Rokuro followed her gaze.

Stretching beneath the Bellbark was a table so long it looked impossible— lined with plates and mugs as far as he could see. Warriors, children, smiths, seers, all of Emberhold sat shoulder to shoulder, laughter and voices mixing.

“This looks like a wedding table…” Rokuro muttered.

“Except no one here’s unlucky enough to marry you.” Kagi said dryly.

“Oi!”

Despite Rokuro’s snarl they reached the head section, where Selka, Nero, Yanissa, and Lykos were already seated. Nero leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “Well, well. Look who finally decided to show.”

“Relax,” Rokuro shot back. “Was busy being fitted with an accessory.”

“You mean Basko yelling at you for an hour?” Selka quipped.

“Same thing.” Rokuro dropped into the seat beside them just as a plate was shoved in front of him—something blue, steaming, and suspiciously gelatinous.

He grimaced. “What in the… blue hell is that?”

“Dinner,” Lykos said flatly. “And stop glaring at a fine made meal.”

Kagi cut in,”Go on, eat it.” Her lips curved faintly. “Something the matter?”

“Ugh…” Rokuro groaned, as all eyes rested on him. He couldn’t very well decline Emberhold food in front of the locals, could he?

It can’t be that bad…

With that thought Rokuro took a bite. The texture was slimy and juicy, but the taste on the other hand…

“Hey, not too bad…” Rokuro nodded and the locals seemed to be satisfied.

“Heh, this is Fen’s specialty!” Selka grinned.

“Fen?” Kagi raised a brow, at the man standing before them like a proud chef.

He was tall, lanky and wore the garments of a patrolling guard. Something about him seemed familiar…

“Oh! It’s the guy who tried to arrest us when we first arrived!” Rokuro realized.

“Ah, yeah sorry about that…” Fen scratched the back of his head, “I’m actually better at cooking than patrolling. My commander says my spear stance looks like I’m holding a ladle.”

Talk about two different career paths…

“Oh, if you’re interested this plate is comprised of—“

“Ah, I’d rather not know.” Rokuro cut him short, “Spoils the uh… magic.”

Rokuro shoved the plate politely towards Kagi and the others, earning a laugh from Nero and a roll of Selka’s eyes.

For a while, the noise around them drowned everything—the clatter of mugs, Sana inhaling food three seats down. It didn’t feel like a rebel stronghold anymore. It felt alive. Whole. For a fleeting moment, it was impossible to believe they’d be marching to Crystalor in only days.

Crystalor…

Rokuro leaned forward suddenly, eyes narrowing at the others. “So. What’s the real story between Crystalor and Emberhold?”

The laughter at the table softened. Yanissa’s beads clicked in her hands as she lowered her gaze.

“All I’ve gotten are half-truths and riddles,” Rokuro pressed. “If you want us fighting for this, we deserve the real one.”

Yanissa’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise around them like steel.

“Very well.” She straightened, and the clutter around them seemed to drown out. “Listen closely…”