The Weight That Doesn’t Move

The Weight That Didn't Move

The workshop reopened on a cold morning after being closed for two weeks.

The door creaked as it swung open, the same old sound that had never truly disappeared. Cool morning air slipped inside, carrying the scent of damp earth and lingering dew.

Inside, nothing had changed.

The iron racks still lined the walls. Hammers hung from the same nails. The steel anvil reflected the pale morning light without a trace of shine. The forge had yet to be lit.

Trod arrived not long afterward, a bucket of water in one hand and a sack of charcoal in the other. He set them down in the corner before standing still for a moment. His gaze swept across the workshop without settling anywhere in particular. Then he moved again.

Zio didn't wait for instructions. He gathered the firewood and stacked it tightly beneath the forge. His hands moved quickly, already familiar with the weight of each log and the space between them.

As the fire caught, warmth slowly spread through the room, pushing the morning chill away from the packed dirt floor.

Not long afterward, the sound of wagon wheels came from outside.

A cart stopped just outside the entrance, a little too close to the doorway. Its frame leaned slightly to one side, and one of its wheels let out a long squeak as the load settled.

A middle-aged man in a worn coat climbed down, grumbling under his breath.

"The wheel needs hammering," he said.

Trod simply nodded. Zio stepped forward to help push the cart. He lifted one side, holding the weight long enough for a wooden block to be wedged underneath.

The muscles in his arms tightened before relaxing as the weight shifted away.

The wheel was removed. The iron rim on the inner side had bent slightly, just enough to make it squeal throughout the journey.

Trod examined it with a brief glance. The iron was placed into the forge. The fire hissed softly as the metal disappeared into the flames.

When it reached the right color, Trod gave a small nod. Zio secured the wheel on the anvil with a pair of iron tongs.

The hammer fell.

Once.

Then again, more precisely.

Zio matched the rhythm without needing to look. Trod rotated the wheel slightly, making sure the opposite side remained even.

The wheel was mounted back onto the cart, and the customer continued on his way.

Zio returned to his usual seat. He had barely settled down when a farmer arrived carrying a hoe with a cracked iron head near its base.

Zio stood again and returned to work.

Not long after that, another villager brought in an axe whose edge had long since gone dull, its blade covered with countless marks from striking bone and wood. Small jobs kept arriving one after another.

The workshop was never empty long enough to truly feel quiet.

Zio moved from one task to the next.

Holding iron. Sharpening blades.

Lifting heavy pieces. Pouring water whenever Trod asked.

The heat clung to his skin. He no longer thought about it.

***

Light footsteps approached the workshop as noon drew near.

Martha stopped at the doorway with a small basket hanging from her arm. She paused for a moment, looking around at the workshop filled with the sounds of work.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you were still closed.”

Trod simply nodded.

Martha turned her eyes toward Zio, looking him over from his hair down to his dirt-stained boots before stepping a little closer.

“So, how was the city?”

Zio didn't answer right away.

“It was busy.”

Martha let out a quiet snort.

“That's all?”

Zio nodded.

Trod glanced toward Martha.

“The wheat's inside.”

“We still have some left from last week,” Martha replied. “Why did you buy more in the city? A merchant caravan from Elen'shade will be passing through soon enough.”

“There was still room on my cart,” Trod answered.

“Fine. Just bring the sacks over to my house.”

“I will.” Trod returned to striking the heated iron.

“I'll carry them,” Zio said.

Martha turned toward him with a smile. Trod lowered his hammer.

“Go ahead.”

Zio walked inside the workshop and returned moments later with a sack of wheat resting across his shoulder.

Martha looked at him.

“Heavy?”

“No.”

“Then let's go.”

She stepped out of the workshop, with Zio following behind. As they walked, Martha occasionally glanced at his arms.

“I didn't realize it,” she said. “You used to be so small.”

Zio said nothing.

Martha opened the door to her house and stepped inside. Zio followed.

The house wasn't large. Just a simple wooden home with a single bedroom, a narrow living area, and a small dining table tucked into the kitchen.

“You can leave it over there,” Martha said.

Zio lowered the sack into the corner of the kitchen before turning to leave.

“Where are you going?” Martha asked, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Back to the workshop.”

Martha let out a quiet sigh.

“It's almost lunchtime anyway. Come eat first. You can bring Trod's meal back afterward.”

Zio glanced toward the still-open door.

“Trod won't scold you,” Martha said.

She brought over a bowl of soup and placed it on the small table.

“Sit.”

They both sat down. Zio ate slowly.

“Do you remember?” Martha asked. “You used to eat here when you were little.”

Zio fell silent, trying to remember.

“I suppose you still don't remember everything,” Martha said with a small laugh. “You only lived in this house until you were about two years old.”

She gave a soft chuckle.

“Then Trod took you in.”

Zio remained quiet.

“Haha... sorry,” Martha said. “Go on. Finish your meal.”

“Aren't you eating, Auntie?” Zio asked.

“I'm still full.”

Martha stood and began packing several bowls along with a loaf of bread into her small basket.

***

Back inside the workshop, Trod was still working. The sound of iron striking iron echoed through the room without pause. The fire in the forge continued to burn. The hammer rose and fell again.

One by one, villagers arrived to collect the tools and equipment that had been repaired. The workshop never stayed quiet for long.

A little while later, Zio returned with a basket in his hand.

Trod glanced at him before setting his hammer down. He let the fire in the forge die to a low flame. Heat still lingered in the brick walls, and the scent of hot iron had yet to fade.

Zio placed the basket on a table in the corner of the workshop.

Trod dipped both hands into a bucket of clean water.

Zio walked toward the rack where the tools waiting for repair had been piled.

“What are you doing?” Trod asked.

Zio turned.

“It's time to eat.”

“I already did.”

“Then eat again.”

Zio shook his head.

Trod let out a quiet grunt.

“Fine. Then let's clean up.”

Zio began putting the scattered tools back in their proper places. He emptied the dirty water from the bucket, walked to the well outside, and returned a few moments later with fresh water.

Trod watched him while eating.

“After this, we're heading behind the workshop.”

“Yeah,” Zio said.

***

The sun had begun its slow descent by the time they stepped out of the workshop.

They stopped on a stretch of packed earth beside the wooden fence. Faint footprints from countless past sessions were still visible across the ground.

Trod bent down and picked up two iron rods from a nearby pile. They were straight, their ends still rough from being cut, though the sides had already been smoothed.

He tossed one toward Zio.

Zio caught it with both hands. Its weight settled into his palms immediately, forcing him to adjust his grip.

“Hold.”

Trod raised the other rod and stepped forward.

The first impact landed with a heavy clang.

Zio held his ground. The vibration traveled from his palms all the way up his arms.

He shifted his footing, adjusted the distance between them, then raised the rod again as Trod advanced.

The next strike came from the side. Not fast, yet without hesitation.

Trod maintained his distance, forcing Zio to read the direction of each attack before lifting his rod to meet it.

Several times, Trod's iron rod struck Zio's arm.

They weren't full-power blows. Just enough to correct his stance.

Zio adjusted his footing and blocked again. His breathing gradually grew heavier. Each breath escaped in short bursts.

The iron rod seemed to grow heavier with every passing minute. Even so, he continued lifting it.

Trod stopped.

“Enough.”

Zio lowered his rod. His shoulders rose and fell with slow breaths. Sweat dripped onto the ground, leaving dark spots in the dust.

“Watch.”

Trod shifted his stance, pressing one heel firmly into the earth.

He stood on a patch of harder ground, its surface worn smooth by years of use. The tip of his iron rod lowered until it touched the earth.

He adjusted his grip. The tip tapped the ground. A brief vibration spread outward.

Zio felt it through the soles of his boots despite standing several steps away.

Trod raised the rod slightly higher before driving its tip into the exact same spot.

The sound was different.

Heavier.

The ground trembled before lifting ever so slightly, then fell still again.

Trod took a breath and looked at him.

“Try.”

Zio stepped forward. He stood where Trod had been, adjusted his footing, and copied the stance as closely as he could.

The iron rod felt cold in his hands. He tapped its tip against the ground.

An ordinary sound.

He tried again, this time harder.

The muscles in his arms tightened as the impact rebounded through the rod, sending a jolt all the way to his elbows.

He inhaled, shifted both feet slightly, then struck again.

The ground remained flat.

Slowly, Zio lowered the rod. His gaze lingered on the same spot where the impacts had left nothing behind.

He tried once more. The result was the same.

Trod stood beside him.

“Enough.”

He walked several steps away. Driving the rod straight into the earth, he buried nearly half of it deep enough to stand on its own.

Trod stepped back. He knelt and placed his palm against the ground.

A few grains of soil near the iron rod moved first, as though something beneath the surface were drawing them together.

The earth slowly swelled upward.

The dry surface cracked as fine lines spread outward in a circle. Bit by bit, the soil rose around the lower half of the rod.

The earth packed itself tightly around the iron, forming a low mound. Trod lifted his hand and stood.

Zio walked over to the embedded rod and wrapped both hands around it.

He pulled once.

It didn't move.

He pulled harder a second time.

His hands trembled. His shoulders leaned forward with the effort.

Still, it refused to budge.

Zio let go and looked at the ground surrounding the rod.

There were no rocks. No roots.

Only earth that somehow looked denser than before.

“That's earth magic,” Trod said. “Now you try.”

Zio drove the other iron rod into the ground nearby. He copied Trod's posture, knelt down, and placed his palm on the earth.

He waited.

Several seconds passed.

The ground remained flat.

Zio pressed harder. His shoulders tightened. His breath caught without him noticing.

The surface quivered faintly as he shifted his weight. The iron rod wobbled, nearly falling over.

Zio pulled his hand away. He sat still for a moment before looking down at his dust-covered palm.

Beside him, Trod remained motionless.

"Show me your hand," Trod said.

Zio stepped closer and held out his palm.

Trod placed his broad hand over it.

“Close your eyes.”

“Picture something hot.”

Zio closed his eyes.

The forge inside the workshop appeared in his mind.

Nothing happened.

Trod fell silent. His gaze briefly dropped to Zio's chest, where the silver chain around his neck caught the fading light.

“Enough,” he said.

Zio stood and picked up the iron rod again. Trod gripped the rod still embedded in the ground.

The earth surrounding it slowly sank until the surface became flat once more. He held the rod with both hands near its ends.

“Push.”

Zio hesitated for a moment before gripping the opposite end with one hand. The weight felt different immediately.

He pushed.

The iron rod vibrated.

His wrist tightened. His shoulders leaned forward.

Trod didn't move. He merely shifted one foot half a step. His heel pressed into the earth. His grip remained loose. There wasn't the slightest tension in his shoulders.

“Again.”

Zio drew a breath and pushed harder. The muscles in his arms tightened. His breathing came in short bursts. The rod shifted slightly in his hands. His balance wavered before he managed to steady himself.

Trod remained exactly where he was.

“Again.”

Zio stepped forward and drove his weight into the push.

The two iron rods met.

The impact rang out with a short, solid clang.

The returning force slammed directly into Zio's shoulders and chest.

Trod remained unmoving.

Zio pushed harder. His arms strained. His breathing grew shorter. The iron rod trembled in his hands.

Trod slid one foot backward.

The pressure changed.

Zio nearly lost his balance. His heel slipped, peeling away a thin layer of dirt beneath his boot.

"Don't chase the rod," Trod said.

“Chase your footing.”

Zio steadied his breathing before pushing once more.

Without either of them noticing, the sun had sunk even lower.

Trod was the first to lower his arms. He rested his iron rod against the ground and let go.

Standing a few steps away, he watched as Zio's breathing slowly returned to normal.

“That's enough for today,” Trod said.

Zio remained where he stood. His shoulders rose and fell with slow breaths. Sweat soaked his temples and neck, yet his hands still gripped the iron rod firmly.

“Come.”

Trod walked toward the small training ground behind the workshop.

Several thick wooden posts stood there. Some leaned to one side. Others were covered with years of old impact marks. It was a place that had once been used often before gradually falling silent.

He stopped beside one of the posts.

“Starting tomorrow,” Trod said without turning around, “you'll use this.”

Zio followed his gaze.

“In the mornings, train by yourself,” Trod continued.

He turned halfway toward him.

“If there's work at the workshop, help out. If there isn't, go to the forest.”

“You can head home now.”

Zio nodded once.

Trod walked back toward the workshop.

Zio remained standing in the training ground for a little while longer, quietly looking at the weathered wooden posts.

Then he gently laid the iron rod on the ground and started walking home.

His footsteps gradually faded along the dirt road, leaving the workshop quiet once again.

***

Trod sat on the bench in front of the workshop. Not long afterward, Martha arrived.

“Has Zio gone home already?”

“He has,” Trod replied.

“He left early. Right after training.”

Martha gave a small nod.

“You were teaching him magic?” she finally asked.

Trod nodded.

“Yeah.”

“I only demonstrated the technique.”

“So... what affinity does he have?”

Trod shook his head.

“Earth didn't work.”

Martha let out a quiet breath.

“Most human children his age can already use basic magic.”

“At the very least, fire magic.” She fell silent for a moment.

Trod didn't answer right away.

“It's not the element,” he said after a while.

“He can't use mana at all.”

Silence settled between them.

Martha looked toward Zio's house. For a brief moment, her thoughts drifted back to that cold night years ago.

“That pendant...” she murmured.

“Yeah,” Trod replied quietly.

“I've been thinking about it too.”

His gaze dropped to the ground before slowly lifting again. Neither of them said another word.

At last, Martha turned and walked away from the workshop.

Trod remained where he was, sitting in silence as night slowly settled over Greyhollow.