The Weight That Doesn’t Move

Chapter 8 - The Weight That Doesn’t Move

The workshop opened again on a cold morning.

The door creaked, an old sound that never truly disappeared. Outside air slipped in with the smell of damp soil and lingering dew. Inside, the workshop was unchanged. Iron racks clung to the walls, hammers hung from the same nails, and the steel anvil reflected pale light without shine.

The fire was not lit yet.

Trod arrived not long after. A bucket of water in one hand, charcoal in the other. He set them down in the corner, then stood still for a moment, his gaze sweeping across the workspace without settling on any one point. Then he moved, as if the decision had already been made.

Zio did not wait for instructions.

He took firewood and stacked it low and tight. His hands moved quickly, used to the weight and spacing. When the fire caught, the heat rose slowly, pushing the chill from the packed earth floor.

Not long after, the sound of wheels came from outside.

A cart stopped too close to the door. Its frame leaned slightly. One wheel squealed as the load was lowered. The owner, a middle-aged man in a worn coat, climbed down while half-complaining, half-joking.

“The wheel needs a beating,” he said.

Trod gave a short nod.

Zio helped push the cart inside. The wood was heavier than it looked. He lifted one side, holding the weight long enough for a support block to slide underneath. His arms tensed, then relaxed once the weight shifted.

The wheel was removed. The metal was bent on the inner side. Not cracked, just enough to make noise all along the road.

Trod examined it briefly.
“Beat it back.”

Zio already had the hammer.

The metal was heated. The fire hissed softly as the iron went in. When the color changed, Trod gave a small signal with his chin. Zio held the wheel with tongs over the anvil.

The hammer fell.

Once.
Then again, more precise.

Zio followed the rhythm without needing to look. When Trod stopped, he rotated the wheel slightly, making sure the other side was even.

The cart left before the workshop had time to grow quiet.

A farmer came with a hoe, its metal head cracked at the base. After that, a hunter brought a dull axe, its blade scarred with bone and wood. Small jobs, arriving one after another. The workshop was never empty long enough to feel silent.

Zio moved from place to place. Holding iron. Sharpening. Lifting. Pouring water when asked. Heat clung to his skin, but he no longer thought about it.

Near midday, light footsteps sounded at the front.

Martha stood in the doorway, a small basket hanging at her waist. She paused, watching the workshop filled with sound and motion.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought it was still closed.”

Trod only nodded.

Martha glanced at Zio, from his hair to his dirt-stained boots.
“You’re back already?”
Her tone was flat, as if the answer did not matter much.

“Yes.”

She stepped a little closer.
“How was the city?”
Then, almost as an afterthought, “Big?”

Zio thought for a moment.
“Crowded.”

Martha gave a small snort.
“Figures.”
She shifted her basket. “Come by later. I’m making soup. If you have time.”

She turned away before the workshop could respond.

The work did not stop.

Someone came just to fix a joint on a hoe handle. Others waited on the stones outside the workshop, talking half-seriously. The sound of iron meeting iron continued to fill the space.

Zio poured water over a heated blade. Steam rose quickly, then vanished. His hands ached, but stayed steady. He wiped his sleeve across his brow and returned to his place.

The fire burned. The hammer fell again.
The work in the workshop slowed without ever truly stopping.

The fire was left low. The hammer was rarely lifted now. One by one, the people who had come earlier left after their business was done. Heat still clung to the walls, and the smell of iron had not fully faded.

Zio hung the last tool on the rack. He shook out his hands briefly, loosening stiff fingers, then lifted the water bucket back to the corner.

Trod watched him, then spoke shortly.
“To the side.”

They stepped out through the workshop door and stopped at the packed earth beside the wooden fence. Old footprints were faintly visible on the surface.

Trod bent down and pulled two iron rods from the stack of raw materials. They were straight, unsharpened, their ends still rough from cutting.

He tossed one to Zio.

The weight hit immediately. Zio caught it with both hands, adjusting his grip.

“Hold it,” Trod said.

He took the other rod and stepped forward once.

The first impact sounded dull.

Zio absorbed the push. The vibration traveled from his palms into his arms. He shifted his footing, adjusted the distance, then raised the rod again as Trod moved once more.

The next strike came from the side. Not fast, not hesitant. Trod kept his distance, forcing Zio to read the direction before lifting his rod.

Several times, Trod’s iron rod struck Zio’s arm. Not full blows, just enough to correct his position. Zio adjusted his stance and held again.

His breathing grew heavier. Air left his mouth in short bursts. The iron rod felt heavier as time passed, but it stayed raised.

Trod stopped first.

“Enough.”

Zio lowered the rod, his shoulders rising and falling slowly. Sweat dripped to the ground, leaving dark spots in the dust.

“Watch,” Trod said.

He shifted his footing, pressing his heel into the ground.
He stopped on harder earth, worn smooth by years of use. The iron rod in his hand slid until its tip touched the ground.

He set his stance.
The rod tapped down.

The vibration was short. Zio felt it through the soles of his feet from several steps back.

Trod lifted the rod slightly higher, then drove the tip into the same spot.

The sound was different. Heavier. The ground shuddered briefly before going still.

Trod drew a breath, then looked back.
“Try.”

Zio stepped forward.

He stood in the same place, adjusted his footing, copied Trod’s position as best he could. The iron rod in his hands felt cold.

He tapped its tip against the ground.

A normal sound.

Zio tried again, harder this time. His arm muscles tightened. The impact rebounded, the vibration shooting up to his elbow.

He inhaled, shifted his feet slightly, then swung again.

The ground stayed flat.

Zio lowered the rod slowly. His gaze lingered on the spot where the impact left nothing behind.

He tried once more.
The result was the same.

Trod stood beside him.
“Enough.”

Trod walked several steps away.

He drove the iron rod straight down. The tip sank halfway in, deep enough to stand on its own, but still able to wobble.

Trod stepped aside.

He knelt and placed his palm against the ground.

Nothing happened at first.

A few grains of dirt near the rod shifted first, almost as if pulled. The surface bulged gently, not sharply rising, just pushed up from below. Dry dust cracked, fine fractures spreading outward in a circle.

The earth rose bit by bit, covering the lower part of the iron rod.

The metal that had been visible now sank past ankle height. The soil pressed in tight, forming a low mound around it.

Trod lifted his hand.

The iron rod remained standing.

Zio stepped closer and gripped it. He pulled once. It did not move. He pulled harder the second time. His hands trembled, his shoulder dragged forward.

Still no movement.

Zio let go and stared at the ground around the rod. No stones. No roots. Just soil that now looked denser than before.

Trod stood.

“Now you,” he said.

Zio drove the other iron rod into the ground nearby. Shallower. He copied Trod’s position, knelt, and placed his palm on the earth.

He waited.

Several seconds passed. The ground stayed 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, then nearly fell.

Zio pulled his hand away.

He sat still for a moment, then looked at his palm, still dirty with dust.

Beside him, Trod did not move.

Trod’s gaze dropped briefly to Zio’s chest, to the silver chain rising and falling with his breath.

“Enough,” he said.

Zio stood and picked up the rod again.

Trod took the rod he had planted.

He held it at the middle with one hand. The lower end touched nothing. His posture was relaxed, feet set shoulder-width apart.

“Push,” he said.

Zio hesitated briefly, then gripped the end of the rod with one hand. The weight felt different immediately. The pull was not straight, more like it wanted to drag his arm down.

He pushed.

The rod vibrated. His wrist tightened. His shoulder leaned forward.

Trod did not move.

He only shifted one foot half a step, his heel pressing into the ground. His grip stayed loose. There was no tension in his shoulders.

“Again.”

Zio inhaled and pushed harder. His arm muscles tightened. His breath came out short.

The rod slid slightly in his hand. Zio’s balance wavered before he caught himself.

Trod stayed in the same place.

“Push.”

Zio stepped forward and pressed.

The two iron rods met. The sound was short and solid. Pressure from the front hit immediately, pushing back into Zio’s shoulder and chest.

Trod did not move.

Zio added more force. His arms strained, his breathing shortened. The rod in his hand vibrated, the tremor crawling into his wrist.

Trod shifted one foot back, just slightly.

The pressure changed.

Zio nearly lost his balance. His heel slid, the ground under his boot peeling away in a thin layer.

“Don’t chase the iron,” Trod said. “Chase your footing.”

Zio held his breath and lowered his center of gravity. He pushed again, slower this time. Not as strong, but steadier.

The pressure held for a moment, then stopped.

Trod pulled his rod back.

“Again.”

The training stopped without warning.

Trod lowered his arm first. He set the iron rod against the ground, then let go. He stood several steps from Zio, watching his breathing slowly settle.

“Enough,” he said.

Zio still stood in place. His shoulders rose and fell gently. Sweat clung to his temples and neck, but his hand still gripped the iron rod steadily.

Trod walked toward the small clearing behind the workshop.

Several old wooden posts stood there. Some leaned, others were covered in old impact marks. A place once often used, then gradually abandoned.

He stopped near one of them.

“Starting tomorrow,” Trod said without turning, “you use those.”

Zio followed his gaze.

“Mornings, you train on your own,” Trod continued.
“Like today.”

He turned halfway. “If there’s work at the workshop, help. If not, go to the forest.”

“You can go home now,” Trod added.

Zio nodded once.

There was no sense of being dismissed. Nor of being sent away.
Just a small change in how the day would be lived.

Trod walked back toward the workshop. Zio stood a little longer in the clearing, looking at the wooden posts, then carefully lowered the iron rod to the ground.

The training for that day was over.

Zio left first.

His footsteps faded along the dirt road, leaving the workshop quiet again. The iron rods had been returned to their place. The ground beside the fence still held the marks of training.

Martha arrived not long after.

She stopped at the workshop entrance. “Has Zio gone home?”

“Yes,” Trod replied.
“He left early. After training.”

Martha gave a small nod. She did not speak right away.

“Fire magic?” she asked at last.

Trod shook his head. “Not yet.”

Martha exhaled softly. “Usually, human children his age can already use basic magic. Fire, at least.” She paused. “Could it be that his affinity isn’t fire?”

Trod did not answer immediately. “It’s not about the element,” he said after a moment. “More precisely… he hasn’t been able to use his mana.”

Silence settled between them.

Martha looked toward the house where a light was still on. Her thoughts drifted briefly, far back to that cold day.

“The pendant,” she murmured.

“Yes,” Trod replied quietly. “I’ve been wondering about that too.” He looked down at the ground, then lifted his gaze again.
“Whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing for him.”

Nothing more was said.

Martha finally turned away, leaving the workshop behind. Trod remained where he was, standing still as night slowly fell.