"Enough!"

The argument cut off.

A thin figure shoved the door open and hurried away, head down.

"Sam!"

Before Roland could react, a second, burlier man filled the doorway.

Sean waved at him, delighted.

"Pey—"

The man spared the two boys a glance, then took off after the first and vanished around the end of the street.

"Uh..."

Sean lowered his hand and rubbed his nose.

"That second one was my uncle Peyton."

"Mm..."

"Anyway... let's go in first."

He pulled Roland inside.

The furnishings were plain, but everything was clean and squared away.

"Sean, where's your father?"

"This hour? Selling meat at the shop..."

Sean shut the door and dropped the bundle onto the wooden table with a dull thud.

"So..."

He stared at it.

"What is this thing, exactly?"

Roland glanced around. Satisfied the house was empty, he stretched and tipped his chin at the table.

"Open it and see."

"So mysterious..."

Grumbling, Sean pulled the wrapping away.

The cloth fell open on three iron swords, and his puzzlement froze into open shock.

"Heavenly Father above!"

He grabbed one by the hilt and hoisted it high, eyes stretched wide.

He stood gaping for a long moment before turning that stunned look on Roland.

"Bu... buddy, this... this is an iron sword?"

His voice shook.

"I assume there's nothing wrong with your eyes."

Roland shrugged, amused.

"No, I mean—"

Sean swung it a few times. The cold weight of the metal confirmed it was real. He hugged the blade to his chest.

"Where did you get it?"

"Forged it myself, obviously."

Sean didn't doubt him—but that easy answer stung a little.

They studied under the same Hawk, and he hadn't even mastered basic forging, while Roland was already turning out finished weapons.

The gap was just...

"Tsk. Sometimes the difference between two people is bigger than the difference between a person and a dog," he muttered.

Then again—this genius was his best brother.

The gloom blew away on the spot.

He clutched the sword, mouth spreading into a helpless grin, and petted the blade for a good while before wrapping it back up with visible reluctance.

"You planning to sell it?"

He hesitated.

"My old man says if you're not in the Blacksmith Guild, selling tools and weapons privately is illegal..."

"But I can ask around at the tavern. There might be other channels."

Warmth spread through Roland's chest.

When he had first arrived in this world, his scrawny body had made him an easy target for the other trainee boys.

Every time, Sean had stepped in. And in the days after, Sean had looked out for him.

Without that, Roland might never have had the peace to throw himself into his skills, let alone become a Blacksmith Apprentice and stand out from the pack.

For that alone, one iron sword didn't begin to cover the debt.

"Why wrap it back up? Isn't your birthday in a few months?"

Roland's mouth curved.

"That's a gift. Made specially for you."

"A gi... gift? For me?"

Sean's pupils shrank. The usual loud carelessness deserted him entirely.

He stroked the blade with exaggerated care, stammering.

"This... this is too valuable... I've never bought a weapon, but an iron sword like this has to be worth..."

"All right, all right."

Brooking no argument, Roland stepped up and pressed the sword into his arms.

"Weren't you the one who said it? We're best brothers."

"Best brothers..."

Sean turned the words over, then nodded hard, eyes shining.

"That's right! We're best brothers!"

He roared with laughter and crushed Roland in a bear hug that set his bones creaking.

"Easy... easy..."

Roland pried himself loose and held up a warning finger.

"No matter who asks—even your father or your uncle—you don't tell anyone I forged these. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

Sean threw an imitation of an estate guard's salute, then went back to playing with the sword, unable to set it down.

Only then did he notice the other object in the bundle.

"Buddy? What's this?"

"That..."

Roland eyed the iron plate in Sean's hand—two cloth straps dangling from it—and the corner of his eye twitched.

He took a breath, composed himself, and stepped forward.

"Look..."

He tied the crude heart guard over the left side of Sean's chest.

"At the least, it can stop a killing blow aimed at your heart."

"So that's what it's for!"

Sean flicked the plate with a finger, drawing a crisp ding, then set to pounding Roland's shoulder.

"Buddy! You're a forging genius!"

"Genius?"

Roland gave a pained smile and shook his head.

"All right, Sean... put the... uh... protective gear away."

They had just finished tidying up when heavy footsteps approached the door.

Peyton pushed it open, face like a thundercloud.

In the full daylight, Roland finally got a proper look at him.

Sharp eyes glinted from deep sockets beneath a high, hooked nose. His angular face might have been carved with a blade, and set on that burly frame, the whole of him radiated quiet pressure.

"Uncle Peyton, I'm back!"

Sean called out happily.

"This is Roland—the one I told you about!"

Without looking up, Peyton grunted something that might have been a greeting, then fished a small wooden barrel out from under the counter.

The oak stopper came free, and a sour-fruit tang of liquor filled the room.

He tipped his head back and took several long pulls, Adam's apple working. Liquor ran from the corner of his mouth and hung in droplets off his thick beard.

He swiped his chin with a sleeve, and his mouth twisted into something between a smile and a smirk.

"What's this, Sean? The noble master toss you out for lack of talent?"

"Not at all. Tomorrow's the Heavenly Father's celebration, so Mr. Hawk gave us a holiday."

Sean seemed long inured to the mockery.

Mind still on his new sword, he pressed on eagerly.

"Uncle Peyton, teach us some swordsmanship!"

"Us?"

Peyton's eyebrow went up, barrel pausing in midair.

"Yes..."

Sean nodded fast, jabbing a thumb at his own broad chest, then patting Roland's thin shoulder.

"You know once the celebration ends, Lord Beckham is recruiting soldiers to cull the monsters in the Black Fir Forest. I want to enlist... but all I've got is brute strength..."

He scratched his head, sheepish.

"As for Roland..."

Feeling Peyton's measuring stare, Roland produced a modest smile at just the right moment.

"Uncle Peyton, I'm interested in swordsmanship as well."

"Heh..."

Peyton chuckled and set the barrel down.

"Convenient. Other weapons aren't my strength, but sword work—that I know a thing or two about. Teaching you isn't out of the question. However..."

His eyes narrowed into an old fox's smile.

"What are you paying for tuition?"

"Tuition?!"

Sean's eyes went round.

"Uncle, I'm your own nephew!"

"Don't give me that!"

Peyton took another pull of liquor and belched with satisfaction.

"You know what those retired soldiers at the training ground charge?"

He held up one calloused finger.

"Ten silver coins a month!"

Then, with a great show of family feeling, he dropped his voice.

"But since we're kin... for you, five silver. How about it?"