*Clang! Clang!*
From inside a small wooden house at the edge of town came the steady ringing of hammer on anvil—bright, stubborn sounds that refused to let the night sleep.
"Are you still not done?" an old voice barked over the din. "It's a single piece of iron—enh!"
The hammer paused only long enough for the apprentice to suck in air. "Ahh, stop nagging, will you, old man? You know forging takes a lot of energy, and you don't even feed me well."
A dry chuckle answered from the doorway. In the thin moonlight stood Granny Iya—stooped, wrapped in a faded shawl, hair like coiled smoke. Her eyes, though, were sharp enough to cut steel.
"Fine," she said. "Finish in the next twenty minutes and you'll get three plates of food instead of the usual two."
Hearing that, the hammering immediately sped up, turning into a rapid storm of metal on metal.
"Hah!" Granny Iya muttered. "What a gluttonous apprentice. No wonder you were pushed into the smithy at such a young age."
Inside, heat breathed from the forge like a living thing. The little workshop was cramped—walls lined with tongs, chisels, scraps of half-made blades. The air smelled of charcoal and sweat, and each time the bellows sighed, orange sparks leapt up like fireflies trying to escape.
The apprentice—Zion—was not quite a man and no longer a child. He wore shorts and a sweat-damp shirt that clung to him, showing more muscle than his age should have allowed. His face was ordinary, the kind you'd forget in a crowd, but his eyes were the color of fresh-cut obsidian and held a restlessness that didn't belong in a quiet town.
He set the iron on the anvil and struck again.
*Clang!*
A spark kissed his wrist and died. Zion didn't even flinch.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
At the twentieth minute, Zion delivered a final blow, satisfied with the clean line of the edge he'd been shaping. He set the hammer down, chest rising and falling fast, and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist.
"Hey, Granny," he called, voice rough with heat. "I'm done. Where's my food?"
Granny Iya shuffled in, squinting at the glowing metal. She made a small sound—approval disguised as irritation. "You didn't ruin it. Miracles do happen."
Zion grinned. "So?"
"So," she echoed, turning away toward the small cooking pot by the wall, "you'll eat when I say you'll eat."
He groaned loudly. "That wasn't the deal!"
"The deal," she said, "was three plates *if you finished*. You finished. The plates still have to exist."
Zion huffed and flopped onto a wooden stool. His muscles ached in the satisfying way they always did after forging—the ache of work that made sense.
Granny Iya ladled stew into a bowl, then another, then another—thick yam and pepper, the kind that warmed your bones and made you forget the world outside.
Zion's eyes followed the bowls like a starving cat.
Granny Iya didn't hand them over immediately. She set them down, one by one, like she was placing weights on a scale.
"Zion," she said at last, casual in a way that made his skin prickle, "how long until your awakening?"
He froze halfway to the first bowl. "Enh? In a few months. Three, to be exact." Zion squinted. "Why?"
"Oh, nothing." She stirred the pot again. "Just making sure you're still on time."
"On time for what?"
Granny Iya gave him a look that said *don't push me*. Zion, being Zion, pushed anyway.
"Granny," he insisted, "what are you talking about?"
She didn't answer directly. Instead, she wiped her hands on her shawl and leaned her back against the wall, eyes fixed on the forge fire.
"In a month," she said, "I'll be leaving on a long journey. I probably won't be coming back to this town for a long time."
Zion's stomach dropped so fast it stole his appetite in an instant. "Enh!" He stood up so quickly the stool scraped the floor. "Where are you going? And why won't you come back?"
Granny Iya's mouth twitched, like the beginning of a chuckle that couldn't quite become one.
Where an going? Chuckle if I tell you you won't understand
Zion's hands tightened into fists. "Try me."
For a moment the only sound was the soft crackle of coal. The forge light painted Granny Iya's face in gold and shadow, and Zion realized something he'd never admitted before:
She wasn't just an old smith living in a small town.
She was someone hiding in plain sight.
Granny Iya reached beneath her shawl and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in worn cloth. She didn't offer it immediately—she hesitated, as if the air itself might be listening.
"When you were a baby," she said quietly, "you didn't cry the first time I held you."
Zion frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Most babies cry," she continued, voice steady. "Not because they're weak—because the world is loud, and new lungs hate it. But you… you looked at me." Her eyes sharpened. "Like you recognized something."
Zion swallowed. The room suddenly felt colder despite the fire.
Granny Iya placed the bundle on the anvil.
"Open it," she said.
Zion hesitated, then unwrapped the cloth. Inside lay a small piece of black metal—too dark, too clean, like it had swallowed every bit of light that touched it. Fine markings ran across it, faint as hairline cracks.
"What is this?" Zion asked.
"A veil," Granny Iya said. "Not for your eyes. For the world's."
Zion stared. "I don't understand."
"You're not supposed to," she replied. "Not yet."
He reached out anyway.
The instant his fingers touched the black metal, the markings flared—quietly, not bright like fire but *present*, like an unseen symbol rising to the surface of reality. A cold sting raced up Zion's arm and vanished as quickly as it came.
Zion jerked his hand back, heart hammering. "Granny—what is that?!"
Granny Iya's gaze hardened. "It's the reason you've been allowed to live like an ordinary boy."
Zion's breath caught. "Allowed?"
She nodded once. "You think you were born by chance, Zion?"
Zion didn't answer. He couldn't.
Granny Iya stepped closer, lowering her voice. "There are existences the world produces the way a storm produces lightning. Not because anyone wants it—because it *must* happen. Because the balance demands it."
Zion's throat went dry. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying…" Granny Iya paused, as if choosing words that wouldn't break him too early. "You are an existence that should be born. A necessary one."
Zion stared at her, the forge fire blurring at the edges of his vision. "Necessary for what?"
Granny Iya's expression softened for only a heartbeat.
"Necessary," she said, "for the kind of change that terrifies those who profit from the world staying the same."
Zion looked back at the black metal on the anvil. He could still feel its cold bite lingering in his palm.
"And that thing," he whispered, "it hides me?"
"It hides what you are," Granny Iya corrected. "It dulls the scent. It bends attention away. It makes you… overlookable."
Zion's jaw tightened. "So you've been lying to me."
"I've been protecting you," she said, sharp as a blade. "Don't confuse the two."
He took a step back, shaking his head. "Then why tell me now?"
Granny Iya's eyes flicked to the small window, to the darkness outside the forge.
"Because I won't be here forever," she said. "And because your awakening is close."
Zion's voice cracked despite his effort. "So you're leaving because of me."
Granny Iya didn't deny it. She only wrapped the black metal again and pushed it toward him.
"Keep it," she said. "Always."
Zion didn't take it at first. Then he did—carefully, like it was hot, even though it was cold enough to make his skin ache.
"What happens when I awaken?" he asked.
Granny Iya's gaze sharpened again, and Zion felt it like pressure on his ribs.
"You'll learn," she said, "whether the world can continue pretending you're ordinary."
Zion's grip tightened on the bundle. "And if it can't?"
A faint smile—grim, not kind—touched Granny Iya's mouth.
"Then you'll finally understand," she said, "why I said you wouldn't understand where I'm going."
The forge popped. A single spark floated up, and for a second it looked like a tiny star trying to escape.
Granny Iya turned back to the bowls of stew and, with deliberate calm, slid the first one toward Zion.
"Eat," she ordered. "You'll need your strength. Tomorrow, we start earlier."
Zion stared at the food, then at the wrapped black metal in his hands.
His appetite was gone.
But the night outside felt wider than it had before—like something out there had noticed a small change, and was simply waiting to see what came next.