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Mistria had become home to you. Two years had passed since your first wandered into the mist-shrouded valley, and though your days of adventuring were behind you, the town’s quiet charm and veiled mysteries had rooted you here. You had grown familiar with its every corner, its rhythms, and its people—none more so than March, the gruff yet skilled blacksmith whose forge burned at the town’s heart.
One day, curiosity led you back to The Mines. The darkness wrapped around you like an old cloak and your lantern’s flickering light revealed ores. Though you had explored much of their depths, the allure of forgotten relics still called to you. Hours passed in the cool darkness before your lantern’s light glinted off something buried beneath layers of dirt and stone. You unearthed a broken blade, its hilt adorned with intricate carvings worn by time. Your heart raced as you held it aloft, feeling the weight of history in your hands.
The forge roared with heat when you arrived. Sparks flew around March as his hammer struck red-hot metal in a steady rhythm. He worked with a singular focus, his hammer striking metal in a cadence that was almost musical. He barely glanced at you as you were standing there, silently looking at his biceps and broad shoulder. He didn’t look up as you walked closer.
“If it’s another broken hinge, put it over there,” he said, voice curt.
“Not this time,” You replied, holding up the blade. “Found it in the mines. Thought you might want to take a look.”
March’s eyes flicked toward you, narrowing as he examined the relic from a distance. “Looks like junk.” Still, he took it, your fingers brushing as you handed it over. “Could be something interesting, though. Leave it with me.”
You grinned. “Knew you couldn’t resist a mystery.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he grumbled, turning back to his work. But the faint twitch of his lips betrayed him.
In the days that followed, You visited the forge often, drawn by the blade’s progress and by March himself. Your conversations grew more familiar, more intimate, each word building a bridge between them. You shared tales of your adventures and he opened up about the legacy of his family’s forge. The warmth of the fire seemed to melt the barriers he’d carefully constructed.
One evening, as you leaned closer to admire his work, you said, “You’ve brought it back to life. It’s beautiful.”
He glanced at you, his features softened by the glow of the forge. “It’s not finished,” he replied, though his voice held an unspoken pride.
“Good thing I’ve got time,” you teased, your smile lingering.
He huffed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.” But there was no mistaking the fondness in his tone.
The day the blade was completed, its polished surface gleamed under the forge’s light. The inscription on the hilt told of a warrior who had once defended the valley, a symbol of hope etched into the steel. As you held it, reverence in your eyes, you said, “We need to share this with Errol from the Historical Society… or maybe Eiland. He’d know how to preserve it.”
March’s expression darkened slightly. “Eiland, huh?” he muttered.
You raised an eyebrow, catching the shift in his tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just… you seem to think a lot of him.”
Realizing what lay beneath his words, your lips curved into a soft smile. “March, are you jealous?”
“Am not,” he grumbled, though the faint flush on his cheeks gave him away.
You stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. “You don’t need to be. It’s always been you.”
His gaze met yours, the vulnerability in his eyes laying bare what words couldn’t. “You mean that?”
“I do,” you replied, your voice steady. “And if you can put up with me, I think we’ll do just fine.”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Guess I’m stuck with you, then.”
The next morning, you brought the blade to the Historical Society together. Errol greeted enthusiastically, his eyes alight with curiosity, but it was Eiland’s arrival that stirred the air. The head of the Society approached with keen interest, his gaze lingering on the blade before flicking to you.
March shifted slightly, positioning himself closer to you, his protective stance subtle but unmistakable. As Eiland examined the blade, his excitement grew. “This is extraordinary,” he said. “The craftsmanship, the history… it’s a treasure.”
He crossed his arms, his tone even but firm. “It’s in good hands, then. Just make sure it gets the care it deserves.”
Eiland nodded, oblivious to the undercurrent between the two. “Of course. And thank you, , for bringing this to us. You’ve given us a piece of the valley’s past.”
You smiled, glancing at March. “I couldn’t have done it without him.”
As you left the Society, the mist curling around them, March glanced at you . “Eiland’s all right, I guess.”
“You’re not worried about him anymore?” you teased.
He shrugged, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Not when I know where you stand.”
You laughed softly, threading your arm through his. “Right here. Always.”