Chapter Text
France, 1185
The morning air was a blade, cold and merciless. Though no snow fell from the ashen sky, the breath of winter lay heavy upon the village. The wind hummed through the crooked lanes, carrying with it a strange stillness—an absence of voices, of laughter, of life itself.
A man of labor, broad of shoulder and weathered of face, made his way toward a lonely stead on the outskirts. His step was brisk, yet tinged with unease. The dwelling, like the rest of the village, seemed hollow—bereft of warmth, its silence deeper than the cold.
He stopped before the door and called out, voice ringing in the emptiness.
“Balian!”
The wind swallowed the name, so he called again, louder.
“Balian!”
At last, the door creaked open. A youth appeared—grown in stature yet still carrying the air of one untested by years.
“Yes, Master?” the boy asked from the threshold.
“What of your master?” The man’s tone was clipped. “Is he still drowning in his grief?”
“Yes, Master,” the boy answered.
The man’s jaw tightened. “When will it end? A month has passed since the storm, and the church yet stands broken. No repairs have been done. All work has ceased, and the village suffers for it.”
“I do not blame him,” the boy said quietly. “He fears God’s judgement… his wife took her own life.”
The man’s face hardened further. “And do you think her death weighs lightly upon me? Upon any of us? We all mourn her passing—but his mourning has chained him in place, and the village will pay the price.”
The boy lowered his gaze in reluctant agreement.
The man exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the frosted air. “Listen to me, lad. Find him. He is the only man here in whom we place our trust. Look about you—see how the houses sag, how the fields lie bare? God blesses the hands that work. But what blessing lies upon a man who will not rise?”
A gust cut through them, sharp as steel.
“Find him, boy,” the man said, his voice low but urgent. “Our lives may well depend on it.”
Turning without another word, he strode away into the grey light. The boy lingered but a moment before stepping into the road, his path set for the hill beyond the village.
Upon that hill lay the dead—rows of wooden crosses leaning against the wind. There, beside one grave newly turned, sat Balian. His hands rested idly upon his knees, his eyes fixed on the mound of earth. The wind stirred his hair, but he did not stir himself.
The boy approached from behind and spoke softly. “Master…”
Balian gave no answer.
“Master,” the boy continued, “old Guillaume seeks you. He says the tools you mended must be repaired again.”
Balian’s head turned slightly, his voice low. “They were repaired well enough.”
“He says they were… yet he asks again.”
No reply came. Balian turned back toward the grave.
The boy’s face softened, pity in his eyes. “Master, the village needs you. Without your hand, it will fall into ruin.”
“They may find another hand,” Balian said.
The boy stepped between him and the grave, crouching low to meet his gaze. “Master, you must let go. I know the weight of losing one you love. But think—what of the others who live?”
Balian’s eyes rose to his, hollow and unflinching. “I live only for her.” His voice was cold, stripped of hope.
Something in the boy’s restraint broke. He stood abruptly, anger sharpening his words. “Then why not join her?” The question struck the air like iron upon stone.
Balian looked up, startled, but the flare in his expression quickly faded. His gaze returned to the earth.
“God will not allow it,” he murmured. “…Nor is there need. I am already condemned… to live.”
The boy stood in silence, his breath quick in the winter air. Knowing he could say no more, he turned and walked away.
Balian did not watch him go. His eyes remained fixed upon the grave, and the wind answered in place of words.
Days Later…
The village lay as it had—cold, hollow, and voiceless since the death of Balian’s wife. The hour stood on the edge of night; the sun hung low, bleeding its last light into the clouds. From beyond the fields came the sound of hooves—slow at first, then rising, until the winter air shook with the neighing of horses.
Seven riders emerged upon the road from the forest. Their bearing was not of merchants or pilgrims, but of men accustomed to command. Steel glinted faintly at their sides; their cloaks, frayed from long roads, bore crosses stitched in fading thread. Their eyes held the purpose of men who rode far for a reason.
“Crusaders! Crusaders!” voices whispered among the huts, the villagers parting to watch.
At their head rode a knight of imposing frame. He sat tall in the saddle, his surcoat plain save for the dust of many leagues. His face was marked by deep lines, weathered by sun and wind; a coarse grey stubble shadowed his jaw. His gaze was hard as iron, yet behind it flickered something, searching.
He drew his mount to a halt in the village’s center. The reins creaked in his gauntleted hand.
“Cold…”
he murmured, his breath clouding before him.
A tall, broad-shouldered knight bearing the black mantle of the Hospitaller dismounted nearby and stepped closer.
“Not been cold since the holy land?”
“Richness was desert hot.” the elder knight replied, glancing sidelong at him. “But beginnings were always cold.”
The Hospitaller gave a faint, knowing smile. “This village must be the beginning then.”
“Perhaps,” the elder knight said, letting his eyes sweep over the sagging roofs and empty lanes. “The village lost a warmth of love.”
Without ceremony, the riders turned toward the tavern—low-roofed, smoke curling weakly from its chimney. They entered and claimed a long table near the hearth.
The Hospitaller leaned back, surveying the room as he removed his gloves. “Apparently, the village has seen better days.”
“Quite different from the villages we’ve passed…” a squire said, his voice gravelled from years of shouting in battle.
Their bread was coarse, their ale thin, yet they ate without complaint.
“A dead one,” muttered one of the season men, scarred across the cheek. “No different from those from the holy land, after a siege.”
Another shook his head. “It’s a hopeless wind; there’s no telling what would their fates be.”
“Fates,” the Hospitaller said softly. “That yearns for a better tomorrow.”
One of them looked toward their leader. “What do you think, Godfrey? You think a village like this would bring life after the cold winter?”
Godfrey set down his knife and lifted his gaze, the firelight catching in his eyes.
“A dead village will stay dead… if they chose to be…” His voice carried the weight of years. “My time here… was colder… never felt the warmth of fire.”
He paused, then allowed the shadow of a smile. “But when there is no fire, men must make their own.”
The table fell silent, each man taking in the words before returning to his meal. The only sounds were the crackle of the hearth and the low murmur of the tavern-keeper at the bar.
Godfrey spoke once more, his voice quieter but sharper for it. “That is… if God grants them His grace.”
Again, silence settled. The men ate, each lost in thought. Outside, the night claimed the village, and the Crusaders took their rest beneath the roof of strangers, the cold wind scratching at the shutters until dawn.
The Next day…
Godfrey and the Hospitaller walked the muddy lane of the village, their dark cloaks stirring faintly in the morning wind. Among the common folk, their presence was like that of kings among shepherds—every head turned, every pair of eyes lingering with awe and curiosity.
They came to the humble stead where Balian lodged. The Hospitaller stepped ahead, his boots crunching softly in the frost. Before he could knock, the door opened of its own accord.
There stood the boy, the same who had spoken with the villagers days before. His eyes widened at the sight of the knight in black mantle and white cross.
“Is there aught I may do for you, master knight?” he asked, his tone carefully polite.
The Hospitaller offered a faint smile. “Is your master within?”
“Master Balian is at the graveyard,” the boy replied.
The Hospitaller inclined his head. “Of course… Would you take us to him?”
The boy’s gaze shifted past the Hospitaller to the man who stood behind — tall, broad, cloaked in a weathered surcoat. Godfrey’s eyes met his, and in that glance the boy felt a stirring, as though entrusted with some unspoken charge. He turned back to the Hospitaller, his young face now set with resolve.
“I shall take you to him.”
The three set out across the hard ground toward the hill of graves.
“There he is, master knight,” the boy said, pointing toward a solitary figure.
Balian sat by the grave of his wife, as unmoving as the stone beside him.
The Hospitaller gave the boy a short nod and advanced with Godfrey at his side.
After a few steps, he turned back. “Boy!”
The lad looked up.
“God is with you,” the Hospitaller said gently, then turned again toward the mourner.
They approached until the Hospitaller stood between Balian and the grave.
“May I offer my prayers?”
Balian looked up at him. In the knight’s eyes he saw steel, yet also the shadow of a grief not unlike his own.
“If you wish,” Balian said, lowering his gaze once more.
The Hospitaller went to one knee, resting his gloved hands upon the pommel of his sword. He bowed his head. His words were quiet, meant for the ear of Heaven.
“Lord, grant her rest, and grant those who remain the strength to walk in Your light.”
He rose slowly. “Our condolences. She must have been… a woman worth the world.”
“She was…” Balian responded.
“The village,” the Hospitaller continued, “has need of a man with purpose.”
Balian’s gaze stayed fixed upon the grave. “What purpose? Save the one she already gave me?”
“Purpose in life,” the Hospitaller answered. “And that their faith in you.”
Balian’s voice rose slightly, a faint spark returning. “A man like me? Soldier? Carpenter? Blacksmith?”
“All of them,” the Hospitaller said simply.
“They should pray,” Balian replied, “and keep their faith in God, not in me.”
“They have prayed,” the Hospitaller said, his tone unchanging. “Perhaps God has sent them an answer — though you would turn your face from it.”
Balian frowned, but said nothing.
Godfrey, standing behind, studied him. The lines in his weathered face deepened with something like pity, though he hid it beneath his iron composure.
“Cruelty,” the Hospitaller said, “is not the work of fate. It is the choice of men… and women… even children.”
Balian’s irritation showed in the tightening of his jaw, though he forced himself to remain composed.
“Suppose, you’d rather have the village suffer the same fate… as you watched her.”
Balian’s eyes snapped up, a spark of anger piercing his stillness. “You know nothing of my wife… nor of her fate.”
The Hospitaller did not flinch. “I know enough to see you would let her death claim more than one life.”
Godfrey stepped closer now, his boots crunching against the frozen ground. His gaze was steady, unblinking. “He speaks truth, whether you wish to hear it or not. Grief is a fire — left untended, it burns everything.”
Balian’s jaw tightened. “And you think to tell me how to grieve?”
“No,” Godfrey replied, more softly now. “Only how to live.”
The wind hissed through the graveyard, carrying the silence that followed.
The Knight took a half-step back, giving room for Godfrey’s voice to settle. “The village will not survive this winter without the strength of its own. Men like you. Or perhaps… only you.”
Balian’s eyes wandered over the graves, their crosses leaning in the wind. “If I leave, she will be alone.”
“She will not be alone,” Godfrey said. “The dead are never alone. It is the living who must endure solitude.”
Balian’s silence deepened, his gaze dropping to the cold soil beneath his fingers.
“What is your business here?”
Godfrey’s tone was iron. “The village lies open to the cold wind, and no door can keep it out.”
“Is that why you seek me?”
“Perhaps,” the Hospitaller said. “But also, to tell you—life is not meant only for grief.”
“On behalf of the village… and your wife,” Godfrey said, “seek God as you once sought the time, carrying the burden she gave you.”
The wind shifted, and Balian’s anger ebbed. The words settled into him, cold and steady as water sinking into earth.
“We’ll reveal our matters once you are ready to accept.” The Knight said.
The two knights turned and descended the hill.
The boy remained behind, watching in silence of the graves. Balian looked down at the mound before him, uncertain now which path lay before him. His face was that of one defeated, yet the words of the strangers clung to him like the cold, refusing to be shaken off.
Morning Rose…
The pale light of dawn crept over frost-hardened fields, turning each blade of grass into glass. The village stirred reluctantly beneath its thin veil of smoke; the air bit like iron, and the wind moved with the slow patience of winter.
Godfrey and the Hospitaller came again to Balian’s stead. Their faces bore the same uncertainty—men unsure whether their words had found their mark the day before. They stood before the weathered door, and Godfrey struck it with four firm knocks.
A moment passed. The hinges groaned, and this time it was Balian who stood in the doorway.
“You came back?” His voice was even, but his eyes measured them. “Why?”
“We require your service,” the Hospitaller said.
Balian did not answer at once. His gaze shifted past them, his thoughts far off. At length, he stepped back.
“Come in.”
Inside, Balian gathered his tools for smithing. The Hospitaller sat upon a bench near the hearth, while Godfrey moved quietly through the room, his eyes tracing the beams, the worktable, the familiar marks of a craftsman’s life.
The place seemed to stir memories in him—memories that belonged to another season.
“Have you eaten?” the Hospitaller asked.
“Not yet,” Balian said. “My apprentice usually brings food.”
“The boy?”
“Yes.”
Balian stepped out briefly, returning with the swords of Godfrey’s men, laying them in a neat row beside the forge. The blades were scarred and dulled from use.
Godfrey’s gaze lingered on the doorway as if something beyond it called to him.
Rain against the shutters. Candlelight trembling on stone.
A younger Godfrey stood at another door, his hand upon the latch.
“Godfrey!” a woman’s voice—strained, pleading—cut through the dark.
He turned to see her there—his wife—her eyes red, her cheeks wet. They held each other’s gaze, and his hand fell slowly from the latch. His resolve faltered; the weight of her grief pressed against him.
“It is a calling,” he said at last, his voice uncertain, as if speaking to convince himself. “God’s call.”
The memory bled away, leaving only the sound of the forge.
“These swords…” Balian’s voice drew Godfrey back. “They’ve seen battle?”
The Hospitaller nodded. “Our arrival here was not without contest.”
“Bandits?”
“No,” the Hospitaller said, a faint curve to his mouth. “They’re more like family.”
“…Family?”
“A reunion gone wrong.”
Balian gave a brief look of disbelief, then bent again to his work without comment. The hiss of the forge filled the silence.
Godfrey stepped nearer, his voice quiet. “Ever considered leaving this place?”
Balian glanced at him before returning to the anvil. “Yes. But my place is here—with her.”
“And now she has passed?”
“Then I remain, to keep this place as it was… for her.”
“You’ve seen war?”
“I have. As an engineer.”
“You built engines—for siege?”
“I did.”
“And yet you claim no place but here.”
“My place is not at war,” Balian said, lifting another blade from the pile.
He set it to the anvil, the rhythm of his hammer striking through the room. “I am needed here. Like you said, this village would not stand without me.”
Suddenly, a knock came at the door.
It was urgent—sharp enough to draw every man inside to attention.
Balian crossed the room and pulled it open. A villager stood there, face drawn tight with fear.
“Balian—your apprentice along with others… they’ve been attacked.”
The Hospitaller rose at once; Godfrey’s eyes narrowed.
“By whom?”
“Brigands. In the eastern wood.”
Without another word, Balian turned, seizing his sword from its rack.
Upon arriving, Balian’s grip on his sword tightened until the leather of the hilt creaked. Without a moment’s pause, he surged forward, boots tearing through the snow, the blade catching the pale morning light.
Godfrey followed close, his stride measured, each step the product of years in the press of battle. His eyes tracked every threat, weighing the field with the calm of a man who had lived—and survived—too many fights. The Knight broke off to kneel by the fallen apprentice, his hands already working to staunch the bleeding.
Balian clashed with the two brigands; unbeknownst to the nearby brigand, he was struck down one with single slash in the neck by Balian from behind. The second one reacted, alarmed by the sudden, unexpected attack from Balian. He raised his sword, commencing a duel against each other.
Balian’s charged first. His first cut drove the man back a pace, the strike ringing against the brigand’s guard and sending sparks into the air. The brigand’s reply came fast—an upward sweep meant to open Balian from hip to shoulder. Balian stepped aside. A counter attacked by Balian clashed with the brigand’s steel. This drove Balian back on his heels. The man’s cuts came broad and brutal, aimed not to wound but to break him outright.
At the edge of his sight, Balian could see Godfrey holding three men at bay—each of them faster, perhaps, but none willing to close too quickly on the veteran’s measured killing reach,
Steel rang again and again as Balian struggled to keep the edge from his flesh. His boots slipped on the churned ground, and he caught one strike so hard the jolt ran through his arms to his teeth. The brigand pressed in, their blades locking, faces only inches apart.
Balian shoved him off and cut low toward his legs. The brigand skipped back, answering with a high slash that shaved the air above Balian’s head. They circled, boots crunching over frozen leaves, steam from their breath twisting between them.
The brigand before Balian came on again, overconfident now. His guard dropped for half a heartbeat, and Balian seized it. He stepped in, turning his shoulders, and swung in a killing arc toward the man’s neck—
—but the brigand caught the blow on the flat of his blade. The shock of the impact cracked Balian’s sword at mid-length. Half of the sword’s length spun away into the snow, landing with a dull thud.
Balian froze, staring at the jagged steel left in his hands.
The brigand’s grin widened. “Didn’t you know? They die, defending themselves with broken swords…”
Balian’s gaze flicked over the field—the bodies of villagers lay still, their own blades shattered, their edges blunt from poor forging. The weight of it all bore down on him; his arms felt heavy, his breath short.
The brigand stepped in, raising his sword for the final stroke. Balian’s mind reeled, his feet rooted in the snow—
—and then the man jerked forward, his breath catching in a wet gasp. The point of a sword jutted from his chest, bright with blood in the pale light. His eyes went wide, confusion turning to pain.
Godfrey stood behind him, face like stone, both hands driving the blade through until the hilt struck home. He leaned close, his gaze boring into the dying man’s. It was a look meant to follow him into death.
The brigand collapsed into the snow, his blood spreading dark over the white. Godfrey withdrew his sword without a word.
Balian blinked, the spell of his guilt broken. He rushed to his apprentice.
The boy lay pale, gasping. Balian dropped to his knees, pressing his hands against the wound. Blood—hot, defiant against the cold—flowed between his fingers, soaking the frozen earth.
“Stay with me,” Balian urged, his voice tight. He looked up at the Hospitaller. The knight’s eyes met his… and he gave the smallest shake of his head.
“No…” Balian’s voice cracked. He pressed harder, refusing the truth written in the boy’s face. “I’m sorry, boy…” Tears blurred his vision.
Godfrey and the Hospitaller stood a few paces back. Neither spoke. Even Godfrey’s iron countenance carried a shadow of sorrow.
The boy’s breathing slowed… then stopped. The warmth faded from his body.
Balian’s hands lingered, unwilling to let go. His eyes fixed on the boy’s still, open gaze, and something deep within him broke. He lowered the lad gently onto the cold earth, but his fingers refused to leave him.
The forest lay still, save for the sighing of the wind through bare branches. Godfrey stood over the fallen, his sword still in hand, his jaw set in silence. Beside him, the Knight bowed his head, eyes half-closed as though in prayer.
Time passed. The bodies of the slain villagers were gathered and laid upon carts, to be borne back to the village for burial. Balian watched as the wheels turned, his gaze fixed upon the still form of his apprentice among the dead. The sight struck deeper than any blade. In his hand he held the broken half of the sword he had used to defend himself—its jagged edge catching the grey light.
Godfrey came to stand beside him, saying nothing at first.
Balian did not turn his head. His eyes remained on the departing cart.
“Those were the swords I forged…” His voice was heavy with regret.
“They broke. And so did they.”
He looked down at the broken weapon in his hand. His brow furrowed; there was rage within him, yet it was smothered by the weariness of defeat.
“I grieved for her… and in that grief, I let others die. What she left me was emptiness. Now… I carry more.”
Without another word, Balian walked on, leaving Godfrey standing among the silent trees.
He entered the village alone. His steps were slow, heavy with guilt, as though each footfall pressed him further into the weight upon his soul. The people turned to watch him pass, their eyes cold and unyielding.
They said nothing at first, yet the silence was full of accusation. Faces stared like carved stone—hard, unsoftened by pity.
An old woman stepped forward, her voice rough with grief.
“It’s your fault! You forged those swords!”
Balian halted but did not lift his gaze.
“I did.”
“You led them to their deaths!” she cried, her hands shaking. “They died because of your negligence!”
A murmur swept through the crowd. Someone spat on the frozen ground. A mother drew her child close, pulling them away as though he carried a plague.
Still, he did not stop.
Balian’s hand tightened around the broken blade, the edge biting into his palm. He longed to answer, to defend himself, but the truth held his tongue fast. They were right.
Voices rose behind him as he walked, the mob’s anger swelling.
“We gave you your time, blacksmith!”
“You failed to protect us!”
The words struck harder than stones, yet stones came all the same.
By the time he reached his forge, the crowd had followed, shouting, damning his name. He closed the door behind him, but the sound did not fade. The thin walls trembled under their voices; each curse fell upon him like the swing of a hammer.
He leaned the broken sword against the wall and braced his hands upon the worktable, his head bowed. His breath came slow and heavy, as though the air itself resisted him.
Through the shutters, shadows shifted—villagers lingering, some pounding upon the door, others hurling stones against the wall in a dull rhythm.
Then came a knock—steady, deliberate.
Balian did not move.
“Balian,” came Godfrey’s voice from outside.
The knock came again. Not urgent, but patient.
At length, Balian crossed the room and opened the door. Godfrey stood in the pale light, the Knight beside him. Both bore unreadable expressions, but their eyes told of battles fought—on the field and within themselves.
“Why are you here?” Balian asked, his voice low and raw from silence.
“To speak,” Godfrey said, “before your anger festers into something worse.”
Balian stepped aside. They entered, their presence filling the small room. The Knight’s gaze drifted to the broken sword lying on the anvil, then back to Balian.
Balian sank into a seat, his eyes falling to the smith’s tools beside the anvil. The sight deepened the hollow in his chest.
“I failed them… If I had seen sooner, they might yet live.”
“You blame yourself,” the Knight said quietly, his tone measured.
“As I should,” Balian replied.
“Balian!”
The voice rang out from beyond the door, urgent yet not hostile.
Balian rose from his bench and crossed the room. When he opened the door, the gathered mob gave a fresh cry at the sight of him. A man stepped forward from among them—it was the village head. His face bore no anger, only the weight of reluctant duty.
“The village would have you answer for your… sin,” he said gravely.
From the side, Godfrey stood like a shadow—silent, watchful. The Knight’s eyes narrowed slightly, measuring Balian’s response.
Balian stepped out, shoulders straight though his face was set in grim resolve.
“If it is about my dead neighbors,” he said, “then I shall answer.”
The village head sighed. “You have been good to us, Balian. It is ill fortune to see a man such as you brought to this… yet the village demands it.”
“What I have done is a sin,” Balian replied evenly. “I deserve punishment.”
“Balian,” Godfrey called softly.
Balian glanced at him. Godfrey gave the barest nod, as if to say the choice was now his to bear.
“Forgive me,” the head said at last, “but it is what the village will have—and I must serve them in it.”
The local guards arrived then, their mail shirts clinking in the cold air. Balian offered no resistance as they bound his hands and led him toward the gaol.
Godfrey and the Knight remained where they stood, watching the scene unfold with heavy stillness. The Knight’s gaze turned to Godfrey, awaiting some word or action, but Godfrey gave none. His expression held the faint shadow of doubt, yet he did not intervene.
Night fell.
In the great hall of the local lord’s castle, torches burned high in iron sconces, casting long shadows that trembled upon the stone walls. A great oak table, scarred with age, dominated the center, strewn with maps, scrolls, and half-drained goblets of wine.
The lord sat at its head, fingers drumming the wood in thought. Around him, captains and advisors spoke in low tones, their faces marked by unease.
“This blacksmith’s name is on every tongue,” a captain said. “The people’s grief is sharpening into anger—and anger turns quickly to unrest.”
Another leaned forward. “We should appoint a new blacksmith, one not given to long mourning for a wife who sinned against him.”
A third gave a sardonic laugh. “Perhaps his swords were cursed with weeping tears.”
The lord raised a hand, silencing them. “Or perhaps his work suffered because his soul was broken.”
An older advisor shook his head. “Broken souls still bear the weight of their deeds, my lord. The village calls for justice. Deny it, and they will say you shelter him.”
The hall fell into stillness.
Then the steward entered, bowing deeply. “My lord, Godfrey and the Knight request an audience. They say it concerns the blacksmith.”
“Bring them in,” the lord commanded.
The great door swung open, and Godfrey entered with the Knight at his side. They walked with the bearing of men accustomed to bargaining with kings and killers alike.
“You have come for the prisoner?” the lord asked, leaning forward.
Godfrey inclined his head. “We have.”
In the gaol, Balian sat upon the cold stone floor, his back to the wall, waiting for judgment.
The iron lock rattled. A guard stepped inside and pulled open the door without a word.
“What is this?” Balian asked, rising.
The man gave no answer.
Moments later, Balian emerged into the pale dawn, confusion still upon his face. Then the sound of hooves drew his eyes to the road. Godfrey and the Knight approached, mounted, their cloaks stirring in the wind.
They reined in before him.
“Greetings, Balian,” Godfrey said.
“Godfrey? Was this your doing?”
“Everything can be bought these days,” Godfrey replied, his mouth set in a thin line. “Even absolution.”
“Why?” Balian asked. “Why would you spend your wealth on me?”
“I will tell you,” Godfrey said, “once we are back at your stead.”
The Knight extended a hand, and Balian mounted behind him. They rode without a word, the hooves striking a slow, rhythmic beat upon the frost-hardened road. The winter air stung his cheeks, yet the weight on his chest was far heavier than the cold.
When they reached the smithy, Balian dismounted. He cast a wary glance about—half-expecting the villagers’ stares to cut at him once more. But the early hour kept most behind shuttered windows.
Inside, the forge was dark. The air still carried the scent of ash. His tools lay where he had left them, dust settling in the creases of iron and wood. Godfrey closed the door behind them. The Knight leaned against the wall, arms folded, his gaze quiet but watchful.
“You bought my freedom,” Balian said, turning toward them. His voice was flat. “That only buys me shame. Now the village will think I escaped justice.”
Godfrey glanced at the Knight, then back to Balian. He hesitated before speaking.
“Balian… I want you to come with us—to the Holy Land.”
Balian’s brow furrowed. “The Holy Land?”
“Yes,” Godfrey said. “The truth is—I am a lord in Jerusalem. Baron of Ibelin.”
Balian’s eyes narrowed, suspicion in them. “Jerusalem? Why would a baron trouble himself with my release?”
Godfrey drew a slow breath. “Because you are my son.”
The forge fell silent. Even the faint crackle from the cold hearth seemed to fade. The Knight’s gaze shifted between them, weighing the moment.
“My son?” Balian said at last. “I was told my father was a bastard.”
“Yes,” Godfrey replied quietly. “I was. It seems your mother never told you my name.”
“Why should she?” Balian said bitterly. “Why speak the name of a bastard?”
Godfrey’s mouth tightened. “She was wrong. I am a fool and a bastard both, but still… your father.”
“What do you want, then? My forgiveness?”
“Yes,” Godfrey said simply.
Balian’s jaw tightened. “Forgiveness is not something you can demand. Nor something easily given.”
“I know,” Godfrey replied, stepping closer. “I have no right to it. I came here to see your mother…”
“She’s dead,” Balian cut in, his tone sharp. “Long ago.”
Godfrey nodded once, his eyes steady. “I know. And if I perished, leaving you undone, I could not see her either.”
Balian turned from him, pacing toward the forge. His hand brushed the cold edge of the anvil, as though it might anchor him.
“My place is here—with my wife,” he said.
“What made it your place,” Godfrey answered gently, “is now gone.”
The words struck, though Balian’s eyes hardened. Silence settled between them like a weight.
“You have no place here anymore,” Godfrey continued. “The village will drive you out. Come with us to Jerusalem—you will have a new life, a new place, a new purpose.”
Balian was still not convince.
“Perhaps even a chance to atone for your sins,” Godfrey said.
Balian paused, the faintest flicker of interest in his eyes. “Atone?”
“Yes,” Godfrey’s voice was low, steady. “If you act at God’s grace.”
“He will condemn my presence,” Balian murmured.
“There are men whose sins are far greater than yours,” Godfrey said. “Yet they still seek God. You are no different.”
The Knight spoke at last, his tone wry. “It is not only forgiveness you may find… but God’s grace.”
Balian hesitated. His gaze wandered the dim forge—the blackened walls, the work left unfinished, the cold hearth. His hand lingered on a hammer, the metal icy beneath his fingers.
“If I go to Jerusalem,” he asked at last, “will it atone for my wife’s…?”
“If your deeds are enough for God to see,” Godfrey said, “then perhaps.”
The answer hung in the air. Balian lowered his gaze, wrestling with thoughts that refused to give him peace. The room seemed smaller, the silence heavier.
A minute passed. Then another. Finally, he looked up—not at Godfrey, but at the Knight. The man met his eyes without a word.
Balian turned back to Godfrey. His voice was low, but resolute. “Then… I will go to Jerusalem.”
Godfrey and the Knight exchanged a glance, both inclining their heads in acknowledgment—not triumph, but understanding.
“Good,” Godfrey said. “We leave with tomorrow’s sun.”