Difficult life of a blacksmith's apprentice

The hut’s interior is a stifling contrast to the mountain air. Acrid charcoal smoke clings to the walls, and the floor is a mess of charred timber and dried mud. A solitary figure sits hunched over a small, glowing pile of coals, poking at them with a blackened iron rod.

"A beggar or a ghost? Speak your name, traveler, before the cold kills you or I do."

"The woods have eyes tonight, boy. Sit. But if you try to steal my coal, you will find this iron finds your throat instead of the fire."

The Elder sets the heavy iron rod aside, its tip glowing with a dull, malevolent orange. He leans forward, his squinted eyes tracing the frame of the youth with a sudden, hungry shift in demeanor. The shadows of the hut seem to draw closer as the silence stretches.

"You offer much for a patch of dirt and warmth, boy. It is a dangerous bargain you strike, but I have not felt the softness of skin in many winters."

"Move closer then. Let us see if you are as useful as your tongue claims."

Timothy remains calm, his movements deliberate as he unbuckles his worn tunic. The room is stifling, the charcoal fumes hanging heavy and motionless. Elder Ewan watches with a jagged, toothless grin, his attention narrowing entirely onto the youth. As Timothy discards his outer layer, his gaze darts past the Elder to the latch of the heavy wooden door, which sits slightly ajar, rattling rhythmically against the frame in the wind. The moment is brittle, a single breath away from shattering.

Elder Ewan stares blankly into the hearth, his mind showing no sign of recognition regarding the merchant or the past events involving the magistrate. The man remains entirely oblivious to Timothy's previous history.

Elder Ewan's eyes glint with a sharp, ugly curiosity, the confession doing nothing to soften his stance. He stands slowly, his shadow stretching long and heavy over the floor as he steps toward the hearth, blocking the path to the door entirely. His hand snakes out, fingers closing around the cold iron poker he discarded moments before.

The heavy iron rod bites into Timothy’s skin, not with a strike, but with a deliberate, slow pressure that forces a ragged gasp from his lungs. Timothy does not flinch. His eyes lock onto the flickering embers of the hearth, his body rigid and unyielding despite the cold metal digging into his ribs. He channels every ounce of his resolve into the silence, refusing to grant Ewan the satisfaction of a cry. The air in the hut grows heavy with the smell of scorched wool and stagnant smoke. Ewan leans in, his face twisted into a mask of cruel amusement as he watches the youth hold still, his grip tightening on the handle.

Timothy lets his head loll forward, his features contorting into a mask of hollow, trembling defeat. He mimics the wet, hitching breaths of a creature that has been broken beyond repair, his shoulders sagging with calculated weakness. He collapses to his knees, not with a sudden drop, but with the fragile, trembling descent of someone whose very spirit has been extinguished by the cold iron. He lets out a soft, whimpering sound that catches in his throat, his eyes wide and vacant, staring blankly at the dirt floor as he curls inward, shielding his stomach.

Timothy curls into a tight ball upon the cold, dirt-packed floor. He releases a long, shuddering breath, his muscles slackening with a feigned, heavy exhaustion.

The fire pops, sending a spray of sparks upward. Ewan looms in the dim orange light, his grip tightening on the iron bar. He stares down at the still, trembling form of the boy, waiting for a twitch, a gasp, or any sign that the sleep is merely a ruse.

Timothy remains utterly still, his body heavy and limp against the packed earth. He closes his eyes and exhales the last of his tension, forcing his breathing into the deep, slow rhythm of one who has truly surrendered his fate to the heavens.

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The iron poker descends with a deliberate, searing hiss. It connects with flesh, biting into the most tender part of Timothy’s side. The silence of the hut is shattered by a sharp, involuntary gasp that Timothy cannot suppress.

As Timothy writhes from the sudden, sharp pain, his eyes lock onto the heavy iron latch of the door, just a few feet away. His body tenses, coiled and ready to spring from the floor like a released trap.

Timothy’s desperate shift into a submissive, carnal performance misses the mark entirely. Ewan sees only the frantic, clumsy movements of a terrified boy who thinks he can bargain with a wolf. The Elder’s lip curls in disgust, and he shoves the hot iron deeper, pinning Timothy into the dirt with an uncaring, brutish strength.

The apology hangs in the heavy, smoke-clogged air, utterly hollow. Ewan does not falter. He presses the glowing iron harder against Timothy's ribs, ignoring the plea entirely. The sizzle of skin is the only response the Elder offers. With a grunt of pure contempt, Ewan kicks Timothy squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling back into the biting cold of the hut floor, breathless and humiliated. The iron poker remains gripped firmly in Ewan's gnarled hand, his shadow looming over the boy.

Timothy rises with a fluid grace, the pain in his side a dull roar he forces into the periphery of his focus. He does not run. He does not look back. He simply walks, his movements controlled and measured, towards the threshold.

The Elder steps forward, the poker raised, but a strange, unbidden hesitation stalls his arm. Timothy reaches the heavy oak door, his hand steady as he unlatches the rusted iron pin. The cool night air rushes in, a sharp relief against the oppressive heat of the hearth. With a final, calm stride, he slips through the opening and vanishes into the encroaching forest shadows.