The hunger hit Elias like a physical blow as he swept the last of the bone dust from his workbench. His stomach cramped, reminding him that coffee and obsession made poor sustenance. When had he last eaten? Yesterday's lunch? The day before? Time had become elastic since the golden light first pulsed in Nepali script, stretching and contracting around the rhythm of discovery and doubt.
He made himself a sandwich—turkey and mustard on day-old bread—and ate it standing at his kitchen window, watching Brooklyn wake up properly around him. Normal people doing normal things: walking dogs, buying newspapers, arguing about parking spaces. A world where the most supernatural thing most people encountered was their morning horoscope.
But Elias couldn't shake the central question that had crystallized during his systematic testing of the kukri. The blade responded to "Bone Breaker" because he'd understood those words when he carved them. But understanding what, exactly? The literal meaning of the syllables? The concept they represented? Or something deeper—the intention behind the inscription, the purpose he'd held in his mind while shaping each character?
The distinction mattered more than he wanted to admit. If the rules responded only to literal comprehension, then his abilities were bounded by language and translation. Limited but predictable. If they responded to intention, to the meaning he invested in the words regardless of their dictionary definitions, then the possibilities became exponentially more complex and dangerous.
He needed to test the theory, and that meant forging something new. Something where he could control both the literal meaning and his intentional investment.
Back in the workshop, Elias selected a small bar of 1084 carbon steel—enough for a stiletto, perhaps four inches of blade when drawn out. The compact size would make the forging manageable in a single afternoon, and stilettos had always been about precision over power. If he was going to experiment with forces he didn't fully understand, better to start small.
The steel heated to cherry red in the forge's heart, and Elias began the familiar meditation of hammer on metal. Each strike lengthened the bar, thinning it toward the needle point that defined a stiletto's purpose. The rhythm cleared his mind of everything except the immediate dialogue between hammer, steel, and anvil.
This was the part of his craft that felt like prayer, though he'd never been particularly religious. Sarah had dragged him to Christmas services at St. Augustine's down on Sterling Place, and he'd sat through enough sermons to recognize the language of devotion. But his own spirituality had always been more tactile—the transformation of raw metal into purpose, the alchemy of fire and intention that turned ore into art.
Still, he found himself thinking about those church visits as he worked the steel. About the Latin inscriptions carved into stone arches and wooden pews, words that carried the weight of centuries and the faith of countless believers. Words that meant something beyond their literal translation because of the investment people had placed in them over generations.
Numquam viam amitte. Never lose your way.
He'd looked up the phrase during a lunch break, curious about the commission request that had arrived that morning. A young woman, barely out of college, wanting a small blade for "protection and guidance." She'd specified the Latin inscription—a reminder, she'd said, of her grandmother's faith and the importance of staying true to one's path in life.
Elias wasn't religious, but he understood the appeal of such reminders. Physical tokens that carried meaning beyond their material substance. Talismans against doubt and confusion. In that sense, every blade he forged was a kind of prayer made manifest in steel.
But what if they actually were prayers now? What if his understanding of the Latin phrase as a spiritual guide could somehow translate into literal guidance? The concept seemed absurd, but then again, so had bone-dissolving kukris until yesterday.
By three in the afternoon, he had a stiletto blade rough-forged and ready for finishing work. The steel had responded beautifully to his hammering, developing the subtle curves and proportions that made a stiletto feel alive in the hand. All that remained was the careful work of filing, grinding, and polishing—and, most importantly, the engraving.
But first, he needed to understand exactly what he was engraving.
Elias cleaned his hands thoroughly, changed into a reasonably presentable shirt, and walked the six blocks to St. Augustine's Catholic Church. The afternoon sun painted the brick facade in warm gold, and the heavy wooden doors stood open to catch the spring breeze. He'd walked past this building hundreds of times over the years, but entering it with purpose felt different. More consequential.
The interior was cooler and quieter than the street, suffused with the particular silence that seems to accumulate in places dedicated to contemplation. Afternoon light filtered through stained glass windows, casting colored shadows across empty pews and worn stone floors. The scent of incense and old wood mingled with something harder to define—the residue of countless prayers, perhaps, or simply the weight of time.
Elias felt awkward in the sacred space, aware of his calloused hands and the faint smell of forge smoke that seemed permanently woven into his clothes. But curiosity overcame discomfort as he began examining the Latin inscriptions that decorated the church's architecture.
Above the altar, carved letters spelled out Dominus vobiscum—the Lord be with you. Around the stations of the cross, phrases in Latin marked each scene of Christ's passion. On wooden pews, brass plaques bore the names of donors alongside scriptural quotations that had sustained families through generations of worship.
"Can I help you with something?"
Elias turned to find a priest approaching from a side chapel—a man in his sixties with silver hair and the kind of patient expression that suggested long experience with confused visitors. His collar marked him as clergy, but his manner was more curious than protective.
"Father...?"
"Martinez. And you're clearly not here for confession, so I'm guessing you have questions about our Latin inscriptions?"
Elias felt heat rise in his cheeks. "Is it that obvious?"
"You've been photographing them with your phone for the past ten minutes, and you have the look of someone wrestling with translation rather than prayer." Father Martinez's smile took any sting out of the observation. "What can I help you understand?"
"I'm working on a commission—a blade with Latin engraving. The client requested Numquam viam amitte, and I want to make sure I understand the full meaning before I carve it."
The priest's eyebrows rose slightly. "A blade? You're a craftsman?"
"Blacksmith. I forge knives, tools, decorative pieces. This is for a young woman who wants something that carries her grandmother's faith."
Father Martinez nodded slowly, and Elias caught something shifting in the man's expression—a deepening of attention, as if the conversation had suddenly become more significant.
"Numquam viam amitte," the priest repeated, his pronunciation fluid and natural. "Never lose the way. But in Latin, via carries layers of meaning that don't translate directly. It can mean a physical path, yes, but also a method, a manner of living, a spiritual journey. In Christian context, it often refers to Christ himself—ego sum via, I am the way."
"So it's not just about literal navigation."
"Oh, no. When someone inscribes numquam viam amitte on something precious to them, they're asking for spiritual guidance. Protection from moral confusion, from losing sight of their principles and faith. It's a prayer for constancy in the face of temptation and doubt."
Elias absorbed this, understanding crystallizing in his mind like metal cooling in a quench tank. The phrase wasn't about finding physical directions—it was about maintaining spiritual direction. About holding true to one's moral compass regardless of external pressures or internal confusion.
If his abilities responded to intention and understanding rather than mere literal translation, then engraving those words with full comprehension of their spiritual weight could create something far more profound than a simple navigation aid.
"Tell me," Father Martinez said, his voice carefully neutral, "what kind of blade are you making? This seems like more than casual curiosity about Latin grammar."
Elias hesitated. How did you explain to a priest that you might be accidentally creating supernatural weapons? That words of faith carved with understanding might manifest as literal effects?
"I take my work seriously," he said finally. "When someone asks me to engrave words that matter to them, I want to honor the full meaning. Not just the surface translation, but the depth of what they're trying to express."
The priest studied him for a long moment, and Elias had the uncomfortable feeling of being weighed in some invisible balance.
"There's an old tradition in the Church," Father Martinez said eventually, "of blessing objects that people carry for protection and guidance. Medals, rosaries, even tools of trade when they serve a righteous purpose. The blessing doesn't change the physical properties of the object, but it sanctifies the intention behind its use."
He paused, letting the words settle between them.
"Perhaps what matters isn't the metal itself, but the faith and purpose invested in its creation. A blade made with understanding of its spiritual significance, crafted with reverence for the meaning of its inscription—such a thing might indeed carry power beyond its material properties."
Elias felt something cold settle in his stomach. The priest was speaking in metaphors, but his eyes suggested he understood more than his careful words revealed.
"Hypothetically speaking," Elias said.
"Of course. Hypothetically." Father Martinez's smile was enigmatic. "Would you like me to bless your work when it's finished? Sometimes it helps to have sacred purposes acknowledged in sacred space."
Walking back to his workshop, Elias's mind churned with new possibilities and deeper questions. If Father Martinez was right, if the power came from understanding and intention rather than the words themselves, then what he'd discovered wasn't just about language—it was about belief. About the meaning people invested in symbols and the faith they placed in objects crafted with purpose.
The stiletto waited on his workbench, its blade rough-forged but eager for finishing. Numquam viam amitte. Never lose the way. As Elias selected his engraving tools, he found himself thinking not about literal navigation, but about the young woman who'd commissioned this piece. About her grandmother's faith and her own need for guidance in an uncertain world.
About the responsibility that came with forging prayers into steel.
If the rules responded to intention, then every inscription became a sacred act. Every engraving carried the weight of the meaning he brought to it. And that meant he wasn't just a blacksmith anymore.
He was something else entirely.