The words had taken a moment to register in Vincent's ears. They didn't seem real for that pause, until he blinked and stared up at Cal.
"Seriously?" Vincent asked, incredulity clinging to his voice.
Cal nodded, with no words leaving him in reply. Vincent stared in disbelief; his eyebrows raised in surprise and confusion.
"Why now? You just told me you didn't want to!" he said.
Cal sighed, staring at the sword that had just shown him something he would never have believed in the past. The light that had once illuminated the room from the blade, now diminished completely.
"I know... But deep down, I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to." Cal said quietly, his eyes fixed on the blade before him.
Vincent's eyes widened a touch more, his mouth parting slightly. "You mean you felt like this for a while? This entire time?"
Cal nodded silently again. He looked out through the crack the door left, staring out as if someone was eavesdropping on them.
"If I stay here any longer," his voice faltered. "I'll just be another burden to granddad. I can tell he thinks I don't do anything right... or that I never care. And while he couldn't be more wrong..."
He swallowed.
"I know that if I don't do anything, I'd just be smothered by his expectations."
He exhaled shakily, turning back to Vincent.
"I want to know what I am," Cal said. "I want to know what's out there — and prove I can do something right. Something worthwhile. I don't belong here… and I don't think I ever did."
With that, Cal bent down to grab his sword, sliding the blade back into the scabbard. He rolled his shoulders back before opening the door.
"So, I'm leaving," he said. "I'm going to the Trials."
He paused, breath hitching just slightly.
"I have to."
Vincent didn't speak right away.
He watched Cal for a few seconds longer, the way one might watch someone standing at the edge of a cliff. But the sight wasn't foreboding. It was like watching someone who wanted to jump.
And they know they'd survive.
"You're... calm," Vincent said finally.
Cal paused.
"You seem too ready to be leaving all of this behind," Vincent added. "This is your home. Your life. Most people wouldn't even dare."
Cal considered that.
"I wouldn't dare many things in my life," he replied quietly. "But I'm done with that."
Vincent studied him, then let out a breath — half a laugh, half a sigh. "I... I'm happy for you. Really, I am."
Cal looked at him, noticing that Vincent had more to say.
"But," Vincent began. "what about Mr. Virell?"
The question settled between them like an anvil. Cal turned away first, inhaling deeply.
"He'll be fine," he said, almost too quickly. "Better off, even. I've done nothing but stress him to no end, and with me gone... he won't have to pretend that he understands me. He'll have some peace."
The words sounded rehearsed, as if Cal had arrived at this conclusion many times before. But while the words seemed certain, his voice wavered in its coolness.
It still hurt to admit.
Without waiting for a response, Cal moved to the corner of his room and crouched down, retrieving a small leather pouch tucked beneath a loose floorboard. The string was worn smooth from years of handling.
He loosened it and tipped the contents into his palm.
A dull clink echoed softly as metal met metal.
Inside were coins of varying sizes and colors. Dark iron rounds made up the bulk, stamped with the symbol of the Evervoid Empire — a hollowed moon bisected by a scythe. The other coins were heavier and tinted with silver, which bore the symbol of not just the symbol of the Evervoid Empire, but as well as the face of its king on the opposite side. Arthur Evervoid.
Iron pennants were the lighter of the two. They were small coins that were used for everyday trade. Twelve of them equaled a single silver crest, which were the denser coins that Cal found.
He gathered them back into the pouch, before turning back to Vincent.
"How much does a runecarriage ride typically cost?" he asked casually. "To Nareth."
Vincent blinked. "Oh... Well, from what I heard when I was back in Gravenmoor Hold, it's around three silver crests. Maybe four if the terminal is busy."
Cal turned back to the pouch.
One... two... three... four...
...Eight.
This is more than enough...
Years of quiet saving. Blacksmith wages. Repairs done in silence. Work that had never been acknowledged — but he wished still counted for something.
That something was here now.
He tightened the pouch's string before slowly setting foot into the hall. He walked to another door and grabbed two coats, one of which was larger than the other. He put it on, sliding his arms into the black woolen sleeves and coat, before rolling his shoulders in adjustment.
"Put it on," Cal said, his voice soft. "It's a bit cold at this time of night."
Vincent stared at the coat as he caught it awkwardly, his eyes widening in hesitation.
Cal spoke up again. "It was mine before it got too small. But I think it'll fit you... if you're okay with it, that is."
Vincent hesitated for a moment longer, fingers brushing the fabric. The coat was light brown, woolen like Cal's black one, though a bit more worn. The cuffs were frayed, the seams softened with age — clearly worn by age, not stored away.
He slipped it on anyway.
It fit better than he'd expected. A little loose at the shoulders, but warm. Familiar. The kind of garment that had lived a life before finding its way to him.
"It kept me warm when I needed it to," Cal said. "I don't think it should stay hanging up."
Vincent tugged the collar closer to his neck and let out a small breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Cal gave a small nod before turning back, his steps carrying him further down the hall. The forge lay quiet behind them, the house dim and still, its wooden floors creaking softly beneath his boots. He stopped before a narrow cabinet set against the wall.
A cabinet that hadn't been opened in a long time. Cal reached inside and withdrew a small book.
Its cover was pale, almost pearlescent beneath the low light, the surface worn smooth at the edges. Etched into the front was a simple sigil. A crescent moon cradling a faintly etched star. The letters on the front of the book spelled out something that could only be described as sacred.
"The Holy Bible of the Bright Moon"
Cal held it carefully, thumbs resting along its spine. For a moment, he simply stood there. Then he lowered himself into a chair near the wall and opened the book.
Cal opened the book to a familiar page; one his fingers seemed to know without searching. He knew this page well, as his grandfather would also read this page aloud many times before. The silence was deafening.
He read silently, lips barely moving, eyes following the lines as though grounding himself in their rhythm.
When he finished, he bowed his head.
"Lady of the Bright Moon," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Watcher of those who wander. I ask for Your guidance."
His hands rested on the open pages, steady despite the tension in his chest.
"I do not know if this path is right," he continued. "But I know I cannot remain where I am."
A pause.
"I beseech You. Grant me clarity. Grant me resolve. Grant my grandfather the peace I wish he always had. And if I have chosen wrongly…" His throat tightened, but he pressed on. "…then give me the strength to bear the weight of this choice."
The forge fell silent after that.
After a moment, Cal closed the book gently and remained kneeling, head bowed, letting the stillness settle around him. Only when his breathing had evened did he rise, returning the Bible to its place with care.
When he turned back toward the hall, Vincent was waiting — coat still on, eyes softened with quiet understanding.
Cal said nothing.
He didn't need to.
As he walked back to where Vincent was waiting, Cal stared at one final thing.
Darius' door remained closed, with the old man sleeping inside, unsuspecting of the choice that Cal had now made. That his own grandson was planning to leave.
And Cal knew it was not out of anger or resentment. But out of obligation.
Because this old man needed some respite for a while.
I'm sorry, granddad... Cal thought, his fists clenched by his sides. Just be happy. And don't worry about me anymore...
And with that, Cal went back to his sword that laid in his room and fixed it to his shoulder strap, before looking at Vincent.
"Do you know the way to Gravenmoor Hold from here?" he asked.
Vincent blinked before what Cal had asked sunk in. "I... I think so, yeah."
"How long would it take?" Cal asked in response.
Vincent stared off in thought, the estimation formulating in his mind. After a moment, his gaze drifted back to Cal.
"Around two hours." he said.
Cal barely nodded. "Can you lead the way?"
Vincent took a deep breath before turning to the door with Cal. "Yeah, of course. Follow me."
The forge door creaked as Vincent pushed it open, cold night air spilling inside like a held breath finally released.
Cal stepped out after him.
The night was quiet. It always was like this, since silence clung to Lamnor after dusk. The smell of soot and iron lingered faintly in the air, carried from the forge behind him, familiar as his own heartbeat.
Cal stopped.
Vincent took a few steps ahead before realizing Cal hadn't followed. He turned but didn't say anything.
How could he?
Cal stood at the threshold, one boot still near the door, his hand resting lightly against the worn wood. The entrance to the forge looked smaller from the outside. Older. Its stone frame bore nicks and scorch marks from decades of work, each one placed there long before Cal had ever been born.
This was the only place he ever knew. This is where he learned to walk. This is where he learned what shingling was, and how Darius had taught him the process.
This is where he burned his hands for the first time. Where he'd go to sleep with tears in his eyes from the pain. Where Darius' voice had echoed, sharp with instruction and rough with care.
Every memory he had — every year of his life — began and ended behind this door.
Eighteen years.
The knot grew tighter in Cal's throat, and it even more so when he realized a bitter truth. The forge was not protesting his leaving. It did not creak or groan or call after him. It simply stood there, unchanged, as though expecting him to return by morning.
For a moment, his chest tightened more than it ever had before.
But then those words he heard many hours ago had begun to resurface again.
"Some folks aren't meant to be anything more than what they already are."
Cal's jaw clenched.
And what am I to begin with?
He exhaled, and slowly, deliberately, he stepped away from the door. He reached back and pulled the door shut, the sound of wood meeting frame soft, final. The latch clicked into place.
The forge was no longer behind him.
Cal adjusted the strap of his sword across his shoulder and turned toward Vincent, who waited without impatience, eyes flicking once toward the closed door before returning to him.
Together, the two stepped out into the night — and for the first time in his life, Cal walked forward into something he didn't know anything about.
And had no knowledge of if or when, he would ever return.