He with the Broadest Shoulders

Everywhere else, the settlement was moving.

The carriages had been dragged out of storage and lined up in the great entrance hall, and women were loading them as fast as their arms would allow.

Sacks of grain. Barrels of water. The salted and smoked meat from the storerooms. Bolts of Hushweaver silk. Bundles of herbs from the healing rooms. Mithril ingots wrapped in oilcloth. Ezra’s black gems, nestled in a padded box and wrapped in so many charms that the box was hard to see.

At the far end of the farm, the pen house was in chaos.

The tribe had kept animals underground for as long as anyone could remember: goats for milk and wool, a flock of pale, squat cave hens that laid eggs under the crystals, and a dozen sturdy horses.

The horses were kept for one purpose only, and every woman in the tribe had been taught to ride them since she was small.

If the day ever came when the women had to run, they would run on horseback.

Alas… the day had come.

The older girls were saddling the horses one after another, their faces grim and their hands quick. The younger ones herded the goats into a tight bunch. Someone was stuffing squawking cave hens into wicker cages, feathers everywhere.

And the women themselves were being prepared.

Almost none of them had ever set foot on the surface. They had spent their whole lives beneath the wards, breathing clean air. Up there, the corruption would hit them like a plague.

So Iris had pulled out every Hushweaver veil and cloak she had woven, the ones lined with purifying charms, and was handing them out as fast as she could.

Anastasia’s healers walked down the lines, checking breathing and pressing calming spells into anyone whose hands shook too badly.

And Rune’s tattoos, the ones that guarded against illness, were being refreshed to combat the coming corruption, one after another, the women standing in a long line outside the tattoo room with their sleeves rolled up.

The mana core had been carefully pried out of the heart of the ward chamber and set in the lead carriage, wrapped in silk. Vera and Joran rode with it.

Once the caravan was moving, the core’s endless mana would feed a traveling ward around the carriages like a small, moving bubble of clean air in a world full of poison, with Misty’s hush woven over the top of it.

It wouldn’t be enough; everyone knew it. But it was what they had to work with.

◉

In the middle of the farm, Ashen was digging.

He had been at it for over an hour. He didn’t dig around the trunk of the manaweave tree. He dug in a wide circle around it, almost as wide as the tree was tall, carving a deep trench into the soil so that the roots and the earth wrapped around them would come up in one piece.

Before the fusion with Late Bloomer, this would have killed it. Manaweaves were fragile things, and moving one was like moving a soap bubble.

But this tree had grown strong. It could survive the move, as long as it kept its own earth around its roots and Ashen kept feeding it his mana on the journey.

The tree knew what was happening. Its leaves had gone still. Now and then, a branch dipped down and brushed his shoulder, as though asking if he was alright.

He wasn’t.

His hands moved on their own, digging, packing, binding the root ball in thick cloth and silk. Beside him, a basket held every seed he had gathered from the fruits, each one wrapped in its own little pouch, and he had checked them three times already.

But his mind was somewhere else entirely.

‘Am I really supposed to run?’

His shovel bit into the dirt.

‘Then where am I supposed to put all this rage?’ It was still there. He hadn’t put it to sleep.

He thought about everything he had survived.

The rock, a hundred years of it torturing him.

The vampire’s body. Endless loops of watching Seraphine die.

The far side of the continent, where he had walked through the middle of seven Outer Gods and their armies and come out the other side breathing.

Every single time, he had walked away within an inch of his life. But he had walked away.

‘So why should I be afraid of one?’

He didn’t know which Outer God was coming. He didn’t know it wasn’t one of the rabble he had brushed past before, but one of the seven.

He only knew that it had killed Orin, and that it had occupied his head for six years until it had made him stare at his own mother.

Maybe it was the rage clouding his judgment. Maybe it was the strange, baseless confidence of a man who had cheated death so many times that he had stopped believing it could catch him.

Either way, the thought had wormed its way into his mind and wouldn’t leave.

He could help. If he stayed, he could actually contribute something.

He could even kill it. And then none of them would have to run at all.

The thought grew more reckless with every scoop of dirt.

But his hands never stopped.

He finished the trench. He bound the roots. He helped load the tree onto the widest carriage with six of his brothers, and when the branches swayed and drooped, he poured his mana into the soil until the leaves glowed again.

He helped saddle horses. He carried children and lifted barrels.

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He didn’t stop until every single member of the tribe was gathered in the emergency exit tunnel, the long, narrow passage that led out through the far side of the mountain, far from the main entrance.

Only then did he set down the last crate and straighten up.

Lapis was standing beside the lead carriage, her katana strapped to her back, her veil pushed back from her face. She was looking at him.

Tend to My Husband must have been screaming at her. He could see it in her eyes; she looked sick.

He turned his back on her anyway.

“I have something to say to the patriarch,” he said. “I’ll come back.”

“Ashen—”

He was already walking.

◉◉◉

His legs carried him back through the empty settlement almost without him telling them to.

Down the corridors, past the cold farm, past the silent dinner hall, all the way to the inner chamber where his parents lived.

The door opened just as he reached it.

Adam stepped out.

He was dressed in his armor, his colossal sword strapped to his back. And there wasn’t a trace of gloom on his face.

At least, none of the heaviness Ashen had expected to see on a man who had decided to lay down his life. If anything, he looked… carefree. As though this were just another day where he was heading out on an ordinary hunt.

“Ashen.” Adam looked at his son without the slightest surprise. “You came after all.”

By now, he knew his son well enough to understand exactly how his mind worked.

He didn’t wait for Ashen to speak. He simply walked past him down the corridor.

“Follow me.”

They walked through the empty halls in silence. But it didn’t last long, as Adam broke it.

“I’m sure you are still confused, especially about the tribe’s next destination.” His tone was tranquil. “You can't simply lead them south with no clear destination, after all.”

“You said to head south…”

“I did.” Adam nodded. “If you keep marching south, you will probably reach the so-called Paradise.”

Adam’s tone was laced with a touch of irony when he said that.

“...to think that we won’t have any choice but to put our chances on such an unreliable rumor after all…”

“...it’s better than nothing.”

“Indeed.” Adam agreed. “I’m not worried, with you at the helm.”

He looked at him peacefully.

“If it’s you, I’m sure you will be the one to create it, even if it doesn’t exist.”

Ashen just lowered his head and kept silent until they reached their destination, a heavy steel door.

Ashen knew that door well. He had spent no small part of his life behind it.

Adam pushed it open and stepped inside, and Ashen followed him in.

‘It’s cold.’

The forge was dark.

The furnace looked dead; the anvil in the middle of the room was covered in a thin layer of dust from the few hours since anyone had last touched it.

The chill seeped into Ashen's bones, and for the first time since Orin's scream, the truth sank in.

They were really doing this.

Twenty-five years of peace, shattered in a single afternoon.

“It’s been a while since we forged something together, now that I think about it,” Adam said, running his fingers along the edge of the workbench.

“...Yes.”

“Those were the good times.” He smiled nostalgically. “Do you remember your first lessons here?”

“Of course…” Ashen said quietly. “Temperature, force and timing.”

“That’s right.” Adam laid his palm flat on the cold anvil. “But there’s something I never mentioned back then.”

He finally looked his son in the eye.

“Forging metal is a lot like forging a person. Or in your case, a leader.”

“...”

“Temperature, force, and timing. Those apply to people too.” He tapped the anvil once with his knuckle. “Too much pressure, and you break someone. Too little, and they stay weak. Act too early, and you ruin the result. Act too late, and you miss your chance.”

“...”

“When you guide the tribe, always remember that, Ashen. The three rules of the forge will be your guide.”

Then Adam suddenly laughed, softly.

“I remember back then, you used to forge just to stop your thoughts from wandering all over the place. You said striking the metal made you feel free.”

His face eased into a gentle smile.

“But remember this too. Freedom doesn’t always mean escaping your circumstances. Sometimes it means learning to live in spite of your shackles.”

Ashen couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Father. I’m coming with yo—”

“Stop.”

Ashen’s face twisted. Then something stubborn overtook it.

“I know it sounds boastful,” he said. “But I can help. Heck, with me there, maybe we could even win. And then none of us would have to go through this.”

Adam looked at his determined son in silence. Then he let out a long, heavy sigh.

“You still don’t understand?”

He stepped closer, until they were barely a foot apart.

“From the moment we were discovered, we had already lost. Even if you come with me. Even if, by some miracle, we kill that thing… it doesn’t matter.”

His voice dropped to a low, bitter hiss.

“In this hell on earth, that thing is just one horror among countless others. And now our family is exposed to all of them.”

The haze of recklessness finally cleared from Ashen’s mind.

But the urge to face that thing didn’t leave. It burned just as fiercely as before, with nowhere to go.

‘Then what am I supposed to do with all this…? This killing intent, this sorrow, this rage…?’

‘Am I supposed to stuff it all back down and let it boil me alive from the inside?’

“Then what?” he said.

His voice was shaking.

“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?!”

The forge rang with it.

“Am I supposed to just stand here and watch my father walk off to die? HUH?! Am I supposed to be grateful that only thirty of my brothers are going to die this time?!”

He slammed his fist down on the anvil.

CLANG—!

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!!!”

Adam didn’t flinch.

He let his son scream, rage, curse, and pound on the anvil until his knuckles bled. And when Ashen finally fell silent, breathing raggedly, Adam spoke again, in exactly the same gentle tone as before.

“Son. Control it. How many times have I told you?”

He pointed toward the door. Toward the far side of the mountain, where the emergency tunnel was. Where his mother waited, and his sisters, and his nieces, and his little brothers.

“You want to run down there and kill it? You’re dying to fight it. But what about them?”

“...”

“Won’t they be the ones who pay for it, if you indulge your rage?”

Ashen had no answer.

“Ashen,” Adam said after a moment. “Do you know why I named you as the next head of the tribe? Despite how young you are?”

“…No.”

“Because out of all my sons, you have the broadest shoulders.”

“I don’t understand,” Ashen muttered. His mind was still churning.

“Don’t you?” Adam tilted his head. “You aren’t the strongest. You aren’t the wisest. You aren’t the most versatile. But those shoulders of yours can carry the heaviest weight.”

He laid his hand on one of them.

“That’s what a leader needs most. Everything else, your brothers can help you with. This, only the leader can do.”

“...”

“Whether it’s rain or shine. Happiness or grief. Death or peace. Whether you know it’s your last day or your most glorious one. Whether everyone else around you despairs, breaks or gives up…”

His grip tightened slightly.

“Only you. The leader. The patriarch. The pillar. Only you have to stand up through all of it, and weather it.”

He looked into his son’s eyes.

“Ashen. Out of all my children, you’re the only one strong enough to bear this. That’s why I chose you. It has to be you, and no one else.”

His voice softened.

“Because I, your own father, guarantee it. You have the broadest shoulders in all of humanity.” He smiled. “My pride and joy. Ashen Hunt.”

Tears were running down Ashen’s face.

He knew. By now, there was no stopping it.

His father was really going to die.

And he wasn’t allowed to break down. Grieving would dull him, so that also had to be swallowed back in. He wasn’t even allowed to let his sorrow slow him down for a moment.

Because he was the leader now. And the leader had to carry it for everyone else.

“Father…”

He threw his arms around his father and held him as though he were afraid Adam would vanish the moment he let go.

Adam’s hand stroked his back, slow and steady.

“It’s alright.”

They stayed like that for what felt like an infinity.

Finally, reluctantly, Ashen let go.

Adam kept both hands on his son’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes.

“My legacy,” he said. “I leave it to you. Protect it well, son.”

“I will.”

Ashen’s eyes were red, but steady.

“Magnificent.” Adam smiled, and something seemed to lift from his shoulders, a weight he had been carrying for two hundred and fifty years. “Now the torch is in your hands. Pass it on, when the time comes.”

“I will.”

Adam nodded once more. Then he let go, turned, and walked toward the door.

Ashen didn’t turn around to watch him go.

He stood frozen beside the cold anvil, staring at its gray surface. If he took even one look at his father’s back right now, he didn’t trust himself to keep his promise.

The footsteps paused at the doorway.

“Son,” Adam’s voice drifted back to him. “One last lesson from your father.”

“...”

“Live.”

The footsteps resumed. They echoed down the empty corridor, growing fainter, and fainter, until Ashen could no longer hear them at all.

And that was the last time Ashen ever heard his father’s voice.

…And the first time he lost a father.