The old wagon creaked along the forest road, its worn wheels finding every stone and rut. Vincent held the reins loosely, his gaze fixed on the path ahead, his posture radiating a boredom that was almost weaponized. Beside him, Valerie sat stiffly, her hands clenched in her lap, staring at anything—the trees, the sky, her own boots—that wasn’t her brother.

  A thick, uncomfortable silence stretched between them, as palpable and unyielding as a wall of ice. It was broken only by the steady *clip-clop* of the horse's hooves and the gentle, melodic murmur of conversation from the wagon’s cargo bed behind them.

  The three high elves sat amidst the supplies, their postures regal even in discomfort. They spoke in low, harmonious tones in their own flowing language, a stark contrast to the tense, wordless void that separated the two siblings driving them.

  “Angel dust?” Vincent’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and cold as a shard of ice. “Really, Valerie? I never took you for sharp, but this… this is a new level of pathetic.”

  His words hung in the air, met with nothing but the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and the weight of her silence.

  “What, no excuse?” he pressed, his grip tightening on the reins. “Not even a lie? Is this the silent treatment now?”

  More silence. It was infuriating.

  “Don’t I at least get a ‘thank you’?” he snapped, the words dripping with sarcasm. “Or an ‘I’m sorry for making you trek through a forest and slaughter a small army to clean up my mess’?”

  A long pause. Then, so faint it was almost swallowed by the wind: “…Thank you.”

  Vincent let out a soft, derisive breath. Well. At least I got thanked. He focused on the road ahead, the brief acknowledgment doing nothing to quell the anger simmering in his chest.

  The quiet that followed was somehow even heavier than before. Finally, Valerie spoke again, her voice fragile but laced with a spark of defensive pride.

  “You don’t understand…” Valerie’s voice was a mix of a whine and a plea, grasping for justification. “Solicias said it was something new, something… pure. He said it would elevate me. Make me see things differently.”

  Vincent didn’t even grant her a glance. “And you believed him?” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “That same fat fuck we cut contact with because he was neck-deep in shit and still digging? You’re an even bigger fool than I thought.”

  “You don’t understand, Vincent—”

  “What is there to understand?” he cut her off, his voice dropping into a low, venomous hiss. He finally shot her a look, his obsidian eyes flashing with cold fury. “That my sister is a drug-addicted dumbass who fell for the oldest lie in the book from a man we left behind years ago? Yeah. I understand perfectly.”

  This time, the silence was absolute. Even the low murmuring of the elves in the back ceased, leaving nothing but the creak of the wagon and the heavy weight of shared discomfort.

  After minutes of this void, a sharp, hitching breath broke it. Valerie’s shoulders began to shake. Then, the dam broke. Quiet sobs wracked her frame, ugly and helpless.

  “The hell are you crying for now?” Vincent’s voice was pure, undiluted annoyance. “What’s the play here, Valerie? Can’t win with words, so you’re trying to win with tears?”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “I’m—I’m sorry!” she choked out, the apology mangled by a sob.

  “I don’t want your sorry,” he snapped, finally shooting her a glare that could freeze fire. “I want you to learn. For once in your life, I want you to think before you dive headfirst into a pile of shit. But since you can’t do that, the least you can do is give me some quiet.”

  *Hic—sob—hic—*

  The sound grated on him, fueling his anger. It was the sound of consequences, and she was the only one who ever got to make it.

  “I swear to God,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “If you don’t shut up, I will give you a real reason to cry.”

  The sobbing cut off instantly, replaced by a terrified, shaky silence. She stared straight ahead, tears still streaming down her cheeks, but she made no more sound.

  The heavy silence clung to them for the rest of the journey, unbroken even as the wagon wheels began to clatter on the cobblestone streets of the waking city. The sun was rising, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink that felt like a mockery of Vincent's mood.

  "Just great," he muttered, his voice rough with exhaustion. Every muscle ached, his head throbbed with a persistent drumbeat of fatigue, and the sight of Valerie sleeping peacefully beside him—oblivious to the carnage he’d waded through for her—sharpened his irritation into a fine point.

  Yet, beneath the sourness, a single, comforting thought persisted: This is the last time. By tonight, I’ll be free of this damned village.

  As the familiar, oppressive gates of their family estate came into view, he reached over and gave Valerie’s shoulder a rough, impersonal shake.

  “Oi.”

  “Wha…?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep and residual tears.

  “We’re home. Get the elves inside and keep them out of sight. I’m going to get supplies and my weapons for the trip.”

  “The trip?” She blinked, confusion cutting through her drowsiness. “Why do you need to accompany them? They can find their own way back.”

  Vincent’s patience, already stretched to its limit, snapped. “For fuck’s sake, Valerie. Just do what I tell you without arguing. Stop being a pain.”

  Before she could form another word of protest, he vaulted down from the wagon seat, his boots hitting the cobblestones with a definitive thud. Without a backward glance, he strode toward the blacksmith’s forge, the promise of cold steel and a long-awaited weapon the only thing on his mind.

  After a somewhat short walk he finally reached the forge

  It was just as he remembered: a workshop that looked extremely worn out, with all kinds of weeds, grass, and mold growing between the ancient bricks of its walls. The wooden sign above the door, once carved with a proud hammer and anvil, was now so faded and splintered it was almost unreadable. A faint plume of smoke trickled from the chimney, the only sign that the place wasn't completely abandoned.

  Vincent pushed the creaking door open and stepped inside, the familiar scent of coal dust, hot metal, and old oil washing over him.

  *Probably the only thing I’ll miss from this damned place* Vincent thought, the forge's familiar heat a welcome contrast to the morning chill.

  Before he could call out, a gravelly voice rasped from the soot-stained shadows near the anvil. “Vincent? You’re here early.” The old blacksmith emerged, wiping his hands on a grimy apron. He looked like death warmed over—eyes bloodshot, skin pale beneath a layer of soot and sweat.

  “You look terrible, old man,” Vincent commented, his bluntness softened by a tone of casual familiarity.

  The smith waved a dismissive, calloused hand. “Haven’t slept since yesterday morning. Was on the final quench and temper for your monster of a sword. Got too in the groove to stop.”

  “I almost feel bad for you,” Vincent said, though a flicker of anticipation cut through his exhaustion. “But I’ll assume this means it’s finished.”

  “Aye, it’s done.” The old man gestured for Vincent to follow as he turned toward the back room. “Take it and get out. Let a man get some damned sleep.”

  “Right behind you,” Vincent said, a rare hint of genuine respect in his voice as he followed the smith into the gloom to claim his prize.

  The old blacksmith led him to a heavy workbench at the back of the forge. There, resting on a bed of stained burlap, was the Zweihander.

  It was even more imposing than Vincent had imagined. The long, brutal blade seemed to drink the dim light of the forge, the pattern-welded steel revealing its watery, swirling patterns only when the light hit it just right. The ricasso was neatly wrapped in dark, sturdy leather, ready for a master's grip. The entire weapon spoke of terrifying potential.

  “There she is,” the smith grunted, a note of pride cutting through his exhaustion. “A beast. Hope your arms are as strong as your advance payment was.”

  Vincent reached out, his fingers closing around the leather-wrapped grip. The balance was perfect. He lifted it, the significant weight feeling less like a burden and more like the fulfillment of a promise—an extension of his own will to break whatever stood in his way.

  “It’ll do,” Vincent said, the understatement hanging in the air. He slid the massive blade into the custom scabbard that leaned against the bench. “And the knives?”

  The smith let out a weary sigh that turned into a cough, but he hobbled over to a drawer and pulled out a worn leather roll. He unfurled it on the bench to reveal six perfectly balanced throwing knives, their points needle-sharp, their grips wrapped in tight cord.

  “Fine. Take ‘em. The deal is done. Now, for the love of all that’s quiet, let me sleep.” The old man didn’t wait for a response, already shuffling toward his cot in the corner.

  Vincent secured the knife roll to his belt. The weight of the Zweihander on his back and the knives at his hip were a constant, comforting pressure. It was the weight of being prepared. The weight of a new beginning.

  He stepped out of the forge, the early morning sun feeling different on his skin now. He looked toward his family’s estate, then down the road that led out of the village.

  *One last delay*, he thought, a wave of fatigue finally crashing over him now that his goal was in sight. *A long rest. Then, by tonight, I'm gone*