She didn’t wait for him before dashing through the front door, needing to weave her way through the servants rushing out. They descended upon the carriage, offering greetings to Thorda, some asking if he had any requests while others grabbed the luggage stacked to the back of the carriage. Thorda tipped his head to them upon exiting, told them to prepare him tea and a bath for later, and then turned his attention to Cyrus.

“There will be plenty of time to unpack and prepare,” he said. “As for me, I must tend to the forge.”

Torn between chasing after Stasia and sticking with Thorda, Cyrus reluctantly stayed with his master, at least until he was given explicit permission to wander the mansion freely. Arms crossed over his chest, he endured the guarded stares the serving staff attempted to hide. Did they know who he was, who he truly was, or did they think him some orphan the wealthy man had adopted and brought back to the mansion?

Neck flushing red from the scrutiny, Cyrus tried to push it out of mind and followed Thorda around the eastern corner of the mansion. While the building might be hundreds of years old, the open-faced forge beside it was clearly of newer construction. The wooden beams holding up the high rooftop had barely even weathered. The bricks were bright, the bellows built of stained wood that was surprisingly ornate and almost immaculate in its preservation. Dozens of tools lined a hanging shelf on the lone wall, and their metal was so bright and polished, they appeared unused.

Watching Thorda reignite the forge was mesmerizing. The entire trip from Vallessau, the older man had been quiet and reserved. He seemed a man always on guard, and his every word was carefully chosen. Rarely did Cyrus believe he spoke the complete truth. Here in the heat of the forge? He glistened with sweat and honesty as he prepared the coke heart of the furnace. All of his focus shifted to the fire, the stones, the levers and pumps to blow in air to get the rings of coals burning. Callused fingers brushed rows of tools hanging from hooks pounded into a wall shelf. Cyrus couldn’t even guess what purposes most of those hammers, chisels, and tongs served, but Thorda greeted them like long-lost children. Last, he put his bare hands upon the anvil’s surface. His eyes closed, and he inhaled as if communing with the enormous iron construct.

“Is there… can I help somehow?” Cyrus asked, feeling awkward standing there.

“I have no need nor want of it,” Thorda said. He lifted a hammer and twirled it in his fingers. “Forgive an older man’s obsession with what brings him comfort.”

“You’re not that old,” Cyrus said, and he grinned. “Your hair isn’t fully white, yet you talk like you’re a grandfather.”

Thorda laughed, loud and hearty. He set the hammer back upon the shelf.