Chapter Text
The early 15th century was a time of turmoil in Holy Roman Empire which had flourished under the rule of the late emperor Charles IV. But now, with his son Wenceslas "The Idle" on the Bohemian throne, it was falling into dissaray.
The king's inactivity angered many of the nobility as well as his half-brother, King Sigismund of Hungary, who decided to take drastic steps to ensure order in the Empire...
The March of 1403 brought the first touches of spring surprisingly early, to the great delight of many. The land breathed the scent of fresh grass and hummed gently with the wind rustling through the forests. Early bees circled around the timid heads of snowdrops, primroses, and hellebores, adding to the symphony of renewal.
The village of Silver Skalitz lay hidden from the world by deep, rich woods along the Sázava River, making it a tranquil haven for its inhabitants. Home to several dozen hardworking souls, it thrived quietly as they labored to earn their daily bread. Beneath the surface, silver mines—veins of the earth herself—coursed through the underground, pumping precious metal up into the realm and giving the village its name.
At the heart of the village, dusty paths wound between timber-framed houses adorned with ivy and budding flowers. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, hinting at warm hearths within, while villagers gathered outside to exchange greetings and stories. A bustling marketplace thrived with life, colorful stalls showcasing textiles, pottery, and the first harvest of spring greens.
Above the village, perched on a rocky outcrop, stood the imposing stone castle, its towers watching over the domain below. The proud red-and-white banners of the noble family fluttered in the gentle breeze, declaring their presence and guardianship over the village, the mines, and the people.
Children laughed as they chased one another across the emerald fields, while elders sat beneath blossoming trees, their faces reflecting gratitude for the early warmth. The scent of spring mingled with the earthy tones of woodsmoke and freshly turned soil, painting a picture of harmonious labor and quiet resilience.
Sharp, rhythmic bangs echoed through the air from the smithy, nestled near the castle gates where sturdy iron was forged by skilled hands.
"Henry!" The blacksmith Martin's voice rang out with authority, carrying across the yard to the house behind him. "Where's the damn lad, Henry!"
Martin was a man of rugged strength, his broad shoulders and muscled arms evidence of countless hours wielding the hammer at his forge. His black hair, faintly streaked with silver, was cropped short and perpetually tousled, often clinging to his brow with sweat and soot.
"Henry! Get up or I'll come get you myself, you slugabed!"
His frustrations were met with an answer before long. "Here!" A tall, gangly youth emerged from the doorway, sleep still fogging his blue eyes, with one shoe dangling from his hand. "What? It's still e-aaaah-early," he murmured, suppressing a yawn.
Martin's deep-set eyes regarded the boy with a mixture of exasperation and affection. He sighed heavily. "How many times do I have to tell you—"
"I know, I know," Henry interrupted, shuffling toward the forge in hurried strides, his youthful energy betraying his supposed fatigue. "I'm sorry, father."
"I very much doubt that," Martin grumbled, his gaze catching on the bandage wrapped around Henry's hand. "And don't tell me you've been at it again. You’ve been playing at swords, haven’t you?"
"It's nothing," Henry replied quickly, a touch of defensiveness in his tone. "Just a scratch."
Martin crossed his arms, his expression stern. "You know what I think about it, don’t you?"
"It’s just a scratch!" Henry protested.
"Very well," Martin conceded, shaking his head in resignation before turning back to his work. "I need you to go to the village," he continued, adressing the corner of his furnace. Pick up some charcoal from the market, and see if the Deutsch has returned from the master in Sassau. If he’s brought everything, we could finish that sword today."
"Finish it?" Henry’s eyes lit up with excitement. "The blade for Sir Radzig? You're really done?"
"I’ll wait for you with it," Martin promised, a hint of pride softening his gruff demeanor. "But hurry up now, you rogue, and you'd better steer clear of the pub on your way. Do you hear me? Blanka will thank you for giving her at least one morning of peace."
Henry smirked but nodded quickly. "Understood, father."
The sun was considerably higher when Henry slipped out through the pub’s back door, Blanka behind him fixing her hair with a soft giggle. It hadn’t delayed him that much, had it? No one would notice.
"Are you coming to the dance tomorrow?" Henry asked, throwing her a grin.
She shrugged. "It’s happening at the pub, so if I’m not busy—"
"Oh, come on," he groaned, clutching his chest. "You need to have a dance. It’d be a sin if you spent the whole night running around, fetching beer for drunkards like—"
"—like you?" she quipped, raising an eyebrow. "Well then. But now you really have to go. My father’s going to start looking for me soon, and I still have to visit Mary. I promised I’d come. She's heartbroken, poor soul."
"Heartbroken?" Henry frowned. "Freckled Mary? Don’t tell me she got herself a man."
"It’s her cat." Blanka glared at him, unimpressed. "It’s dead."
"Oh." Henry scratched his head awkwardly. "I’m… sorry."
Blanka glanced around, lowering her voice as she leaned in. "She thinks the young lord jinxed it."
"Wasn’t that cat like a hundred?"
"Think about it," she pressed. "Just yesterday, he was walking by her cottage—heading straight into the woods. Walking! Alone! A nobleman! And he’s strange, Henry. There’s something off about him—a devil’s presence, you know. And now? Well, he stopped by her cottage and touched the cat. And now - the cat’s dead. Stiff as a doornail."
"Ugh…" Henry sighed, raising his hands in defeat. "Alright, alright. I’ll trust you on this one. I didn’t even know he was back."
He gave Blanka a quick kiss goodbye and sneaked out from the pub's backyard back on the street.
He strode down the uneven, dusty path, his eyes scanning the familiar sights of the village. The timber-framed houses with their sagging roofs stood as they always had, a little crooked in places. Smoke rose from chimneys carrying the faint smell of whatever the neighbors were cooking—not that it ever smelled particularly interesting.
The market was its usual flurry of noise and commotion. Neighbours haggled over sacks of grain and stacks of firewood, the voices blending into an indistinct buzz. Stalls stood crammed together, their wooden counters worn smooth from years of elbows leaning on them. A mule tied nearby flicked its tail lazily, oblivious to the chaos around it.
"Twenty pounds of charcoal, as usual?"
"Yes, thank you." Henry grabbed the sack and hoisted it over his shoulder.
"Pass your father my regards," the merchant said with a grin. "The horseshoes he made me are still as good as new, even after some bloody mess on the roads. No one cares about keeping the roads fixed these days. What does a king have to do with nobles letting the roads go to ruin, you tell me."
"Who knows?" Henry shrugged. "They’re busy, I suppose. I heard many are off fighting Sigismund now."
"Well, Sir Radzig’s still here," the merchant muttered, gesturing toward the banner fluttering above the castle gates. "But he had his son called back from the convent. Raising an heir in a convent—where is this country headed? The boy doesn’t even look like a warrior. Poor Sir Radzig. All that strength and honor, and his Monk-heir looks like he’d faint at the sight of blood. Hardly seems fair, does it?"
"Blanka told me he jinxed a dead cat," Henry said, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone. "Maybe."
The merchant scratched his chin as though the idea only confirmed his suspicions. "Maybe that’s why they kept him in that convent. It doesn’t bode well, believe me."
"He came back during that awful storm, didn’t he?" The baker’s wife, overhearing, stopped in her tracks to join the conversation. "You remember, three weeks ago—the wind howling, thunder shaking the whole valley—and then there he was, on that pale horse, looking like death itself. I swear, the way the lightning lit up his face… my blood went cold just seeing him. And by morning, all our stew went sour!"
"Holy Virgin, protect us from evil!"
"I gotta go; I’m already late," Henry said, waving the merchant goodbye. "Deutch brought somethin’ back from Sassau, and I need to pick it up."
"If not at home, you’ll find him at the bailiff’s," the baker’s wife chimed in, grinning wide. "Someone went and threw a load o’ dung at his house. A big load. A whole cow’s worth, they say!"
This news barely raised an eyebrow from Henry; it wasn’t new to him. He strolled off from the marketplace, cutting through the back yards until he reached Deutsch’s freshly limewashed house. He stopped behind the barn, where he found Fritz and Matthew, nearly doubled over with laughter. They were listening to the string of angry German curses flying from the front of the house.
"So you lot actually did it," Henry said, leaning against the barn door with a sly grin.
"Course we did!" Fritz puffed out his chest proudly, still chuckling. "Deutsch needs to learn—spew filth about the king, and you get filth in return. Ain’t nothin’ better to teach a lesson than a wall o’ dung!"
"Maybe you could get the Monk-heir to jinx him," Henry suggested lightly, "you know, like Mary's cat."
"He jinxed a cat?"
"He jinxed it dead, Blanka told me," Henry shrugged and straightened up his back. "And you should leave before the Deutch finds you and put two and two together."
"He jinxed a cat dead?" Matthew added with interest. "Well, that's something. You could expect it though. It was a matter of time. We're lucky it's just the cat."
"What do you mean?"
Matthew gestured the others closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "My mum says Pavel from the garrison slipped from the battlement three days ago. Hurt his shoulder real bad. Couldn't even move it."
Henry frowned. "I saw Pavel yesterday. Looked fine to me."
"That's the point!" Matthew exclaimed, eyes wide. "Mum says the Monk-heir came to the barracks. Just a moment later, Pavel screamed, loud enough to wake the dead. Like he was being dragged to hell. Then, poof—his shoulder was fixed. Just like that!"
Henry furrowed his brow, trying to piece it together. His father had dealt with injuries plenty of times in the forge—dislocated shoulders, jammed fingers, the odd broken bone from lads fooling around. He’d watched Martin’s strong hands reposition a shoulder with one precise motion, accompanied by a yelp from the poor fellow on the receiving end.
"Maybe... maybe he just put it back into place," Henry suggested hesitantly. "It doesn’t take a sorcerer to do that. My father fixes shoulders when the lads from the tavern get rough."
Fritz snorted. "Fix a shoulder by making a man scream bloody murder? Sounds more like a curse than a cure, if you ask me."
Matthew nodded vigorously. "Exactly! You think it’s just fixing, but who knows what else he’s done? He jinxed that cat, didn’t he? Maybe he's making deals with dark forces—first the cat, now Pavel. Mum says we should all pray for Pavel, just in case he’s cursed now."
Henry wanted to argue, but his thoughts wandered back to the Monk-heir. The way Blanka had whispered about him jinxing Mary's cat. The screams Matthew described echoed in his imagination, and for a fleeting moment, Henry felt a chill run down his back.
"It's probably nothing," he muttered, shaking his head to dispel the image. But as he glanced at his friends, it was clear they were far from convinced. Fritz and Matthew were already grumbling about needing to head to church earlier than Sunday.
"I'm here!" Henry called over the sound of his father's hammer as he arrived back at the forge, the package from Sassau in his hands and a large sack of charcoal slung over his shoulder.
"It took you long enough," Martin muttered into the fire. "Do you have everything?"
"Right here," Henry replied.
Almost reverently, he placed the package onto the forge’s table. Dusting off his hands, he shot a quick glance at his father before tugging at the wrapping.
Finally.
The contents revealed themselves, taking his breath away. The pommel and crossguard inside were unlike anything he’d ever seen. The craftsmanship was astonishing—intricate designs carved into the pommel, glinting brilliantly in the forge’s light. The crossguard, elegantly curved, was adorned with scrolling filigree and encrusted with tiny gemstones that sparkled like distant stars.
Henry hesitated to touch them, almost feeling unworthy to handle something so finely made.
"So this is what a true knight’s sword will look like," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He imagined Lord Radzig holding the blade, cutting a striking figure on the battlefield, a knight made legend.
Martin, wiping soot from his brow, glanced at the table. "Ah, nice work," he said, his tone betraying a hint of approval. "The masters in Sassau have outdone themselves. That’ll make Lord Radzig’s sword something to behold."
"What does the inscription mean?"
"Damned if I know," Martin shook his head, studying the engravings on the crossguard. "Doesn't look like czech to me, latin maybe. Lord Radzig ordered it."
"Think he’ll use it in battle?" Henry asked, his voice still tinged with awe.
Martin’s expression darkened slightly as he leaned closer to inspect the craftsmanship. "Maybe," he said quietly. "But I hope not."
Henry frowned. "Why not? Isn’t that what swords are for?"
Martin rested a hand on the table, his fingers brushing lightly over the engravings. "A sword like this isn’t just a weapon, lad. It’s a symbol. But when a noble takes such a blade into battle, it’s not just his life at risk. Brave men will follow him. Good men. They won’t have swords like this to protect them and it's them who dies first. When blood is spilled, it’s all the same—fine steel or simple iron. A sword doesn’t care whose hand it’s in."
Henry nodded absently, his eyes fixed on the pommel, the falcon carving captivating his thoughts. "Even so," he murmured, his voice filled with awe, "it’s incredible."
Martin placed a calloused hand on Henry’s shoulder, his grip firm but kind. "It’s what we do," he said simply. "A blade like this—it’s as much for show as it is for combat. A symbol of honor, power… and the craftsman’s skill."
Henry carefully put the pieces down, handling them as though they carried the weight of responsibility—not just for Lord Radzig, but for his father as well.
"This will be the finest sword I've ever made," Martin allowed himself a bit of craftsman's pride. "You got the charcoal? Good. The fire up the forge and we'll put it all together."
Henry rolled up his sleeves and hauled a bucket of water to the quenching barrel, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. The tools were laid out neatly, and the air grew heavier with the familiar scent of charcoal and iron. He relished this part—the fire, the sparks, the rhythm. With steady hands, he shoveled charcoal into the forge and grabbed the bellows, pumping them until the flames roared to life, the heat pricking his skin.
Martin’s voice broke through from behind. "By the way, I heard rumors about what happened to the Deutch. Something about him and his freshly limewashed house. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?"
Henry stiffened under his father’s inquisitive gaze. "Maybe." He didn’t turn around.
"Maybe?" Martin repeated, his tone sharp. "And maybe those cronies of yours had something to do with it?"
"The Deutch was spouting treason about Sigismund and the king," Henry shot back, his face flushed from the heat of the forge. "He got what he deserved."
Martin sighed heavily. "Got what he deserved, did he? I don’t know whether it was you or your friends behind it, but it’s all the same to me. Getting my son in the pillory helps no one—not you, not me, and certainly not the king. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
Martin’s voice hardened. "Look me in the eye, Henry. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Henry muttered, staring down at his shoes.
Martin shook his head but didn’t press the issue further. "So the Deutch spouts rubbish. So what? You might win a fight with violence, but you’ll never win an argument. Think about it."
"The furnace is ready," Henry said stiffly, straightening his back.
“Good. Let’s get to the grip,” Martin replied, gesturing to the polished pieces resting on the table.
Henry fetched them carefully, holding them like treasure. Martin took the blade, its polished steel gleaming even in the dim light—a testament to hours of meticulous work.
"Now we fit the hilt. Steady, lad."
Henry held the crossguard in place as Martin slid it onto the blade, tapping it into position with a wooden mallet. The pommel came next, its weight perfectly balancing the sword. Together, they secured it with a rivet, Martin’s hammer ringing out in steady, deliberate beats.
The sound echoed in the forge, and Henry couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride as the sword came together—a thing of beauty and power, born from their labor.
“There,” Martin said, stepping back and wiping his brow. “It’s done.”
Henry stared at the completed sword, his breath caught. The engravings on the pommel, the elegant curve of the crossguard, the flawless steel—all of it was perfect. "Sir Radzig deserves it," he said softly.
"He’s a good lord," Martin conceded. "Fair and just."
"He is but... that’s not what I meant." Henry wiped his hands on his trousers and lowered his voice. "I mean... that curse and everything. It can’t be easy."
Martin raised an eyebrow. "What curse?"
"Haven’t you heard? Everyone’s talking about it—about Monk-heir coming back from Sassau."
Martin nodded thoughtfully. "I’ve heard some of it—storms, cursed mines, devil deals. All rubbish and superstition. You ought to know better, lad."
"Still," Henry hesitated, "everyone’s talking..."
"People love misery, especially if it belongs to someone else," Martin said sharply. "Lord Radzig does well to keep the boy away from prying eyes."
Henry studied his father for a moment. "You learned that in Prague, didn’t you?" he asked. "Ma said you lived there when you were young."
"I did," Martin replied simply, glancing over the peaceful village below. "A long time ago."
"Why did you leave?" Henry frowned. "A master swordsmith making horseshoes here in Skalitz—it doesn’t add up."
Instead of answering, Martin picked up a piece of wax and began polishing the finished blade. Finally, he spoke. "I had my reasons, Hal. And here, I’ve got you, your mother—why would I want another life?"
Henry pressed on. "But-"
"I’ll tell you one thing for certain," Martin interrupted firmly, his voice steady. "Gossip’s an ugly thing, especially when it’s about a lord and especially in his presence."
"I wouldn’t—of course not!" Henry stammered.
"Then shut your bread-hole and wash your face," Martin said, his gaze flicking to the village below. "We’ve got visitors."
Henry quickly stood up, wiping his hands clean with a rag as his attention shifted to the hill below the forge.
Lord Radzig was quickly approaching, followed by two people Henry didn't know. There was no mistaking him though —Henry had seen him countless times around the village, overseeing matters or riding out with his guards. Yet every time there was something about the way Radzig carried himself that left an impression. His presence seemed effortless, commanding respect without ever demanding it.
Henry’s eyes lingered on his brown hair, brushed back neatly but beginning to gray at the edges, framing a face lined with years of experience. The beard and mustache he wore suited him, giving him the look of someone who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. His expression was calm, unreadable as always, but the sharpness in his gaze suggested he missed nothing.
His clothing was, as always, finely tailored but unpretentious—embroidered with subtle patterns and fastened with gleaming silver buttons. Over his shoulders lay a simple mantle, its silver brooch catching the sunlight with a quiet elegance. Henry had noticed before how Radzig’s attire reflected him so well: thoughtful but never extravagant. It wasn’t his clothing that made him stand out—it was simply the man himself.
“Look sharp, lad,” Martin said, breaking Henry’s focus. His father’s tone was steady but firm. “And remember—he’s not just here for the sword. He’s here for the work.”
Henry nodded, though his attention remained on the lord. As always, Henry couldn’t help but feel that this was a man who saw things for what they were—and for what they could be.
As Radzig paused to survey the village below, Henry felt his heart pound. For years, he had watched the lord from afar, always imagining him as the embodiment of knighthood—strong, decisive, and flawless.
“Hal, stop gawping and fetch the sword,” Martin snapped, pulling Henry from his thoughts. “He won't be walking up here forever.”
Henry scrambled to obey, carefully lifting the blade. It felt heavier now—not just a weapon, but a reflection of the man who would wield it. Watching Radzig draw closer, Henry gripped the sword tightly, hoping he’d live up to the expectations of both his father and the lord.
“Martin!” Radzig greeted warmly, his tone carrying the ease of a man who felt at home wherever he went. As he approached the smithy, his composed stride matched the air of familiarity in his smile. “God bless.”
“Same to you, my lord,” Martin replied, bowing deeply. He nudged Henry, who hurriedly followed suit, his movements stiff with nervousness.
Radzig’s eyes drifted from father to son, then settled on the sword Henry was clutching. His gaze lingered on the polished steel, the glint of firelight reflecting off the blade.
“Well, look at that,” he said, his tone edged with genuine admiration. “Though I expected nothing less from such a renowned swordsmith.”
Martin took the sword from Henry’s hands, offering it to Radzig with a respectful bow. “Those days are long behind me, sir,” he said humbly.
Radzig’s brow furrowed ever so slightly as he rotated the sword in his hands, feeling its balance and testing its weight. “Perhaps,” he replied softly, “but you’ve certainly kept your skill.” He turned to one of his companions, a portly man dressed in richly embroidered clothing topped with a chaperon that announced his taste for luxury. “A thing of beauty, wouldn’t you agree, Sir Istvan?”
Sir Istvan accepted the weapon with an easy smile, his jovial demeanor belying a sharp mind. He inspected the blade, turning it this way and that in the flickering light. “Excellent—truly excellent,” he said warmly. “Had I wielded such a sword at Nicopolis, the day might’ve ended differently for us all.”
Radzig offered Istvan a faint smile, though his attention already shifted to his second companion - a young man lingering near the fence, almost deliberately out of reach of the conversation. He seemed more absorbed in the weeds at his feet than the craft on display, but straightened abruptly when he felt Radzig’s gaze settle on him.
“Master Martin has outdone himself with this sword, Hynek,” Radzig said, his voice taking on a slight edge as if compelling the young man to engage.
Hynek hesitated but nodded all the same. “It looks masterfully done,” he said, his tone muted, as if reciting a lesson learned rather than offering a genuine opinion.
Radzig sighed and turned away, taking the sword back from Istvan. “My son isn’t one for such things, I’m afraid.”
Henry’s eyes widened as he stared at the young man. So this was the Monk-heir — the center of every whispered rumor in the village.
What stood before him was... unexpected.
Hynek’s frame was slender to the point of frailty, his shoulders slightly hunched as though burdened by an unseen weight. His face, pale and drawn, carried an unhealthy pallor that reminded Henry of someone recovering from a long illness—or still fighting one.
His clothes, though fine and tailored, looked incongruous against his ghostly appearance, their rich fabric and embroidery almost mocking the hollowness of the boy wearing them. Simple wooder rosary was hanging down his wrist.
What struck Henry most, though, was Hynek's demeanor. Where Radzig radiated strength and authority, his son seemed diminished, shrinking beneath the weight of his father’s presence. His gaze drifted aimlessly, avoiding meeting the eyes of anyone, as though he’d rather fade into the background entirely. When Radzig addressed him, Hynek’s voice was soft and hesitant, the words lacking conviction.
And yet, there was something that lingered—a subtle tension, a spark in his weary blue eyes when he caught Henry staring. It was fleeting, a flicker of frustration or defiance, extinguished as quickly as it appeared.
He wasn’t sure what he felt—pity, curiosity, or perhaps even resentment.
But then Henry, unable to help himself, stared longer than he should have and their eyes met. He expected Hynek to look away, to dismiss him - but instead, Hynek seemed to pause. His blue eyes, sharp despite the weary pallor of his face, narrowed ever so slightly. It wasn’t anger that flickered there, nor fear. Intrigue.
Henry flushed and quickly averted his gaze, but the feeling lingered. It wasn’t pity or disdain he had seen in Hynek’s eyes—it was as though, for just a moment, Henry had surprised him.
"A man of this talent would easily make a fortune in Prague or Vienna." Jovial voice of Sir Istvan brought Henry back to the present.
Lord Radzig smiled. "It's a long and complicated story. And I'm grateful he's here." The lord's eyes lingered on Henry. "Would you like to try it?" he asked unexpectedly, offering him the sword's handle.
Henry reached out with excitement.
"What's a sword good to a commoner?" Martin protested with a frown. ".... Sir."
"Let him try it," Radzig decided.
With trembling hands, Henry took the sword, feeling the weight settle in his grip. It felt heavy, but not beyond his strength—more like an unfamiliar tool, one that demanded precision and skill rather than brute force. He adjusted his grip, the hilt cool and firm against his palms. The pommel dragged down his wrist, the blade felt like it had a mind of its own, and the polished steel glinted mockingly as if aware of his inexperience.
Radzig stepped back, giving him space. “Relax your shoulders,” he advised. “Hold it steady.”
Henry obeyed, his stance solid, and swung the blade in a wide arc. The motion was powerful—too powerful. The sword’s weight carried him farther than he intended, pulling him off balance as his swing veered awkwardly. He managed to recover, but not before a twinge of embarrassment flushed his cheeks.
“Not bad,” Radzig said, though there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Loosen your grip. You’re not wrestling an ox.”
Henry nodded, adjusting his hold and trying again. This time, the blade moved with more control, though his swing was far from graceful. He could feel the power in the weapon, but the precision eluded him. His next attempt was more confident, yet still clumsy—each motion betrayed his inexperience.
Istvan let out a hearty laugh. “Careful, boy! You’ll cleave the air well enough, but a moving target might give you trouble.”
“Again,” Radzig said patiently. “Let the blade do the work. It’s not a hammer.”
Henry took another swing, gritting his teeth as he tried to follow Radzig’s advice. The blade cut through the air with force but still lacked finesse. His strength wasn’t the issue—it was his unfamiliarity with the rhythm, the flow of the weapon. After a final swing that ended in an awkward stumble, Henry lowered the sword, his chest rising and falling with exertion.
Hynek, standing quietly to the side, watched intently. His sharp eyes followed every movement, his expression calm but unreadable. Henry felt the weight of that gaze, as though the Monk-heir could see every flaw in his technique, every misstep.
“Well,” Hynek said softly, his voice carrying a faint note of humor, “we wield the thing about the same way, I'd say, Henry.”
Henry flushed, his grip tightening on the sword, but before he could respond, Radzig’s voice cut in.
“That’s not much to boast about,” Radzig said sharply, his tone suddenly heavier than before. His gaze flicked to Hynek, a subtle crease forming on his brow. “It wouldn’t kill you to pick up a sword from time to time.”
“It just might,” Hynek replied without looking up, his words quiet yet pointed. “I can crossbow.”
Radzig let out a short breath, almost a sigh, his irritation flickering for a moment. “If you call it ‘I can crossbow,’ then no—you can’t,” he said, his voice laced with exasperation.
Hynek shrugged, his lips curving in the faintest smirk, though his posture remained loose. “Arma non sunt instrumenta propria homini civili,” he murmured, the Latin slipping off his tongue with ease, and caressed the rosary in his hand.
Radzig’s expression shifted, but then he glanced toward Istvan, Martin and Henry, as though reminded of their presence.
“Keep your Latin where everyone can understand you,” the lord said, his tone softening despite the reprimand. His gaze lingered on his son for a moment, a mixture of weariness and regret visible in his eyes. “You’re right enough, though,” he added after a pause, his voice quieter now, as if tempered by his own thoughts. “But the world we live in is seldom civilized.”
The words hung in the air, and though Hynek gave no reply, his gaze seemed to sharpen, as if studying his father’s face more closely than ever.
Radzig turned to Henry, his expression easing into a warm smile. “Your father should teach you how to handle a sword,” he said, his tone softer now. “He knows it well enough—I’ve seen it myself.”
Martin frowned, his words blunt but respectful. “Learning his trade will serve him better in life, sir,” he said, adding the honorific almost as an afterthought.
Radzig raised an eyebrow, surprised by the straightforward refusal.
Henry glanced between them, a flicker of nervous pride warming his chest. He wasn’t sure what to say, but the moment felt daunting—a judgment and a challenge he hoped to rise to, given time.
“Perhaps,” Radzig conceded after a brief pause, the discomfort lingering in the air. “But who knows what the future holds for each of us?” He shifted his attention back to the sword, clearly signaling that the matter of Henry was closed. “So, it’s done?”
“It just needs a polish, sir,” Martin replied evenly. “Then my son will bring it to you.”
“Excellent,” Radzig nodded, his gaze drifting for a moment, lost in thought. “Very fine work, very fine. But we can’t keep you any longer. And Sir Istvan is on his way back to Sassau.”
“I should be on my way, true,” Istvan smiled, his charm as steady as ever. “Duty calls. Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Radzig. Perhaps we’ll meet again. And you,” he pointed at Henry, “learn from your father, boy. He’s a master of his craft.”
Both Martin and Henry bowed as the three nobles took their leave. Radzig and Istvan exchanged final pleasantries, while Hynek shuffled quietly behind them.
Henry’s eyes followed Lord Radzig all the way down the hill. Then, turning to his father, his eager expression betrayed the excitement bubbling inside. “Will you teach me how to use it, like Lord Radzig said?”
Martin sighed, his tone heavy with wisdom. “Why?”
“Well, it could come in useful,” Henry insisted. “I might travel a bit before settling down. I want to see more of the world than just the tavern on the green and the forge!”
“Do you know what the trouble with an adventurous life is, son?” Martin asked, his voice steady but grave. “It can end before it even begins. I teach you how to use a sword, and someone shoots you from the nearest bush with a crossbow.”
“You talk as if you’ve seen it happen.”
“A man my age has seen plenty.” Martin shook his head, his gaze distant for a moment. “Being a blacksmith might bring you no glory, but it has its benefits—like keeping your head firmly on your shoulders. And I… I want to end my days here, in Skalitz, under the linden tree, by your mother’s side. For seeing the world, meeting people, there’s no need to learn swordplay.”
“But—”
“We won’t speak of it again. And if I’m not mistaken, you’ve promised miller’s Theresa some tempered nails. So—get on with it.”
Henry huffed in frustration, turning reluctantly toward the forge. Before he began his work, he allowed himself one last glance up the hill, toward Radzig’s castle. He longed for something—though he wasn’t sure what—but there was something. He could feel it.