My third year began with a different kind of light.
No longer the glow of the forge's embers, but the light in the eyes of people who looked at me with hope and admiration.
"Alexander!"
A young boy ran toward me, holding tightly a wooden sword I had crafted. Behind him, his mother followed with a soft laugh.
"Thank you, Master Blacksmith. He never lets go of that sword, not even in his sleep."
I nodded, gently patting the boy's head. "Don't forget—the best sword isn't the sharpest one, but the one wielded by a brave heart."
As time passed, greetings and praise like that became common. The villagers called me a hero who forged hope into steel. Soldiers came almost every week: placing orders for weapons, shields, or simply asking for advice on combat.
But behind all of it, I still carried a void—one that couldn't be filled with hammer and iron.
Uncle…
Every morning, I passed his house, now dusty and abandoned. Sometimes I'd sit by his door, hoping for a sign of his return.
Carrying warm bread and cheese for lunch, I walked through the marketplace. The townsfolk greeted me, praised me, smiling as though I were the pillar holding this village together.
And I smiled back.
But behind that smile, my heart kept asking the same question—lingering like soot at the base of the forge.
What am I living for?
I left the market and stood between the fields, looking up at the sky. The wind carried the scent of shifting seasons. And I knew—something was coming.
Just as twilight fell, a commotion broke out on the main road. The sound of hooves and clinking chains drew everyone's attention. A royal carriage stopped in front of my forge.
"Who here is named Alexander?" asked a soldier dressed in deep blue.
I stepped forward, still holding my bread.
From inside the carriage emerged an old man wrapped in a gray fur shawl, a small crown resting atop his head. His face was lined with age, but his eyes were as sharp as any blade I had ever forged.
"I am King Nivandor, ruler of the Western Mountain region."
He stared at me for a long time, as if measuring something unseen.
"I've heard of your skill… and your spirit," he said softly. "I have not come merely to commission a sword."
I remained silent. The evening air felt heavier than usual.
"I've come," he continued, "to offer you a place worthy of someone like you. Become my warrior. Forge not only iron, but the future of this land. I want to raise you as a man of honor among my people."
King Nivandor held out his hand. "Join me, Alexander. What you've done here is only the beginning of a great wave that's approaching."
I looked at his hand, then into his aged but resolute face. Amid the villagers holding their breath, and the whispering wind through the fields, my chest tightened with something unfamiliar—a sense of destiny.
And once more, quietly, my heart asked:
Uncle, if you were here… would you say yes?