[o] Forging on

Noah

It creeps in like a thief in the night
Without a sign, without a warning

She took his hand without hesitation—like it was the simplest thing in the world—and that was what did it. Not the condolences. Not the careful silence. Just that warm, steady hand in his, grounding him in a moment he had no right to survive.

Noah had held his wife’s hand through a hundred storms, through exile, through childbirth, through nights too cold to sleep. And now—just absence. The ring of her laugh, the glint in her eye, all of it pulled away by a tide that never gave anything back. She was Vi’s gift to Mort, but Noah still couldn’t reconcile that.

Glacier eyes lifted to Maea’s momentarily, before coming back to look ahead at the makeshift forge. His throat locked. He tried to blink the burn away, but it was too late. The grief came on like spring runoff—violent, rushing, hot. It broke open in his chest, thick and choking.

Maea didn’t let go. That mattered more than it should have. “They—” he started, then stopped, clearing his throat as if he could choke out the grief in his voice. He blinked back white hot tears. ”They are managing.” He forced.

Then he took in a sharp, shaky breath. ”Can you tell me more about this?” He jutted his chin towards the forge.

But we are ready and prepared to fight
Raise up your swords, don't be afraid