CHAPTER 67: 67: THE STRANGER RETURNS IX

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"We will discuss it," Fizz said with the grave certainty of someone who had already decided. He yawned, which was a small beam of light that stretched his whole body, then blinked the sleep away. "I will keep watch while you sleep. If the tub makes any sudden moves I will bite it."

"Do not bite the furniture," John said. "You don’t have to be funny all the time."

"Fine. I will glare at it in a way that makes it grow moss." Fizz replied.

John stood and crossed the room to bank the coals. He set the iron screen in place. He checked the latch on the door and the position of the ledger and the stack of orders as if a neat table could guarantee a neat dawn. He returned to the bench and stretched out along it with the towel under his head. Fizz settled above him like a small moon that had decided one man was worth orbiting.

The night settled back around them. The forge breathed. The village slept. Somewhere far away a noble house dreamed of itself and did not yet know that a nameless boy had started counting its remaining good days.

John let his eyes close. The water had not won. The past had not won. Neither had he. Not yet. But the line had moved, and sometimes that is the only honest kind of victory there is.

Fizz whispered without moving. "Good night, John."

Good night, Fizz, John said.

They slept while the tub cooled and the flag on the imaginary pancake tower flapped in a wind only they could hear.

A few hours later...

The forge woke slowly, like an old friend stretching his limbs after a long sleep. A pale stripe of light pushed through the shutters, brushing over the neat rows of tongs and hammers. The coals in the hearth had dulled to a tired red, their heat just enough to keep the night’s damp from settling.

John was already awake.

He sat at the small workbench in the corner, ledger open in front of him, the tip of his pencil ticking across the paper with steady purpose. His hair was slightly damp from the cloth he’d used earlier —no tub this morning, not yet — but there was a certain calm to the way his shoulders rested as he worked.

Fizz hovered upside down above the ledger, watching with an exaggerated squint.

"Your handwriting is improving," Fizz declared.

John didn’t look up. "It’s the same as yesterday."

"No, yesterday your ’g’ looked like it was trying to be a pretzel," Fizz said, drifting lazily in a circle. "Now it’s more like... a dignified snake. Still ugly, but confident."

John tapped the pencil against the paper. "I’ll keep that in mind."

"You should. Merchants respect good penmanship. They think it means you have clean boots and a lot of secrets."

"Do they?" John asked.

Fizz leaned closer, his tiny glow brushing the side of John’s face. "Also, you should remember that today is our first public appearance since your glorious tub battle last night. You look handsome."

John’s brow twitched. "It wasn’t a battle."

"It was," Fizz insisted. "You fought. You conquered. You survived my charm without drowning in it. History will remember it."

"I’d rather it didn’t." John replied.

Fizz clutched his tiny furry chest. "Such cruelty. Here I am, your emotional support, cute fur, and you want to erase my greatest therapeutic achievement. Nah, not happening."

John set the pencil down and closed the ledger. "We have merchants to deal with. Keep yourself focused. Please don’t sign for them."

Fizz flipped upright in the air. "I am always focused. My focus just wanders sometimes. And, I only sing for you and myself. Not for some nobody."

A few moments later...

By the time they stepped out into the street, the village was fully awake. The air carried the smell of baking bread and damp earth, a mix of homely comfort and the faint tang of smoke from the morning cookfires. Villagers moved between stalls with baskets on their arms, calling greetings to each other over the clatter of cart wheels.

At the far end of the street, two merchant wagons were pulling in, the horses’ hooves clopping against the packed dirt. The lead wagon was painted a deep blue, the wood polished enough to catch the sunlight. Behind it rolled a smaller cart with a tarp covering its load, the driver keeping a cautious pace.

Gael stood at the edge of the forge yard, arms folded, watching their approach. His blacksmith’s apron was already dusted with ash despite the early hour, and his beard still carried the faint smell of oil.

"Right on time," he said as John came up beside him.

"They’re from East Hollow village?" John asked.

"That’s right. They have been trading along the southern route for years. Reliable, if you keep the deals clean."

John nodded, eyes on the lead wagon. "And if you don’t?"

Gael grunted. "Then they’re as slippery as the next lot. But I’ve gathered some information about them when we talked. They’ll want to see our goods before they talk about coins."

Fizz zipped forward a few paces, tail flicking. "Oh, I’m ready for this. I’ve been practicing my intimidating stare."

"You don’t need to intimidate anyone," John said.

"I do if they start haggling too low," Fizz replied. "I’ll just hover over their shoulder and breathe menacingly."

"That’s not how breathing works," John muttered.

The wagons rolled to a stop in front of the forge. A tall man in a well cut brown coat stepped down from the lead wagon, brushing dust from his sleeves. His hair was silver at the temples, his eyes sharp and assessing. Behind him, a younger assistant jumped down from the second cart, carrying a leather-bound ledger under one arm.

"Gael," the older man greeted with a firm handshake. "Still burning through iron faster than the mines can dig it up, I see."

"Good to see you too, Moran," Gael replied. "This is John, my helper and designer. He’s the one you’ll want to talk to about the new pieces."