The Blade and The Bloom

Frankia, 1001 A.D.

The first Sunday of the new year dawned with bells and birdsong. Paris, draped in pale mist and early sun, yawned into life slowly, as though reluctant to rise from its winter bed.

Inside the chapel of Saint Aurelius, candles flickered against stained glass, casting shards of sapphire and ruby light across the stone floor. A dozen voices sang the morning hymn, slow and reverent.

Thirteen-year-old Hugo knelt quietly in the front pew.

He had grown. His limbs were longer now, though still lean from bakery scraps and rooftop climbing. His jaw was beginning to define itself beneath the boyish roundness, and his voice — once lilting and quick — had started to settle into something deeper, more thoughtful.

He folded his hands over his Bible and bowed his head, murmuring the final line of the prayer.

“…and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

The priest concluded with a gentle blessing, and the congregation rose to their feet. Hugo followed, his silver cross glinting at his collar as he turned to go.

“Praise to God,” he whispered softly, more to himself than anyone, as he stepped into the chill morning air.

—

The forge of Master Alaric was alive with heat and hammer-song. Sparks danced in the dim light, and the scent of molten iron mingled with snowmelt in the air.

Hugo approached with a steady stride, his grimoire strapped at his back like a holy burden, Bible tucked at his side.

He ducked beneath the timber awning and peered inside. “Master Alaric?”

The blacksmith looked up from his work, sweat glistening on his brow. He was a broad-shouldered man with arms like tree trunks and a permanent scowl — which deepened at the sight of the boy.

“Oh, it’s the church lad.”

“Indeed,” Hugo said, stepping closer. “I was hoping to commission a blade.”

“You?” Alaric barked a short laugh. “What do you need with steel? Gonna slay a demon with holy water and piety?”

Hugo grinned. “If holy water doesn’t work, I’d rather have a rapier ready. Something light. Balanced. Elegant.”

Alaric scoffed but paused his hammering. “You’ve got coin?”

“Divine favor,” Hugo offered.

Alaric gave him a deadpan stare.

“…and also a dozen silver florins I, uh, borrowed from a corrupt bishop’s private wine fund.”

That got a raised eyebrow. “You robbed a bishop?”

“He was robbing the poor,” Hugo shrugged. “I’m merely… redistributing.”

From the back room came the sound of footsteps — light, quick, accompanied by the soft rustle of fabric.

Then she appeared.

Elise.

The blacksmith’s daughter.

She was thirteen, like Hugo, though she carried herself like someone born with better posture and nobler blood. Her hair was the color of freshly burnished copper, braided neatly over one shoulder, and her eyes — a bright, impossible green — were like polished peridot.

For a single moment, Hugo blinked.

Then he reminded himself of Saint Augustine, slapped himself mentally, and focused on the forge fire.

Elise tilted her head. “You’re the grimoire boy.”

He nodded. “And you’re the… very efficient delivery girl.”

She smiled, and Hugo did not combust. But his ears did turn red.

“Papa,” Elise said, “I can help him with measurements.”

Alaric grunted something approving and returned to his anvil.

Elise gestured to a wooden bench. “Sit. I need your hand length and grip span. And your dominant eye.”

“Dominant eye?”

“For aim,” she said.

“Ah. Of course.” Hugo obediently sat, holding out his hands. “Be warned: these fingers have committed unspeakable sins. Mostly stealing bread.”

Elise chuckled. “I forgive you.”

“…Praise to God,” Hugo muttered, just loud enough to hear.

She worked quickly, scribbling numbers on a wax tablet, her hands steady, eyes focused. Hugo kept his gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling, the forge wall, the fire. Anywhere but her freckles.

“You want a rapier,” she said eventually, “but with your arm length and shoulder build, you’ll need something slightly shorter. Better for maneuvering. More duelist than soldier.”

“You sound like a knight.”

“I read,” she said.

“I approve.”

When she finished, she looked up and met his eyes — steady, curious, kind. “Why a rapier?”

“Because I don’t want to kill,” Hugo said. “I want to end fights without ending people. And if I have to slay something truly wicked… well. I’ll be precise about it.”

Elise nodded, like she understood more than she let on.

“I’ll start forging it tomorrow,” she said. “Papa won’t admit it, but he likes you.”

“Because I paid?”

“Because you’re sincere,” she said. Then, with a faint smile: “And you didn’t faint when I spoke to you. Most boys do.”

Hugo coughed. “Fainting is a sin.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“It is if I say it is.”

She laughed — light and honest — and Hugo allowed himself the smallest smile in return.

—

As he left the forge, snow falling gently around him, Hugo looked skyward.

A moment passed.

“Not falling,” he said aloud. “Just… noticing.”