A month passed.
It didn't pass the way stories said time should—soft and gentle, like drifting clouds. It passed like work always did in the smithy: in repeated motions, in blistered palms, in mornings that came too early and nights that ended too late.
Zion forged. He hauled water. He swept ash from the corners. He listened when Granny Iya corrected his stance and smacked the back of his head when he got careless. Some days she spoke more than usual; other days she spoke barely at all, watching him with a distant look that made Zion's skin crawl.
And all the while, the wrapped black metal stayed close.
He kept it tied inside a strip of cloth and tucked beneath his shirt, against his ribs, where he could feel its cold weight even through sweat. Sometimes he'd wake in the night and touch it just to confirm it was still there—still real.
Because the day finally came.
The morning air was thin and pale, as if the sun itself didn't want to commit to rising. Granny Iya was already awake when Zion stumbled into the forge, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
She wasn't wearing her usual shawl.
Instead she wore a travel cloak the color of old dust, and her hair was tied back neatly, like someone trying to look ordinary while doing something that wasn't.
Zion stopped in the doorway. His stomach tightened. "Enh… Granny?"
She didn't answer immediately. She placed a small oil lamp on the workbench, then set a heavy ring of keys beside it. The keys clinked once—final, decisive.
"Come here," she said.
Zion stepped forward, slower than usual. The forge felt different today. Not colder. Not hotter.
Just… empty in advance.
Granny Iya took his hands—both of them—and turned them palm-up as if inspecting the calluses he'd earned. She nodded, once, like she was confirming something to herself.
"Listen carefully," she said. "Because I won't repeat myself."
Zion swallowed. "You're leaving today."
Granny Iya's eyes didn't soften. "Yes."
Zion's throat burned. "How long?"
"Long enough," she replied. "Maybe longer."
He wanted to argue. To demand. To grab her sleeve and refuse to let go. But all he managed was a cracked, helpless, "Why…?"
Granny Iya released his hands and pushed the ring of keys toward him.
"The smithy is yours now," she said.
Zion stared at the keys as if they were an anvil dropped onto his chest. "Mine?"
"Mine was never mine," she said. "I was only keeping it warm."
Zion's fingers closed around the keys. The metal was ordinary metal, but it felt heavier than the black piece ever had.
Granny Iya leaned closer, voice lowering until it was meant for Zion alone.
"First rule," she said. "No matter the circumstances—no matter hunger, no matter fear, no matter how desperate you become—you must not lose the black metal."
Zion's hand flew instinctively to his chest, to where the wrapped piece rested.
Granny Iya's gaze sharpened. "If you lose it, you won't get it back. And if you don't have it, you won't stay overlooked."
Zion nodded quickly. "I won't lose it."
"Second rule," she continued. "After you awaken, you will tell no one about what happens to you. Not your friends. Not the town. Not even someone you think you love."
Zion's brow furrowed. "Not anyone?"
"Not anyone," Granny Iya repeated, each word like a nail driven into wood. "Words spread. Curiosity spreads faster. And some people don't need much to start hunting."
Zion's mouth went dry. He nodded again, slower this time.
"Third rule." Granny Iya tapped his forehead lightly with two fingers. "Be humble."
Zion blinked. "Humble?"
"Power makes fools loud," she said. "And loud fools die."
Zion's jaw tightened, but he forced himself to say, "I understand."
Granny Iya studied him, then added, almost harshly, "And eat properly. Don't become one of those proud idiots who thinks hunger is proof of strength."
Despite everything, the words hit him in a familiar way—like scolding from a place that cared. Zion's eyes stung.
"I will," he muttered.
Granny Iya stepped back and lifted Zion's forging hammer from the bench—*his* hammer, the one that fit his grip. She held it out to him.
Zion took it with both hands.
"One more thing," she said.
Zion looked up.
"Never use a weapon you didn't forge with your own hands," Granny Iya said. Her voice was quiet now, but it carried weight. "That is the mindset of great forgers. You don't borrow your edge. You create it."
Zion's fingers tightened around the hammer handle. "Why?"
"Because a weapon carries the maker," Granny Iya replied. "Their intent. Their flaws. Their lies." She tilted her head. "If you must cut your path through the world… let it be with something that answers to you."
Zion breathed in shakily, trying to memorize her face—every line, every stern angle, every irritation he'd once taken for granted.
"Granny," he whispered, voice trembling, "are you coming back?"
Granny Iya's gaze flickered away for the briefest moment, as if the question reached somewhere she didn't want touched. Then she looked back at him.
"Keep breathing," she said instead. "Keep forging. Keep the veil close."
Zion's eyes spilled over. "That's not an answer."
Granny Iya's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "It's the only one you get."
She turned toward the doorway.
Zion moved without thinking, stepping after her. "Wait—"
Granny Iya stopped at the threshold and looked over her shoulder. "Zion."
"Yes?" His voice cracked.
"Don't chase me," she said.
Zion froze.
Because the tone wasn't a request.
It was a warning.
Granny Iya stepped outside.
Zion followed to the doorway anyway, blinking through tears. The street was quiet. The town looked the same as it always had—dusty paths, sleeping roofs, a few early birds calling from the trees.
And then Granny Iya moved.
Not fast like a running person.
Fast like a shadow slipping across a wall.
One step, and she was ten paces away.
Another, and the air seemed to fold around her.
Zion's breath caught in his throat. He reached out as if he could grab distance itself.
"Granny!" he shouted.
She didn't turn.
She simply lifted one hand—two fingers raised, as if in farewell, or command, or both.
Then she was gone.
Not disappeared behind a corner.
Gone—as if the world had decided she had never been there.
Zion stood in the doorway with the hammer in his hands and the keys biting into his palm. His chest shook. The tears he'd been fighting finally broke free, hot and unstoppable.
He sank to his knees on the forge's threshold and cried until the morning felt too bright.
When his sobs quieted, Zion wiped his face with his sleeve and forced himself to breathe.
The black metal pressed cold against his ribs.
He looked back into the smithy—at the anvil, the tools, the sleeping coals.
And he understood, in a way he hadn't yesterday:
The town hadn't changed.
But his life had.
He stood up, shakily, and stepped inside.
He didn't know what his awakening would bring.
But he would be ready.