Multiple people have opined to me at length about what they think of Nova Knightclub's 'plans', how my 'vacation' might signal the Knightclub's future decisions, and so on and so forth. Still, as the Grand Knight Territory and its ghastly white glowing metal walls faded beyond the horizon, all those speculations lost their meaning. In my mind, I was simply being sent to yet another place not of my choosing. The silver lining, at least, is that I don't hate it here. Every morning in Ognisko, all the workshops fire up their furnaces at almost the same time, and the blacksmiths all hail each other good morning over the clamor of fire and metal. It's an organic, living noise that pays no heed to what outsiders bring or take away. I took up assistant duties in an arms workshop to stave off the boredom. Orders are always coming in from Kawalerielki, with plenty of familiar names attached. Nova is now raising a 'Moonlight Knight' who uses a sword made of fluid alloy—I only later found out they swapped those red wine baths and handsome manservants for moonlight hammocks and silver-furred manglerbeast sidekicks. In contrast, the blacksmith at my workshop never asks which knight she's forging for, nor does she care who I am—be it the Candle Knight or a commoner—and isn't concerned whether her weapons go to competition knights or barren mercenaries. She never reads the 'knight persona' briefing attached to any of her orders. But she does care about her craft. Sometimes, I'll stop and admire the fire in the hearth, and she'll proudly recount the tale of how the first fire came from the heavens. It fell to the land in its divinity, and where it fell the land was blessed with metal, and thus the craft of smelting and forging was born. 'Shame,' she said once, 'that nobody believes any of it now.' I told her that when I was very young, I saw fire falling from the heavens. She listened, and then she laughed, sensing how cursory my words were, how I was trying to save her from embarrassment. Changing the subject, she asked if I'd like to raise the ceiling's workshop a little, so I wouldn't have to walk everywhere stooped over. I declined, and she said no more. As if by coincidence, on my second day, a radio program came on with an astronomical report, forecasting a meteor over Ognisko. After all the furnaces in town went out that night, the blacksmith and I stood by the workshop door, and saw blue ripples across the sky. According to an old folksong, those are made as the meteors stir the starpod, though this meteor remained hidden behind the hills. The blacksmith's eyes were all aglow. Her feet set in motion, as if to chase that blazing light. After running some distance, she turned to look back at me. 'Aren't you coming?' 'I'm fine watching from here. The ripples its tail leaves in the sky are beautiful, too.' I did lie, in a way, when I told her I'd seen fire falling to the ground as a child. It was true a meteor crossed Sturmland's skies, but only the window on the wrong side was opened in my room. I didn't want to wake Father and beg him to take me outside. I never saw a meteor that evening, and so instead I clutched my ice-cold binoculars and told myself, 'It's fine. The ripples its tail leaves in the sky are beautiful, too.' And no, I was never in denial about just how achingly stunning the blazing glint of the meteor itself could be. I just never spoke of it. Just as every time I light a candle, I see only the shadow beneath it. The blacksmith vanished into the night. I looked all around, and saw the burdenbeast tethered by the workshop door. In all the knight novels, Kuranta knights could cross entire prairies on their own two feet, never in need of a steed. <i>But I am no Kuranta, and right now, no knight either</i>—This thought crossed my mind as I mounted the burdenbeast and rode off, chasing where the meteor had vanished.