The sun had risen to a pale arc over the spires of Arsenic City, its heat tempered by the eastern winds that rolled in from the flatlands. In the courtyard beside the Western Temple Annex, smoke rose—not the black spires of war-forges, but gentler plumes from heated copper pans and brass kettles used to treat and shape iron-thread wood, light-spine leather, and runed wheel cores.
It had begun with one. A single child—Lyle—with a twisted leg, who had accepted a stranger's charm and kindness.
But kindness, unlike steel, spreads faster when not tempered.
Now, under the joint directive of Lord Elric, the city's steward, and several religious and healing orders, Kalem had turned his thoughts toward those left behind by war—not soldiers, but the forgotten: broken miners, wounded scribes, plague-struck children, and elders with bowed backs who could no longer walk upright.
It was a strange sight.
A man known for rending open battlefields, whose name was whispered like storm-song by those who survived the Blood Crusade, now stood surrounded by artisans and young disciples, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, explaining to a pair of temple acolytes how to properly line the inner wheel ring.
"The rune must go beneath the frame, not atop it," Kalem said, his long fingers guiding a boy's trembling hand. "Else the wheel resists uneven terrain."
Beside him stood a half-finished wheelchair, formed from a clever joining of ironwood, reinforced spokes, and rune-sewn padding. Simple. Humble. But strong enough to cross cobbled paths and hill roads without breaking.
One of the younger builders, a freckled lad named Dell, looked up.
"Master Kalem," he said, "is it true you crafted blades that could summon forests?"
"I have," Kalem answered.
"And you could burn armies with a single spear?"
"I have."
Dell blinked. "So why this? Why… chairs?"
Kalem didn't smile. He rarely did. But there was a softness in his voice.
"Because the spear cannot help a child reach water," he said. "The blade cannot carry a man to his mother's funeral. War builds names. But peace... peace builds homes."
The lad grew quiet.
By midday, the forge-tents had doubled. The Order of the Grey Flame arrived, bringing with them enchanted straps that softened under weight. The Healers of Vetra donated oil-slick salves to polish and preserve the moving parts. Several cities beyond the vale sent word—Basmir, Orun, and even the distant Red Petal Bay—each requesting a version of the design to share with their afflicted.
And still, no spy glass spoke of it.
In every lord's court, in every tower of learning and scrying, the crystals remained dim. No bright flash of warfare. No terrible storm summoned. No clash of beasts or kingdoms. Only messengers—breathless, saddle-weary—carrying tales written by common hands on coarse parchment:
"He builds wheels now. Not for war. For mercy."
Across the sea, within a scriptorium of Blue Vale, Isolde read such a letter twice, then folded it carefully.
"Still pretending to be a brute," she murmured.
In a high room of the Silver Library, Nara sat atop a stack of pillows, her legs curled beneath her, her own letter in hand.
"Making wheels?" she muttered, squinting. "You're an idiot, Kalem. But gods help me, a useful one."
She snapped her fingers. "Ink. I want a scribe."
From the high towers of Everwood, Jhaeros and Lyra read the same report via whispering bark—an ancient druidic method.
"He's building again," Lyra said, eyes narrowed.
"This time for joy," Jhaeros replied.
Back in Arsenic, Garrick leaned against the side of a water barrel, watching Kalem distribute a finished chair to a young widow whose legs had been crushed during a mine collapse years ago.
She wept as she sat, her hands gripping the armrests like they were treasure.
Kalem simply nodded and moved on.
"That's the twelfth today," Garrick said. "You're going to wear your hammer down to a nub."
"I can make another," Kalem said.
Garrick studied him for a long time. The scars on Kalem's pale arms, once glowing with the after-light of the Abyss, seemed calmer now—like they, too, had found purpose.
"Tell me," Garrick asked at last. "Did you know this was the idea you were chasing when you turned down Ardra's war?"
Kalem wiped his hands with a cloth.
"No," he said. "But I knew it was better than breaking more skulls."
"Still," Garrick smirked. "Bit of a shift. From forest-spears to carts for children."
Kalem gave a soft grunt. "That child is Lyle. He gave me an apple. I still have the syrup."
They both fell into silence, watching a pair of temple workers push another completed chair onto a cart headed for the north quarter.
Garrick spoke again.
"You think this will last?"
Kalem glanced at the forge, at the carts, at the children laughing as they tried to race their new wheels down the temple steps.
"No," he said, "but it'll return."
Garrick frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Kindness is like iron," Kalem said. "Soft when first poured. But it cools. Then it holds."
Later that evening, with the sun a copper coin sinking behind the city's edge, Kalem sat in his tent alone, fidgeting with a new wheel design. This one was thinner, lighter. Something a child could carry on their own.
He scribbled a note beside it: For Maeneth. Age 8. Both legs burned. Likes birds.
Outside, crickets began their dusk-song, and somewhere far off, a bell rang in the Temple of Mercy.