In one of Thornholl's houses, while its streets were dark, the interior of the house was lit. The windows glowed with pale light—a small defiance against the eternal night outside. The vault had a low ceiling, surrounded by short bookshelves. At the end of the vault was the desk. On the desk sat Ben the Golden Pen. He placed his lens over his eye—a small glass disc that caught the candlelight and threw it back. He lit a cigarette. Before him was a large book, its pages yellowed, its spine cracked.
Ben tried to light the cigarette. Once. Twice. His thumb scraped the flint. It caught. He smoked. He adjusted the lens over his eye, his brow furrowing. He blew smoke onto the book's pages—a thin grey veil that curled and vanished.
He was reading, checking the things he had written himself. His finger passed over the lines, stopped, returned. His lips moved. He muttered. Not words. Just sounds. The sounds of a man weighing his words, turning them over like coins in his palm.
Suddenly, someone was descending the wooden stairs. He stumbled on the steps—a heavy thud, a scrape, a curse swallowed. He was panting, as if he had been in the midst of a battle.
The boy's feet hit the stairs too fast. He stumbled on the last step—his hand shot out, caught the wall, scraped down the stone. He stood there, bent over, his chest heaving. His breath came in short, broken pieces.
"They are all leaving." His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, as though trying to force the words back down his throat.
Ben did not look up. He placed the lens over his eye. The glass caught the candlelight. He struck the flint—once, twice—and when the flame caught, he took a slow drag. The smoke curled upward, a thin grey veil between them.
"Sit." The word was quiet, but it carried. The boy's knees buckled. He dropped onto the stool. "Take a deep breath." Ben's hand, holding the cigarette, hovered in the air. "Then—tell me what you saw."
The boy sat. His body dropped onto the stool. He caught his breath. Then he said, his voice rising and falling: "The people are leaving the kingdom. They are leaving in secrecy. I think there is a war."
Ben placed the lens on the desk. His fingers moved slowly. He tapped the lens once against the wood. "Indeed there is a war. But what you have brought... I have already written it here. In the book," he said. He looked at the boy. His eyes were flat. "Perhaps next time you should be faster."
"But... who told you that?" Harold leaned forward. His hands gripped the edge of the desk. His knuckles paled.
Ben turned his head slowly. The lens over his eye caught the light—a small circle of glass that made him look like something not quite human. He blew smoke onto the book's pages. The grey veil curled and vanished.
"You can't cut off a king's head and not expect his men to come for yours." His voice was level. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking. "Besides, you got one thing wrong."
"What did I get wrong?" Harold's brow furrowed. He leaned closer.
Ben's finger tapped once on the page. "It does not matter now."
He turned his head slightly—just enough to catch Harold in the corner of his eye. Then he looked back at the book. His cigarette hovered between two fingers, the tip glowing orange, a thin thread of smoke rising toward the low ceiling.
"Do you know something?" He did not wait for an answer. His free hand rose and removed the lens from his eye. He set it down on the desk—gently, as though it were made of something fragile. Without it, his eye looked smaller. Naked.
"I write down everyone's stories." His thumb brushed the edge of the book's page, back and forth, back and forth. "But let me tell you something about mine."
He lifted the cigarette to his lips. Inhaled. Held it. Then released the smoke in a long, slow breath. The grey veil drifted between them, and for a moment, Harold's face was hidden.
"On the day I was born..." He stopped. His jaw worked once. Twice. He looked at the cigarette as though it had spoken instead of him. "...my mother was very disappointed, I don't know if it was due to the difficulty of my birth or the truth that her son was half a man."
His fingers turned the cigarette slowly, studying the burning tip. Ash gathered. He did not flick it.
"I did not see her disappointment that day, of course." A small sound escaped him—not a laugh, not quite. Something caught between. "I was too young. But over time..." He set the cigarette down on the edge of the desk. The ember faced upward, still burning. "...she made it clear."
His hand fell to his lap. It lay there, palm up, fingers slightly curled—as though he had just released something heavy.
"It's terrifying, don't you think." His voice dropped. The words came slower now, each one placed like a stone on a grave. "That the one person... who's supposed to be there for you..." He paused. His throat moved. "...simply isn't."
Silence.
The cigarette burned on the edge of the desk. Ash fell—a grey flake drifting down, catching the candlelight for a moment before settling on the wood. Neither of them looked at it.
Then Ben's hand moved. He reached for the cigarette, brought it to his lips one last time, then crushed it against the ashtray. The sound was small. Final.
"Luckily..." He picked up the lens again. Turned it over in his fingers. His voice was lighter now—forced, like a man lifting something he had set down years ago. "...I was good at relying on myself." He placed the lens back over his eye. Adjusted it. "As a half-man."
He looked at Harold then. The lens caught the light—a small circle of glass that made his eye look larger than it was. Stranger.
"But now I kind of understand her disappointment. As a father. Tell me... which is worse? Half a man? Or... half a mind?"
I only wanted to help." Harold's voice was tight. His jaw was set. He stood—the stool scraped against the stone floor. His hands were fists at his sides.
Ben did not look up. He turned a page. The paper crackled.
Then Harold left. His steps on the stairs were fast—each footfall a small explosion. The door at the top slammed. The sound echoed down into the vault.
Ben moved his head slowly, despairing of his sons' stupidity. His finger traced the lines again. Stopped. Returned.
Ben returned to reading his book. He moved his head, despairing of his sons' stupidity. His finger traced the lines again, stopping, returning.
Until one of his sons interrupted him again.
"What do you want again?" said Ben. He did not look up. His hand waved dismissively.
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"It is me, Father. Jack."
"What do you want, Jack?"
"There is a man asking for you."
"Let him in."
"Alright, Father."
After a few seconds, an old man entered. Grey-haired. Bent—so bent that his head seemed to lead the rest of him. He stopped at the foot of the stairs. His head tilted back. His neck creaked with the motion.
"The ceiling is very low."
Ben did not rise. He placed the lens on the desk. His fingers moved slowly. "I think you are just used to high ceilings." He looked at him seriously. His eyes narrowed. "Excuse me—I only made sure that I alone have the right to enter this library. Since you endured entering here and broke your decrepit back... what do you want? It seems to be an important matter, old grey."
"Do you know me?" said the old man. His head tilted to one side.
"Are you kidding me? What kind of questions are these?" Ben's hand rose, palm open, then fell. "Of course I know you, even though you don't deserve it. But sometimes a writer has to stick to tedious details."
"I'm grateful you bothered yourself with my boring life."
Ben said, his voice flattening: "Get to the point."
"King Robert wants to have a word with you."
Ben's hand stopped on the page. His head lifted—slowly. The cigarette, forgotten, burned between his fingers. Ash fell onto the book.
"If the king asks to see me... I will come."
"Good. Then my work here is done."
The old man turned. His footsteps were slow on the stairs—each one a small effort. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Ben sat there. His fingers tapped once on the desk. Why did the king want to see him? He lifted the cigarette to his lips. The smoke curled around him, a grey halo in the dim light.
Inside the throne hall, King Robert sat on the throne. He touched its thorns, running his fingers over the metal protrusions slowly, as if listening to them. His eyes were open. Watching. Reading.
Until the grey old man entered the hall. He bowed, his back bending further.
"My lord, you sent for Ben the Golden Pen. He is here."
"Then let him enter," said Robert. He did not raise his head.
Ben entered. His short legs carried him across the stone floor. He looked at the throne room, at the ceiling, at the walls, at the throne. He did not bow deeply. He only inclined his head slightly—a small motion, almost defiant.
Robert's eyes moved over the small figure. They traveled from the top of Ben's head to the soles of his boots—slow, deliberate. His fingers tapped once on the armrest.
"You are too little."
Ben did not flinch. He did not bow deeper. He stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, his chin lifted just enough to meet the king's gaze.
"Yes. I am." The words were simple. Unadorned. He did not apologize. He did not explain.
Robert's head tilted. His fingers stopped tapping.
"Do you always carry a book with you?"
"Not always, Your Grace." Ben's hand moved—just slightly—toward the satchel at his side. "But in places like this... one cannot know what to write or not to write."
"Hmmm." Robert's lips curved—not a smile, but something close. He leaned back in the throne. The leather creaked.
"Why did you send for me, Your Grace?"
"Do you truly write history from the heart of the event?"
"Yes. Mostly." Ben nodded once.
"Why?"
"History is nothing but stories seen through the eyes of those who lived them. I am the one who searches for the right eyes for my story." Ben's hand rose, fingers spreading. "I myself cannot write what I personally see because I am simply not the right person for that."
"If you claim that... why did I not see you in the Neverwood?"
"I am not that foolish, Your Grace," said Ben. His head tilted. "The Neverwood? That is something different. But if I do not enter an event through someone else's eyes... I will buy what they saw. It is that simple."
"So, someone told you what happened there?"
"Yes, my king. And there were some odd things that happened there. Things beyond human capability." Ben's eyes narrowed. "You know that better than I do. You went in blind and came out seeing. That's one of those odd things too."
"Yes, strange things happened there."
"What happened has happened," said Ben. His voice was flat. "Am I here to talk about the past?"
"Okay, I'll get straight to the point," said Robert. He ran his fingers over the armrest, the metal scraping faintly. "You are here because I want you to write something."
"I would not miss writing something that piques the king's curiosity."
"There is a war coming."
"Do you want me to be a part of this war?"
"Yes. Aren't those your ways?"
"Yes, Your Highness, but entering the battle seems like an exaggeration. Someone my size would die from a single footstep." Ben's hands spread, palms up.
"I know. That's why I'll give you ten strong knights to protect you." Robert leaned forward slightly. "And your task there will be simply to watch. And when we win the war, I will make sure you get what you deserve."
"I'm in, Your Highness. I am already there, Your Grace," Ben interrupted. His hand rose. "In the front lines. Behind the right person."
"There are many events that will enter history. I heard you are the right man for that. Don't let my hopes in you be dashed."
"Yes. I am the half-man right for it."
"Good. Then we have an agreement."
"Thank you, Your Grace. I will make sure to write your heroic part."
Robert said curiously, his head tilting: "I've always believed that men can't be relied upon, but half a man is something else. You're a smart one, dwarf. Why don't you work here inside the palace? It will make things much easier for you. Especially for you."
"I am grateful that you trust me, Your Grace, and I appreciate the offer." Ben bowed his head slightly. "But if I worked for you, my books would lose their credibility. I would rather remain neutral—or, at least, be seen as neutral."
Ben withdrew slowly, his small steps echoing. But Robert said, his voice carrying across the hall: "What exactly do you know about me? Did you write anything?"
Ben stopped. He turned. His lens caught the light.
"I know many things," he said. "The man. The father. The king. You have sons. Many. I have more. Many wives, many lives."
He was looking at Robert, at his eyes. His voice was steady.
"Anyway, what I'm trying to say—I have written much about you."
Robert's hand stopped on the armrest. His fingers went still—no tapping, no movement. Only stillness. His voice, when it came, was calm. Low.
"Be careful what you write about."
Ben did not move. He did not flinch. But his hand—the one resting on his satchel—tightened. Just slightly. He inclined his head.
"Of course, my lord. I do not write history as it should be. Rather, as I want it to be." He paused. His tongue wet his lips. "And as it suits my ambition. And my highest ambition is to not die because of my writings."
Robert's head tilted. His eyes—pale, unreadable—remained on Ben's face.
"One more thing." His voice was almost idle. Almost. "Why do they have no sense of etiquette here? They call me 'Lord' instead of 'King.'"
Ben smiled. A faint smile—but it did not reach his eyes.
"Humans believe in many things..." He began to move toward the door. His steps were slow, measured. "...One of these things is the False King, And by calling you my lord, instead of my king, they want to believe that you might be him, Stupidity. Don't you think?."
He reached the threshold. He bent—a small motion, shallow. His hand rested on the doorframe.
"My Lord."
Outside the young heir Rob Ironfield's chamber, William stood. The light in the corridor was not enough. The torches were spaced far apart, their flames weak. His shadow stretched long behind him. He raised his hand and knocked on the door. Three knocks. Light. Measured.
No one answered.
William stood before the door. The corridor was dark—the torches spaced too far apart. He raised his hand. His knuckles hovered before the wood for a moment before they fell. Three knocks. Light. Measured.
Nothing.
He waited. His cane rested against his hip. His injured leg throbbed—a slow, deep pain that had become a companion. His hand remained on the door, palm flat against the wood.
"You are free to come or not." His voice was hoarse. The words scraped against his throat. "But you must know that every person has an end." He paused. His fingers curled slightly against the door. "And that does not mean your father must be alone in his end."
The silence stretched. He let his hand fall. His cane struck the stone once as he shifted his weight.
"We will begin the march now. You may join." He turned his head slightly, his voice carrying over his shoulder. "Just tell the guards here."
Then he turned. The cane struck the stone. Then again. Each strike echoed down the corridor. His injured leg dragged behind him.
He turned. His cane struck the stone in a steady rhythm. Each strike echoed down the corridor. His injured leg dragged behind him.
Outside, the members of Ironfield's council stood. They wore iron. Their armour gleamed beneath the pale sun. The air was thick with the smell of coal and hot metal.
"Is everything ready?" said William. His eyes moved across their faces.
"Yes, my lord. Everything is in place."
"Then let us go. There is no time to waste. Come. Everyone take their place."
They moved. The horses waited. William mounted slowly. His foot stiffened. He held the cane in his right hand, pulling himself up by the saddle until his body straightened.
"We will accompany King Gerald to the Hall of Kings. To his resting place."
They set off.
The coffin was on a cart. Closed. Iron covered its edges. The emblem of the burning helmet was engraved upon it. The Iron Knights surrounded it. Their weapons were polished to the point that they swallowed the light.
The procession passed through the city of Ironfield. The streets were narrow. The buildings dark. Smoke rose from chimneys in grey columns. The only sounds were the horses' hooves and the creaking of the cart's wheels.
Hundreds of the city's residents stood on either side. They reached out their hands, trying to touch the cart, to touch the coffin. Some wept. Some threw ash into the air—grey clouds that caught the wind and scattered. Some placed small pieces of iron at the roadside as offerings.
William was present physically. Sitting on his horse. His eyes on the road. But his mind was elsewhere. In a narrower place. In a place of frustration and betrayal.
He did not see the crowds. He did not hear their weeping. He heard something else. Gerald's voice saying: "Be that friend who makes my son feel safe."
He had not repaid his debt. On the contrary. He had failed.
His pace was steady. His hand on the cane was clenched. One thing kept him clinging. That desire. The desire for vengeance. It was not a great fire. It was a final flame. Small. But it gave his life meaning.
He did not weep. Did not grieve. He only felt disgust for himself.
The procession was long. There were obstructions. Women throwing themselves before the cart. Men raising their children to see. Boys climbing windows. The knights pushed the crowds gently, as if clearing leaves from a path.
Finally, they arrived at the Hall of Kings. The entrance was immense. Huge iron pillars. The doors were so tall that the cart entered fully with difficulty. The echo was deep. The air inside the hall was colder than outside.
Inside, light came through narrow windows. It seeped in the form of threads. It gleamed on the iron tombs, on the inscriptions, on the statues.
In the centre, beside Gerald's father's tomb, there was a stone grave. Empty. With iron decorations. It waited.
They lowered the body. They moved carefully. The cloth head was heavy. They held the body by the shoulders and feet. Their hands were steady. Nothing wavered.
They placed him in the grave. The stone groaned slightly. The body settled. The stitched cloth resembled Gerald, but it was not Gerald. The stitches were rough. The features distorted. But no one looked for long.
The priests of the Eye of God appeared. They wore white robes. On their robes, eyes were embroidered with golden threads. They stood around the grave. They began the recitation.
"The Eye of God witnesses that King Gerald has passed to a better place."
"A place free of war. Free of betrayal. Free of sin."
Their voices were low. Intertwined. Their hands were raised upward, toward the eyes in the sky.
Everyone left after the prayer. One by one. Their footsteps receded. The echoes died.
William remained alone.
He still stood. His eyes on the grave. On the iron. On the dim light.
In his right hand was his cane. He dropped it.
The cane fell on the stone. The sound was sharp. It echoed among the tombs.
William bent down. His bending was slow. His injured knee trembled. His features did not change. He simply bent.
He said in a low voice:
"We are the iron that does not rust."