Bren's office was a cave of forgotten paperwork. Stacks of leather-bound ledgers formed precarious towers on his desk. The air smelled of old coffee, dust, and a faint, sweet hint of pipe tobacco.
Anya stood before the desk, her plea still hanging in the silence.
Bren hadn't said no. He hadn't said yes. He just... stared. His gaze was fixed on a yellowed guild charter framed on the wall.
He's not even here. He's twenty years in the past.
Finally, he moved. Reached for a worn wooden pipe and a leather pouch. His movements were slow, deliberate. He packed the bowl with meticulous care.
The scrape of the tamper was the only sound.
"The potters," he said, voice a low rumble. "Mira's collective."
"Gareth's system will discard them," Anya said, her own voice sounding too young, too sharp in the quiet room. "They need your voice, Bren. You're the only one the traditionalists will listen to."
He struck a match. The flame flared, illuminating the deep lines around his eyes. His hand trembled slightly as he lit the tobacco.
Is that age? Or is it the weight of all the fights he's lost?
The pipe caught. He took a long, slow draw. The smoke curled into the air, a ghost of his thoughts.
"You think this is about the potters," he said, not looking at her. "It's not. It's about the strike at the Aethelgard Forge."
Anya blinked. "The... what? That was decades ago."
"Twenty-two years," Bren confirmed. He leaned back in his creaking chair. The smoke wreathed his head. "I was you. Full of fire. Certain that justice was a force of nature. That it would always win, if you were just brave enough."
He gestured with the stem of his pipe.
"The owners wanted to cut wages by twenty percent. We said no. We held the line. We were so proud of our principles."
A cold draft seeped from the window frame, though the latch was closed. Anya shivered.
"We held out for three months," Bren continued. His voice was distant, flat. "The community supported us at first. But winter came. The savings ran out."
He took another pull from his pipe. The ember glowed brightly in the dim room.
"The third month, the evictions started. Three families. Good people. Skilled smiths. They lost their homes two days before the solstice."
He fell silent. The memory was a physical presence in the room.
"I can still hear their children crying in the street, Anya. I still see the frost on their blankets."
The words landed like stones.
Gods.
"What... what happened?" Anya asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"We broke," Bren said simply. "We took a settlement. It was worse than the original offer. We saved face, but we'd already lost our souls. The forge never recovered its heart. It's a corporate shell now."
He finally looked at her. His eyes were hollow.
"Gareth was there. He was just a boy. He saw it all. He saw me, the great Bren, broken by the sound of children crying in the cold."
So that's where it comes from. That's the scar.
This wasn't just a story. It was the origin of Gareth's cynicism. It was the weight that bowed Bren's shoulders.
"He learned the lesson I taught him that day," Bren said, voice thick with regret so deep it seemed bottomless. "Principles are expensive. Make sure you can afford them."
The statement wasn't an accusation. It was a warning from a man who had paid the price.
Anya's certainty, so solid in the potter's studio, developed its first crack.
What was the price for the potters? If she fought Gareth and lost, would it be their homes next? Their livelihoods?
Was her principled stand just a prelude to their ruin?
She had no answer. The fire of her conviction was suddenly doused by the cold water of his experience.
"I have to try," she said, but the words sounded weak. Hollow.
Bren looked at her for a long moment, the smoke a veil between them. Finally, he let out a slow breath.
"I can't support you on this," he said. The words were heavy as iron. "Not publicly. Gareth's path is the safe one. The responsible one."
He looked at her, and something ancient and tired lived behind his eyes.
"But I won't stop you either. If you want to throw yourself on the pyre of principle... I've done it. I can't tell you not to."
His hand went to the bottom drawer of his desk. Rested there for a moment, as if he might open it. Then pulled away.
"Just don't expect me to light the match."
Anya stood there, stunned by the finality of it. He hadn't just dismissed her; he had drawn a line in the sand, placing himself firmly on the side of caution.
She turned and left, pulling the door shut behind her.
But as the latch clicked, she heard something. The sound of a drawer opening. Papers rustling.
She paused in the hallway, listening.
Through the door, muffled: "Where did I put that old charter..."
The hallway outside was bright and noisy. It felt like another world.
She leaned against the cool stone wall, heart pounding. The memory of Mira's cracked bowl warred with the sound of crying children only she could hear.
Principles are expensive.
Bren hadn't given her his support. He'd given her his doubt and his explicit refusal. And it was a heavier burden than any contract.
But he was looking for something. Some old document. Why now?
She couldn't go to Leo or Kai with this weight. Not yet. She needed to think. She needed to be sure.