The morning light filtered through the workshop windows with the particular quality of autumn sunshine—bright but lacking the heat of summer, casting sharp shadows that would shift and fade as the day progressed. Elias positioned himself at his workbench with the deliberate care of someone who understood that the work ahead demanded nothing less than perfection.
The two gold bands sat before him, their surfaces already polished to mirror brightness. Size 6 and size 10, 18-karat gold that had cost more than most people spent on a month's rent.
He lifted the smaller ring first, feeling its weight in his palm. Gold had a particular heft that distinguished it from other metals, a density that spoke to its value and rarity. This ring would encircle someone's finger for the rest of their life, a physical reminder of promises made and a future shared.
He didn't rush into the inscription. Instead, he spent several minutes adjusting the ring's position, checking the angle of the light, ensuring that every aspect of the setup was optimal. The flowing script that Webb's daughter had requested would require steady hands and absolute precision—each letter needed to flow seamlessly into the next, creating a continuous line of text that would circle the inner circumference of the band.
When he finally began to engrave, the burin moved through the gold with that characteristic effortless precision that still amazed him.
The first letter of "Always" emerged with perfect curves and consistent line weight, followed by the lowercase letters that connected with elegant continuity. The script was challenging—maintaining the flowing quality while ensuring each letter remained legible required the kind of skill that traditional engravers spent years developing. But the enhanced tool responded to his intentions as much as his physical movements, translating his vision into reality with supernatural accuracy.
"Always together." Eight letters, one space, eight more letters. The inscription curved around the interior of the band, following the natural arc of the circle, each letter positioned with mathematical precision yet maintaining the organic flow of handwritten script.
Completing the first ring, Elias held it up to the light, examining his work with the critical eye. The inscription was flawless—every curve smooth, every connection seamless, the depth consistent throughout. It was the kind of work that would have taken him hours using traditional tools, completed in minutes through supernatural enhancement but with no sacrifice in quality or attention to detail.
The larger ring received identical treatment, though its greater circumference required subtle adjustments to the letter spacing to maintain visual balance.
When both rings were complete, he set them side by side on his workbench, studying them with the satisfaction of someone who had achieved exactly what he had envisioned.
But as he began the final polishing process, his eyes drifted to the drawer where his own wedding rings lay forgotten.
The drawer opened with a soft whisper of wood against wood, revealing the small felt-lined box he hadn't touched in months.
Inside lay his own wedding set—two bands of gold that had consumed weeks of his life and a significant portion of his savings seven years ago.
He lifted them carefully, feeling their familiar weight and remembering the countless hours he had spent perfecting every detail.
His rings were more elaborate than the commission pieces, their surfaces decorated with intricate leaf patterns that seemed to grow organically from the metal itself.
The design had been inspired by illustrations from fantasy novels—elven rings that spoke to craftsmanship pride of the one who grave it . Each leaf was individually formed and textured, connected to its neighbors by delicate stems that wound around the circumference of each band. The effect was both naturalistic and otherworldly, the kind of work that announced itself as exceptional even to untrained eyes.
He had spent three weeks on those rings, working evenings and weekends while managing his regular commissions. The gold alone had cost him nearly four thousand dollars, money he had saved carefully over months of planning.
Every detail had been considered and reconsidered—the angle of each leaf, the depth of each texture, the way the light would catch and reflect from the various surfaces. They were masterpieces of traditional jewelry making, created with love and the absolute certainty that they would symbolize something permanent and meaningful.
Now they sat in his palm like artifacts from someone else's life, beautiful and perfectly crafted but somehow hollow. The emotional weight they had once carried had evaporated, leaving only the physical reality of precious metal shaped by skilled hands. The irony wasn't lost on him—his finest work had become his most meaningless possession.
He placed his rings on the workbench beside the commissioned pair, studying the contrast between them. Webb's daughter's rings were simpler, more traditional, but they carried something his own had lost—the weight of hope and anticipation. His elaborate leaf patterns now seemed almost ostentatious compared to the elegant simplicity of "Always together" inscribed in flowing script.
The thought didn't bring the expected pang of loss or regret. Instead, there was a curious emotional distance, as if he were examining the rings of a stranger. Perhaps that was how healing actually worked—not through dramatic moments of acceptance or closure, but through the gradual accumulation of small disconnections, tiny steps away from old pain until it simply became part of the landscape rather than an active wound.
He returned his own rings to their drawer and focused on the commission at hand. This couple, at least, deserved to begin their marriage with symbols that carried only hope and possibility. Beautiful objects that represented the best of human intentions.
The final polishing took another hour, each ring receiving individual attention until their surfaces gleamed with mirror brightness. But as he worked, an idea began to form. Webb had been pleased with the kukri, impressed enough to commission a second project. A small additional gesture might strengthen that professional relationship and demonstrate the kind of attention to detail that generated referrals.
The earrings took shape almost spontaneously, formed from silver he kept from the necklace. The design was intentionally simple—teardrop shapes that measured barely ten millimeters in length, weighing perhaps a two gram's each. They were the kind of earrings that appealed to most women regardless of personal style, understated enough for daily wear but elegant enough for special occasions.
The work went quickly now, his hands moving with practiced efficiency through the familiar processes of shaping, refining, and polishing. When complete, the earrings were fitted with secure backing mechanisms that would hold them comfortably in place without risk of loss.
The entire commission—rings and earrings— It was the kind of work that would generate recommendations and repeat business, assuming Webb's daughter was as pleased as her father had been with the kukri.
Reaching for his phone, Elias dialed Webb's number, noting that it was barely past noon. The conversation would be brief—a simple notification that the work was complete and ready for delivery.
"Webb Construction, this is Marcus," came the familiar voice after two rings.
"Marcus, it's Elias Thorn. I wanted to let you know that Sarah's rings are finished. The wedding bands."
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Elias could hear the rustle of papers and the distant sound of construction equipment. "Already? I thought you said it would take at least two weeks."
"Sometimes the work flows better than expected."
Webb's appreciation was genuine and immediate. "Shes going to be thrilled. The wedding's in three weeks, so the timing is perfect. Can I pick them up tomorrow afternoon? Say around four?"
They confirmed the delivery time, and as Elias ended the call, he found himself staring at his phone with sudden decision. The conversation with Webb had been pleasant and professional, but it had also highlighted his relative isolation. Most of his days were spent alone in the workshop, focused on solitary tasks that required concentration and precision.
Without allowing himself time to reconsider, he scrolled through his contacts and found Curtis's number. His friend answered on the third ring, his voice slightly distorted by what sounded like wind and traffic noise.
"Elias? What's up? You usually text before calling."
"Are you free tonight? I finished a project today and thought we could grab a drink to celebrate."
"Sure, I can do that. In Murry's tavern, around seven?"
They confirmed the details, and Elias spent the remainder of the afternoon organizing his workshop and preparing for the next day's delivery.