The Weight of a Fix

Soren’s hands trembled as he held the broken axle in his palms. The wooden shaft was split, the iron band loosened from the wheel’s rim. It was an easy fix—a beginner’s task—but he hesitated. Sweat slicked his brow, and the words of his master, Darran, echoed in his mind.

“Do nothing you don’t understand.”

He could feel Darran’s eyes on him, sharp despite his age. The old fixer sat by the hearth, cradling his twisted hand, the gnarled remnants of his fingers curled like claws. Once, Darran had been the finest fixer in the kingdom. Now he was a husk, a shell hollowed out by his own magic, body and mind alike ravaged by the cost of his mistakes.

“Why’re you waiting?” Darran’s voice was rough, like gravel scraping metal. “It’s not going to mend itself.”

Soren licked his lips, studying the axle’s inner workings, the grooves where the iron band locked into the wood, the grain that had split under the weight of travel. He thought he understood. He could see how the pieces fit. And yet, something nagged at him.

He placed his hand on the wood. The energy stirred beneath his skin, a quiet hum that pulsed with the rhythm of his heart. The power flowed through his fingers, seeking the break. But as it touched the jagged edge, Soren felt a jolt—a sudden, biting pain in his skull.

*Stop.*

He yanked his hand back, breath coming fast. 

Darran let out a dry chuckle. “You were about to lose something, weren’t you?”

“I—I think so,” Soren stammered, shaking his hand as though to rid it of the phantom pain. “I don’t understand why. It should have worked.”

Darran’s eyes, pale and clouded, fixed on him. “You missed something.”

“But I saw the break—”

“It’s never just the break, boy. It’s the reason behind it.” Darran leaned forward, his ruined hand twitching as though it had a life of its own. “What caused it to fail? What wore down the iron, cracked the wood? Until you know, you don’t *understand*. And until you understand, you shouldn’t touch a damn thing.”

Soren stared at the axle again, heart racing. He thought he knew, thought he could just *feel* his way through it. But that was the trick, wasn’t it? The magic didn’t care about his instincts. It only obeyed knowledge, absolute understanding.

“How… how did you lose your hand?” Soren asked, his voice soft.

Darran was silent for a long moment, the firelight flickering in his eyes. He flexed his fingers—or what was left of them. “Fixed a clock once. Thought I had it figured. Gearwork’s simple enough, I said to myself. But there was more to it. A hidden mechanism. Something I missed.” He tapped his temple. “Clockwork’s in my head now. But my hand paid the price.

Soren shuddered. He knew what came next in that story, the whispers about Darran's later attempt to fix a bridge collapse—an effort that had cost him more than just his hand. His memory had been fractured, pieces of his mind splintered and lost, like gears pulled from their housing.

"Every fixer pays," Darran muttered, almost to himself. “Every one.”

Determined, Soren knelt beside the axle again. He let his fingers trail along the wood, slow and deliberate. This time, he thought deeper. He imagined the weight of the cart, the endless miles over rough terrain, the strain on each part. And there, hidden beneath the surface, he felt it—a rot. Water had seeped into the wood over years, weakening it from within. It was a problem older than the break itself, something invisible to the eye, but there.

He closed his eyes, now knowing what had to be done. The power came again, but this time, it was smooth, like oil flowing over the wood. The break began to seal, the fibers knitting together, the iron band tightening against the wood as it reshaped itself. He felt it in his bones—the connection, the knowledge—and then it was done.

The axle was whole again.

Soren exhaled, shaking but intact.

“Good,” Darran said, his voice approving but weary. “You’ll live to see another day.”

Soren smiled faintly, though it was tempered with the weight of what he had learned. Magic wasn’t just a gift. It was a bargain. One misstep, and the magic would claim its due.

As Soren stood, he glanced once more at his master, the once-great fixer now broken beyond repair. He vowed, then and there, to never let the magic take him the same way.

But deep down, he knew it would try. 

It always did.