Master Borin's Doubts

The midday sun beat down on Leo’s small shoulders, but it was not the heat that made him sweat. It was the weight of Master Borin’s gaze, sharp and discerning, like a hawk spotting a field mouse. The village elder, whose gruff voice was as familiar to the cobblestones as the scent of baking bread, stood before Leo’s humble home, his arms crossed over his stout chest. His weathered face, usually a mask of stern practicality, seemed to hold a flicker of something else – suspicion, perhaps, or a deep-seated weariness of the world’s foolishness.

“So,” Master Borin began, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of Leo’s small cottage. “The King’s trinket. You’re chasing after it, are you, boy?”