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As they walked back to Bag End, Bilbo eyed the two heavy cleavers Kael was carrying. "Kael," he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion, "why did you buy those? We have perfectly good knives for chopping bones at home."

Kael grinned and struck a mock fighting pose. "These aren't for the kitchen, Bilbo. These are my weapons. For defending myself out in the wild."

Bilbo's mouth opened, then closed. The image of his friend, the Wizard, wielding butcher's cleavers like a ruffian was difficult to reconcile. "Well," he finally managed, "as long as you like them."

Seeing the Hobbit's doubtful expression, Kael's grin widened into a smirk. With a flick of his wrists, the two cleavers shot from his hands. They flew with a sharp whoosh, embedding themselves deep into the trunk of a roadside oak tree, the blades sinking halfway into the solid wood.

Bilbo gasped, his eyes going wide.

"Blades," Kael commanded, his voice calm, "return."

With a wrenching sound, the cleavers pulled free from the oak and shot back through the air, slapping neatly into his waiting palms.

Bilbo was utterly speechless.

Kael, looking every bit the accomplished master, casually tucked the cleavers away and continued walking. Inwardly, however, he let out a shaky breath. That was close. The blades had sunk much deeper than he'd intended, and it had taken every ounce of his concentration to pull them free without stumbling.

Back at Bag End, a new training regimen began. Kael focused all his efforts on mastering the cleavers, seeking to make them extensions of his will. Each one weighed several pounds, pushing the very limits of his magical control. To refine his command, he started using them to chop firewood.

The process was brutally difficult. At first, he could only manage a few clumsy hacks before his concentration shattered. But he persisted. Day after day, he practiced, and slowly, the cleavers became nimbler, the cuts cleaner and faster. The result was a neatly stacked woodpile that would see Bag End through the harshest winter, all finished months ahead of schedule.

Bilbo was ecstatic. While Hobbits enjoyed the comforts of life, they were not averse to a bit of laziness, and stockpiling firewood was always a dreaded chore. Having it done so early was a gift. Still, watching the twin blades slice through the air in a nearly invisible blur around Kael, he couldn't help but feel a knot of worry in his stomach. It looked terrifyingly dangerous, and he feared Kael might one day lose control.

After two months of relentless practice, Kael's control was absolute. The twin cleavers danced around him for a full half-hour before settling obediently into the sheaths at his waist. Within a five-meter radius, they could strike in the blink of an eye, giving him a potent and deadly means of self-defense. His raw power had also grown; he could now levitate objects weighing over a hundred pounds.

Bilbo was the first to volunteer for a test flight, giggling like a fauntling as Kael lifted him into the air and gently floated him around the garden like a human kite. The sight of Bilbo Baggins soaring over the hills of Hobbiton did not go unnoticed by the neighbors. For a time, Bilbo became quite the local celebrity, and with him, the reputation of the mysterious wizard in his keeping grew. The name "Kael the Wizard" began to spread throughout the Shire.

Then one morning, Kael announced he was leaving.

"Bilbo," he said gently, "thank you for your incredible hospitality these past months. But I'm afraid it's time for me to go."

The Hobbit looked stricken. "Kael! Is something wrong? Have I done something to offend you? Why leave so suddenly?"

Kael quickly knelt to meet his friend's worried gaze, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "No, nothing like that, my friend. You've been more generous than I could have ever hoped for. It's not your fault at all. I just feel the need to see more of this world. Hobbiton is beautiful, but it's the only place I've seen."

He winked. "Of course, once I've had my fill of walking, I might just come back and bother you for a few more days. You won't turn me away then, will you?"

Bilbo's tense shoulders relaxed, and he shook his head vigorously. "Of course not! You are always welcome at Bag End, Kael." He still looked concerned. "Where will you go?"

"I don't have a firm plan," Kael admitted. "I'll wander for a bit. I don't intend to go too far, just travel around the Shire for now. Since you know it so well, are there any towns you'd recommend?"

Hearing Kael planned to stay within the Shire's borders brought Bilbo immense relief. He bustled off to his study and returned with a rolled-up map, which he spread across the dining table.

"If you're traveling in the Shire, the first place you must visit is Michel Delving," he said, pointing to a mark on the map west of Hobbiton. "It's the capital of the Shire, the chief town. It's in the Westfarthing, just like us. It's where the Mayor has his offices, and it's the biggest market in these parts. The Great East Road runs right through it."

"Alright then," Kael decided. "Michel Delving it is."

Though sad to see him go, Bilbo insisted on packing him a large bag of food and a bulging pouch of silver coins—enough to last him for some time. Kael, still utterly penniless, wanted to refuse but knew he couldn't. He accepted the generous gift, making a silent vow to one day repay the Hobbit's unwavering kindness.

Waving a final farewell, Kael cast a simple levitation charm on his pack and set off alone down the lane. He followed the Great East Road as it wound westward out of Hobbiton. The path was smooth, flanked by idyllic pastures and the occasional farm. Hobbit merchants and travelers tipped their hats, their curiosity plain to see.

Kael walked at a brisk pace, and it still took him the entire day to reach his destination. As dusk began to settle, he saw the town ahead. The architecture here was different from Hobbiton's quaint smials. The buildings were larger, made of wood, brick, and stone, giving it the feel of a proper city.

As he stepped onto the main street, every Hobbit in sight stopped to stare at the tall, imposing stranger. Before he could take more than a few steps, a stout Hobbit with a stern mustache and a blue feather tucked into his hat stepped forward, blocking his path. He had the unmistakable air of authority.

"You there, Big Folk," the Hobbit demanded, his hand resting on a small club at his belt. "State your name and your business in Michel Delving."

***

(End of Chapter)

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