The Master had passed away. It was in her sleep, so I could not even hold a grudge.
At the Master's funeral, the other students shared stories of their lessons. I held my tongue.
A dwarf can mourn, but he mourns in silence. For, no matter the grudges, no matter the achievements, the end comes for all. But those who pass are never forgotten.
I remembered the first lesson the Master shared with me, how stubborn I was. I would've held a grudge to myself if it hadn't been for my atonement in blood.
As it was my turn to speak, I pulled a stone from my satchel, a simple piece of sulabra, found near the lake. I carved it with basic runes, but I repeated the process again and again, reinforcing the magic within, until my chisel would carve no more.
The stone bore the fragrance of the flowers she had shown me. Sweet, but not unpleasantly so.
I placed it on the Master's grave, and thanked her.