The late-afternoon sun poured gold over the Boston harbor, catching on the masts of ships and the rippling tide below. The air smelled of salt, sawdust, and smoke — the familiar perfume of the shipyard. Among the hammering, shouting, and clatter of men at work stood Elias Ward. Seventeen, though you wouldn’t guess it at a glance.

He was tall — six foot two, broad-shouldered, with the kind of frame built by honest work and long hours, not vanity. His linen shirt clung to his chest and arms, streaked with the day’s labor, and the muscles in his forearms tensed with each swing of the mallet. His hair — a thick, dark brown that curled slightly in the summer heat — caught the sunlight in a copper hue when he turned his head. His eyes, a stormy gray-blue, carried a quiet steadiness that made even older men think twice before speaking out of turn.

Most boys his age bragged about taverns, girls, or the latest rumor from the docks. Elias didn’t. He didn’t have to. His silence spoke louder than any boast could.

“Ward!” called one of the apprentices, panting as he dragged a beam across the yard. “You gonna stand there lookin’ heroic, or lend a hand?”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Elias’s mouth — a rare expression, quick and gone. He dropped his tool, strode over, and lifted the beam like it weighed nothing, muscles shifting under sun-browned skin.

“Better?” he asked simply, voice deep and steady — the kind of voice that carried command without effort.

The younger boy laughed, shaking his head. “You make the rest of us look bad, Ward.”

Elias just shrugged, eyes flicking toward the harbor. “Then work harder.”

It wasn’t arrogance — it was truth. And coming from him, it didn’t sting.

⸻

In Boston, everyone knew of Elias Ward. The merchants respected him; the dockworkers trusted him; even the constables gave him nods of approval when he passed. He carried himself like a man twice his age — shoulders squared, chin high, every step purposeful. And yet, when he smiled — really smiled — there was something disarmingly human beneath the strength.

The girls noticed, too. They always did. Some whispered his name near the market, giggling as he walked by, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, his arms still dusted with sawdust. “That’s him,” they’d say. “The shipwright’s apprentice.” Some swore he was eighteen, nineteen — maybe older. He didn’t correct them.

He was polite when spoken to, never crude or careless with words. When a young woman once dropped her basket of apples near the pier, Elias bent to help her — his large hands surprisingly gentle. “You all right, miss?” he’d asked, and though his voice was rough, his tone carried warmth. Her cheeks had gone pink, and for the rest of the day, she’d told her friends how kind and handsome he was.

He never chased attention. It simply followed him.

At work, though, Elias was all focus. He’d been apprenticed to Master Keegan, the shipbuilder, for nearly three years. Keegan trusted him more than half the journeymen — said Elias had “a mind built for order and hands built for precision.” While the other apprentices joked or dawdled, Elias kept his head down, his hammer striking in a steady rhythm that matched the heartbeat of the harbor.

But it wasn’t just muscle that made him stand out. It was the way he carried responsibility — like he’d been born with it. When someone slacked off, he picked up the pace. When something broke, he fixed it without complaint. He never sought praise. He just did the work, because the work needed doing.

Sometimes, when the day was done and the others had gone to the tavern, he’d stay back to finish a task — the glow of the setting sun casting bronze light across his back. Those who passed by often paused, just watching. Something about him — the quiet strength, the unwavering focus — made him seem almost unreal, like a story you’d tell your grandchildren one day.

He had a gravity to him — a maturity that made even the loudest men fall quiet when he entered the room. Maybe it came from losing his father young, or from years of labor.