Forge of Fate

The air around Ironflame Armory buzzed with heat and the rhythmic clang of hammers, a familiar music that Kalem had come to know well over the past few months. To any passerby, it would have seemed an ordinary day—one of endless labor, sweat, and the satisfaction of shaping raw metal into something powerful. Kalem was focused on a spearhead he'd been assigned, its narrow, tapered edge glinting as he honed it to lethal sharpness.

Suddenly, a ruckus outside drew his attention. Voices rose in a clash of angry shouts and nervous murmurs. Kalem looked up, wiping his brow, and exchanged a glance with one of the other apprentices.

"Trouble?" Kalem asked, cocking an eyebrow.

The apprentice shrugged. "Sounds like it."

Kalem felt a prickle of unease. They didn't often get disturbances here, but when they did, it rarely ended well. He set down his work and approached the front of the forge, curious to see what was happening.

Outside, in the dusty street before Ironflame, a broad-shouldered man was yelling at one of the forge's junior workers. The man's armor was dented and battle-worn, and his face held the hard lines of someone used to getting his way. By the insignia on his shoulder, Kalem could tell he was a soldier, probably from a small mercenary group.

"What kind of rubbish are you lot peddling?" the man sneered, holding up a short sword. Its edge was chipped, though it clearly hadn't come from Ironflame. "This wouldn't cut through a loaf of bread, let alone flesh!"

The apprentice, barely out of boyhood, shrank back, stammering a reply. "S-sir, that wasn't made here… Our work—"

"Enough of your excuses!" the mercenary snapped. He grabbed the boy by the collar, yanking him closer, and Kalem felt a surge of anger rise in his chest.

Before he realized what he was doing, Kalem stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying a steely edge. "Let him go."

The mercenary turned, his sneer widening as he sized up Kalem. "And who do you think you are? Just another grunt here, aren't you?"

Kalem held his gaze, not backing down. "He didn't make that sword, and neither did we. If you want quality work, take your complaints elsewhere."

The mercenary scoffed and shoved the apprentice aside. He grinned, twisting his knuckles as he approached Kalem. "You're asking for a thrashing, boy. Maybe I'll teach you and the rest of these fools what real steel can do."

Kalem glanced around, spotting the spear he'd just been working on, its blade razor-sharp. Without hesitation, he picked it up, holding it lightly yet with a readiness that seemed natural.

"You really think you can handle a weapon, do you?" the mercenary taunted, drawing a broad, brutal-looking knife from his belt. He took a step toward Kalem, clearly expecting the young blacksmith to falter.

But Kalem didn't waver. Instead, he gripped the spear with a calm, practiced ease that took even him by surprise. He positioned his feet instinctively, his body balanced and his mind focused. A flash of determination crossed his face, his usual playfulness replaced by something sharper, almost dangerous.

The mercenary lunged forward, his knife aimed at Kalem's side. Kalem sidestepped effortlessly, pivoting to the left and swinging the spear in a tight arc. The wooden shaft struck the mercenary's wrist with enough force to knock the knife from his hand, sending it clattering to the ground.

There was a stunned silence, the mercenary's shock mirrored on the faces of the apprentices who had gathered to watch.

But the man wasn't done yet. With a growl, he charged again, reaching for his weapon. Kalem's hands moved with practiced fluidity as he spun the spear, its tip angled precisely as he brought it down in front of him, blocking the mercenary's advance.

Kalem's movements were flawless, his form precise, and his timing impeccable. With a final, controlled jab, he struck the man in the chest—not enough to wound, but with enough force to knock him back a few steps. The mercenary stumbled, his pride visibly stinging more than his bruised chest.

The mercenary's expression changed, a flicker of fear crossing his face. It was clear now that Kalem wasn't just a random blacksmith's apprentice. "This isn't over," he spat, his voice quivering slightly. He turned, gathering himself with as much dignity as he could muster, and stormed off, casting one last, resentful look over his shoulder.

As he disappeared into the distance, the apprentices erupted into murmurs and quiet cheers, clearly impressed by Kalem's skill. Even Garrick, who had witnessed the encounter from the workshop's entrance, wore a look of approval, his usual gruff demeanor softened slightly.

Kalem lowered the spear, his pulse still racing, though he kept his expression calm. He returned it to the rack and turned back to his station, aware of the gazes still fixed on him. But before he could resume his work, Garrick's voice cut through the noise.

"Kalem," Garrick said, stepping forward with a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't know you had that kind of skill."

Kalem shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to play off the intensity of the moment. "Just picked it up here and there. Figured I should learn how to handle the weapons I make."

Garrick nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "Handling is one thing, but you fight like you've trained for years. Not just anyone can pick up a spear like that."

Kalem felt a rush of pride, though he tried to keep his tone casual. "Guess I got lucky."

The apprentices around him laughed, their admiration clear. Kalem returned to his work, feeling a new weight settle on his shoulders. He hadn't sought out this attention, but he couldn't deny the satisfaction that came with proving himself. His abilities as a blacksmith were gaining recognition, yes, but now, there was something more—a hint of respect for his skill with a weapon, a skill he knew could one day make the difference between life and death.

As he hammered the cooling metal, Kalem's mind returned to thoughts of the Lynthian Crystal, its faint gleam in his memory as bright as the future he was beginning to see for himself.