Forge of Fate

Over the following days, Kalem noticed an unusual demand for swords, spears, shields, and other weapons flowing into Ironflame Forge. Garrick had enlisted all hands to keep up with orders, pushing the apprentices and craftsmen to their limits. Each morning, the workshop was filled with the clamor of metal on anvils, the hum of sharpening wheels, and the heat of roaring fires. The air was thick with the scent of hot steel and leather, and Kalem's hands grew rougher with every weapon he crafted.

As the orders grew, so too did the number of armed guards and mercenaries filtering through Maelon's streets. They wore various emblems and insignias from nearby towns and far-flung lands, each carrying a distinct purpose. Their presence was both reassuring and unnerving to the citizens, who whispered among themselves, wondering at the preparations. Despite the activity, there was a shared, quiet tension that spread through the city, and even Kalem, usually focused solely on his craft, found his mind wandering to the cause of the preparations.

One afternoon, during a short break, Kalem caught sight of Rorin, his fellow apprentice, who was sweating heavily beside the forge. "Quite the pace Garrick has us at, huh?" Rorin muttered, wiping his brow with a stained cloth. 

Kalem nodded, taking a long sip of water. "They're preparing for something big. You notice how many mercenaries have been around lately?"

Rorin grinned. "I've noticed. You know why, don't you?" His tone carried a hint of excitement, though Kalem could sense something heavier underneath.

Kalem tilted his head, prompting Rorin to continue.

"It's for a Culling," Rorin said, his grin fading. "The city council decided it was time. The insectoid monsters have been breeding fast, and they say their numbers have gotten out of hand. This… this is to bring them down to manageable levels."

Kalem's expression hardened as he processed Rorin's words. He'd heard of the Cullings before but had never been in the city during one. They were brutal, methodical, and essential according to the people who lived here—an extermination of the insectoid monsters that had always lingered on the city's outskirts. Without these periodic hunts, the creatures would overwhelm the city and surrounding villages, swarming anything in their path. 

As Kalem returned to the forge, his hands worked mechanically, shaping metal and molding handles. Yet, his thoughts stayed with the notion of the Culling. The Cullings were no ordinary hunts; they were harsh, merciless campaigns against creatures many considered no more than pests. But Kalem had seen glimpses of the insectoids during his travels, and he couldn't shake the thought that they were just creatures trying to survive in their own way.

Garrick approached him as the day drew to a close, placing a heavy hand on Kalem's shoulder. "You've been working hard, lad. I can see the weight on your mind, too."

Kalem gave him a thoughtful nod. "Is it really necessary, the Culling?"

Garrick's expression grew somber, his usual stern gaze softened. "I don't like it either, Kalem, but these creatures… they multiply fast. The first Culling happened when I was about your age. They swept over Maelon in waves, overwhelming the guards. They don't reason, they don't stop—if left unchecked, they'd take everything we've built here." He sighed, a glint of pain in his eyes. "It's ugly, but it's survival."

Kalem's hands stilled on his work. He could sense Garrick's years of hard-won experience behind those words, yet a part of him still wrestled with the idea. He knew what it was to craft weapons for defense, but mass extermination—no matter how necessary—felt like an immense responsibility.

The following days only saw more orders pouring in, the size and complexity of the requests escalating. Some orders demanded weapons suited for close-quarters, like axes and daggers, while others specified long-range equipment—spears, bows, and arrows tipped with barbs designed to tear. Kalem worked with intense concentration, each strike against the anvil accompanied by a weight in his chest.

As the preparations grew, so too did Kalem's sense of duty. This work was more than simply crafting; each piece he shaped would be used in the coming Culling, a tool in the hands of someone aiming to survive. And perhaps because he was closer to the forge than anyone else, he felt the purpose behind every weapon and every shield differently. To him, these weren't just items to be sold—they were the tools that could tip the balance between life and death.

One evening, as Kalem left Ironflame Forge, he noticed a gathering of city guards and mercenaries at the edge of the marketplace. He stayed close to the shadows, watching from afar as a heavily armored figure—a captain by the looks of him—spoke to the assembled group. The captain's voice carried through the crowd, recounting the details of the mission, the boundaries of the hunt, and the lines that were drawn to keep the creatures contained.

"Remember," the captain's voice echoed, "our task is not only to protect the city but to remind these creatures of their boundaries. They overstep, they invade, and it is our duty to push them back."

Kalem stood in the darkness, listening, and though he agreed with the captain's words, he couldn't shake the sense of reluctance building within him. While the city readied itself for the coming conflict, he questioned his own role in it. Perhaps it was his respect for life as a craftsman or a reflection of the struggle he felt when faced with destruction as a means to an end.

His hands clenched involuntarily, the image of his creations—blades honed to perfection, axes balanced for lethal strikes—flashing in his mind. For all the preparation and the training, the Culling would not be about skill or mastery, but raw survival. And yet, he knew his craft mattered; each weapon could be the difference between survival and defeat.

As Kalem returned home that night, he felt a shift within himself, a readiness tempered by something deeper—perhaps a responsibility to make his work worthy, not just effective. The Culling was an inevitable shadow looming over the city, a grim reminder of the harsh realities that sometimes-demanded sacrifice.

In the quiet of his room, Kalem lay awake, thoughts drifting between the echo of the captain's speech and Garrick's somber words. He knew that come morning, he would pick up his hammer and tools with renewed purpose. This was a world where survival sometimes required hard choices. But within that reality, Kalem vowed to uphold a small light, crafting with care and intention even in the darkest of times.