Sovereign crested the familiar hill as the forge came into view, its rising smoke curling lazily into the morning sky. Though technically outside the tribe's central grounds, it was still one of the largest buildings in the area—massive, broad, and fortified with stone and timber. Dozens of smaller forges dotted the outskirts, but this one was the heart of it all, the lifeblood of the village's craft.
He chuckled to himself as he entered through the main side door, the same one as before. Inside, the heat hit him like a wave, but it was the scent of metal, sweat, and flame that made his blood stir. To his right was a small desk with a heavy chair behind it—and in that chair sat Ragnar. Though he wasn't a master forgeman himself, Ragnar practically ran the place. From regulating the furnaces to managing materials and discipline, he kept everything in order and reported directly to Master Oron.
"Hey, fella. Hey buddy. How you doing today?" Sovereign called out as he approached.
Ragnar looked up with a smirk. "That should be 'senior disciple' coming from you."
Sovereign rolled his eyes and replied in a mockingly reverent tone. "Oh, my bad. Great senior disciple, how art thou this fine day?"
Ragnar laughed, slapping the desk. "Oh, your great senior disciple is mighty fine. Busy, but well. What brings you in today?"
"I'm here to put some of those manuals you gave me to use," Sovereign said, rubbing his hands together. "That was a lot to read, by the way."
"They always are. I went through the same thing. Don't worry, you'll only use a fraction of that knowledge at first. It's more about planting seeds in your mind—you'll understand it all better the further you go. Plus, there's still more where that came from."
"More?" Sovereign grimaced.
"Plenty. Especially once you start diving into essence-bearing parts and trait forging."
Sovereign sighed. "Any open furnaces?"
Ragnar glanced over some records. "One should open up in about half an hour. Left side, two forges down. The fella there is finishing a shield."
Sovereign nodded his thanks, but before he could leave, Ragnar gestured toward the back. "Might be a good time to visit the storage. Gather what materials you'll need. And—your beast's remains are prepped. You'll find the essence-bearing parts stored properly, but I'd advise you not to use them yet. Save those for when you've got some real experience—or ask a forgemaster to work with them. It'd be a shame to waste their potential."
Sovereign blinked. He had forgotten he'd even brought the corpse back. Nodding, he headed to the reinforced wooden door, iron-bound for extra durability, and pushed his way into the storage room.
To his surprise, the inside was immaculately organized. One section held metal ores, another was stacked with beast materials—further subdivided by bone, hide, scales, leather, and the more delicate organs preserved in alchemical vials. These last were the essence-bearing parts Ragnar had mentioned. They weren't just trophies. According to the books, these parts could help forge weapons and armor that bond with different elements or produce unique traits. The heart of a Flamebeast might bond with fire, or the eyes of a Shadowcat could enhance stealth.
He didn't linger too long in the beast section—he hadn't reached those manuals yet. But he did spot his own materials, neatly labeled with his name. That sent a thrill through him. His first real hunt had borne fruit.
He turned instead to the metal ores. These, he had studied well. Each type of metal had its quirks and needs. Some required precise temperatures. Others reacted to impurities differently. Some, like ascidium, a deep black ore harvested from caverns tainted by darkness-aligned creatures, were sharp and cold and had a high affinity for shadow traits. Wither, with its pale silver streaks, was found on high, windswept cliffs, often near where wind-aligned beasts met their end. It was ideal for crafting lightweight armors or weapons that resonated with swiftness. Pyros, a vibrant red-gold metal, absorbed sunlight and fire Vol naturally. When refined properly, it could grant attacks greater power or imbue the weapon with burning energy.
But today, Sovereign wasn't here for any of that.
He made his way to a large barrel of nork—a basic, common metal. Easy to refine, flexible enough to take shape without cracking, and compatible with nearly everything. It was the bread and butter of any beginner. He would be smelting it down to create ingots, following the three primary stages of foundational forging: heating, purifying, and shaping. Those were the first steps every apprentice had to master before they could move on to quenching, tempering, or forging for Vol affinity.
He filled a leather sack with the raw nork and slung it over his shoulder. There were racks of these sacks hanging around the room—clearly designed for ease of material collection. As he left, he felt a bit more grounded, more sure of his path.
When he returned to the front hall, Ragnar nodded. "Did you get a look at your beast? And the ores?"
"I did," Sovereign replied. "Just grabbed some nork. Planning to practice ingot-making today."
"Good choice. That's how it begins. It's not about flair. Just hammer, fire, and time. You've got about five minutes 'til the forge's free. You've got questions?"
Sovereign shook his head. "Not yet. Still too green to know what I don't know."
Ragnar grinned. "Well said."
Not one to waste time, Sovereign walked around the forge, watching the others at work. One Titan was forging a spearhead, another a curved blade. The rhythm of hammering filled the air. It was almost musical.
One caught his eye in particular—a green Titan, massive even by their standards, a full head taller than Sovereign's father. The man was crafting a dagger, the precision of his strikes making the metal sing. Sovereign admired the detail and craftsmanship. But another figure drew his full attention: a brown-skinned Titan finishing up a shield. He was locked in, not acknowledging anything around him.
Sovereign watched in silence. The hammer rose and fell with purpose, every movement deliberate, controlled. He could hear the rhythm—tap, tap, tap, rest. Tap, tap, tap, rest. It was like a song with each strike pushing impurities away and bringing form closer to life. The rest of the forge fell away. He forgot the heat, the noise—everything but that hammer.
After a few minutes, the forger stopped and finally noticed him, jumping back slightly. "Ancestors! You scared me. When did you get there?"
Sovereign blinked. "Just now. Your technique's mesmerizing. I didn't mean to intrude."
"Oh, no, young chief—I was just caught off guard."
"That's a fine piece of work you've made," Sovereign said, his eyes on the shield.
The Titan's eyes widened. "You think so? You really think so?"
Before Sovereign could respond, the man broke into an impromptu dance. "I did it! I actually forged a fine Tier-Two Vol shield! A Tier-Two!"
Sovereign smiled. It was deserved. Vol-infused weapons and tools were graded not just on craftsmanship but how they channeled the user's internal power. Tier One simply accepted Vol. Tier Two allowed it to flow more easily, syncing with the user. Tier Three and above amplified and enhanced Vol. Tier Four and Five began bonding traits or elements directly. Few ever reached those levels.
To create a fine Tier Two piece as a young forger? That was something worth celebrating.
A crowd formed. Ragnar included. After hearing the news, Ragnar patted the man on the shoulder and immediately took him to see Master Oron. Perhaps he'd be accepted as another disciple, or at least earn recognition. Talent like that had to be nurtured.
Once things settled, Sovereign finally got his turn. He made his way to the forge, setting down the sack of nork beside the anvil. He picked up a pair of leather gloves, a thick-handled hammer, and what looked like a pair of sturdy tongs. Beside the anvil sat a basin of white powder. He hadn't known what that was before, but Ragnar explained it earlier—it helped with grip for those who preferred bare hands while forging, soaking up sweat.
With his gloves on, he began.
Heating the metal until it glowed a deep red, he pulled it out with the tongs and laid it on the anvil. He hammered it carefully, striking evenly to push out impurities. He returned it to the forge, reheated, hammered again. Repeating this cycle, he gradually shaped the metal, learning to read its feel—the texture, the sound, even how it smelled.
After about five rotations, he moved to the next step. He turned the furnace up higher, allowing the cleaned metal to fully melt in an iron crucible. Once liquefied, he poured it into a simple mold to cool into a rough ingot. That was the practice. Making functional, useable ingots.
He repeated the process over the next couple of hours, growing steadily more confident. Ragnar occasionally stepped in to correct his stance or advise on timing.
Eventually, it was time to clean up. He placed his ingots back in the leather sack and brought it to Ragnar, who handed him a nameplate. Sovereign etched his name onto it and tagged his sack. These early ingots would serve as training stock for weapon forging later. They weren't pure enough for anything real—but they'd be a benchmark to measure his growth.
He returned them to storage and exited through the back door. The wind greeted him like a friend, cool and refreshing. Sovereign took a deep breath and grunted in satisfaction. The heat of the forge was thrilling, but this—this was peace.
After about half an hour's walk, he reached home and compared his family's hut to Sidner's. His parents' house was wide—about 30 feet across—and tall enough to house them all comfortably. Two entrances: one to his room, one to the main hall. Not the largest in the village, but still among the better-built. It felt… grounded.
Inside, he went to the back table, where he kept his bathing supplies. He picked up a bottle of thick blue liquid—Sapo, an alchemically-enhanced cleanser. His mother had made this herself. It didn't just clean; it refreshed and rejuvenated the body.
Stepping outside to the rear basin, he filled it with water from the well, dropped in a heat stone, and added a few drops of Sapo. Within moments, the water warmed and turned faintly cloudy blue. He stripped, sank into the basin, and let the heat soak into his muscles.
His mind wandered. Sidner. Why was the man so hostile? Why had he called his father a bastard? Why did he refuse to even acknowledge Sovereign's name? There was a story there—one he had to uncover. Tomorrow, he'd confront him again. But tonight, he needed answers from someone who might actually give them.
After half an hour of soaking, he dried off, changed into fresh clothes, and entered the kitchen. Neither parent had returned yet, so he prepared dinner. Using the preserved monster meat from the freeze cube, some vegetables, and rice from the baskets, he prepared a meal of honey-glazed meat and stir-fried greens.
His parents arrived just as the food was nearly done. They washed up and sat down to eat with him. As they did, Sovereign finally looked to his father and asked:
"Dad… what's your history with Master Sidner?"
Kraken froze.
For the first time Sovereign could remember, his father looked… sad.
Ashen, his mother, placed her hand on her husband's shoulder. Her smile was soft, but tinged with something else. Something painful.
Kraken took a long breath, then nodded slowly.
"It's a long story," he said. "But if you're ready to hear it, I'll tell you."
Sovereign leaned in.
He was ready.