The forge hall buzzed with anticipation, the clang of hammers and roar of fires melding into a single pulse that echoed off the stone walls. Scores of students crowded the vast chamber, their faces alight with expectation and curiosity. Today marked a turning point—the class where each would craft their own weapon, a rite of passage in the academy's legacy. Among them, Aevion moved with quiet purpose, the weight of countless eyes upon him failing to stir even the faintest ripple of emotion.
At the heart of the forge, an array of raw materials lay scattered—blazing coals, molten metal, and tools of precision. Instructors paced, their sharp gazes scanning the room, while clusters of students whispered and laughed, their words sharp as blades themselves. Aevion's hands hovered over his chosen materials, fingers steady and measured, as though conducting a silent symphony no one else could hear.
"Look at that," a voice sneered from the back, dripping with condescension. "Aevion's sword won't even hold a spark. Pathetic."
"Ha! Bet it's going to snap the moment he swings it," another mocked, the laughter growing louder, feeding off each other like wildfire. The crowd swelled, a tide of scoffs and taunts washing over the forge floor.
Yet Aevion's expression remained serene, eyes calm pools reflecting nothing of the storm around him. His mind was a fortress, each insult a mere gust against unyielding stone. He paid no heed, fingers folding into the delicate dance of shaping metal, coaxing the blade into life from glowing embers.
The struggle was real. Metal resisted, warped under his touch, flames licking hungrily at the edges of failure. Sweat traced cold paths down his back, muscles tensed in silent battle with the elements. Yet with each hammer's strike, the blade began to take form—a shimmering silhouette born of fire and will.
Around him, voices rose and fell like a tempest. Some sneered openly; others watched, waiting for his inevitable collapse. But none could see the calm fire that burned within Aevion, a quiet storm gathering strength beyond mortal sight.
As the molten metal cooled and the final strokes fell, the sword emerged—sleek and pure, yet deceptively simple. A weapon that seemed almost to hum with quiet power, its edges sharp enough to slice through the fabric of reality itself. The murmurs faltered, the crowd's confidence shaken by the unassuming blade in his grasp.
Aevion lifted the sword with ease, the grip fitting as though it was forged from his very soul. He felt the latent power stirring, a promise of things yet to come. The mocking voices faded into background noise, meaningless as the wind.
He didn't need their approval. The true battle was only beginning, and this blade—Vexiaris—would carve his path through the shadows.
The forge hall's heat was nothing compared to the fire awakening within him