The following morning arrived draped in mist, pale gold light streaming lazily through the tree-canopied village paths. Birds chirped far above, and the scent of dew and ash drifted on the wind as Tovan and Renil made their way toward the blacksmith's shop. The morning walks had become part of a quiet ritual a slow, thoughtful silence between them, punctuated only by the occasional greeting of an early riser or the rustle of village life waking around them.
Renil seemed livelier than usual, a strange sort of reverence in the way he stepped over stones and traced his hand across the wooden fence posts as they neared the forge. "You'll like him," he said, as if trying to reassure both himself and Tovan.
The blacksmith's shop stood low and wide at the edge of the village, its chimney already huffing faint ribbons of smoke into the morning sky. Wooden beams blackened by age and soot held up the slanted roof, and the air pulsed faintly with the warmth of ember and iron. Inside, the walls were lined with tools, unfinished blades, and racks of polished weapons—some ornamental, others practical, all breathing with silent power.
Behind the anvil stood a man with arms like tree trunks and a beard threaded with silver and ash. His name was Sir Orrun, but the villagers mostly just called him Old Hammer. His face was set like stone but not cruel, and though his eyes were sharp as arrowheads, there was something almost grandfatherly buried deep behind them.
Renil cleared his throat. "Sir Orrun, this is Tovan."
The old man didn't look up at first. He continued hammering the blade on the anvil, sparks flying in bright bursts like miniature stars. Only when he paused to douse the metal in water did he glance their way.
"You have hands?" he asked gruffly.
Tovan blinked. "Yes...?"
"Then use them. Renil, the tongs. Boy, grab that whetstone."
So began their strange apprenticeship. Orrun wasn't one for pleasantries. He spoke like iron harsh, blunt, and heated but never without purpose. As the day stretched on, Tovan found himself drawn not to the old man's words, but to the rhythm of his work. The forge glowed like a slumbering beast, breathing with every bellows pump. The hammer sang. Steel whispered as it bent to the will of fire and force.
The sword was born like a poem.
Each strike was a syllable.
Each breath a verse.
First, the blade was pulled from the fire red, then orange, then white with heat. Orrun's hammer came down with the weight of forgotten gods, shaping the glowing ingot into form. Sparks scattered across the workshop floor, but Tovan's eyes never flinched. The sound of iron on iron, the hiss of quenching water, the scent of smoke and sweat—all of it seared into his senses.
He was in love.
By the end of the day, he had not said a word for hours. Renil, tired but smiling, nudged him lightly. "You alright?"
Tovan only nodded, eyes still on the cooling blade. "It's beautiful," he whispered. "Like... music. But real."
Day Two.
Tovan and Renil rose early again, even before the sun touched the mountaintops. They walked the same path, shoes damp with morning dew, and stopped at the well to wash their hands and faces. Cleanliness, Orrun had insisted, was not just for the body it was for respect. "You don't touch the forge dirty. You touch it as if it were sacred."
That day, they helped Orrun shape an axe.
The head of the axe was brutish, solid, meant not for elegance but for ending obstacles. Orrun showed Tovan how to fold metal, how to judge temperature by color alone. They sharpened the edge until it sang when flicked with a fingernail.
"Every weapon," Orrun grumbled, "has a voice. The ones that are silent will betray you."
Tovan didn't understand then, but he listened.
Day Three.
Orrun forged a war hammer.
It took the whole day just to mold the core. Tovan and Renil fetched iron chunks, stoked the flames, and helped temper the handle. The hammerhead was thick, almost brutalist in design, but the details... the etchings along the side, the balance of weight—it was art disguised as violence.
By sunset, all three stood before the hammer in silence.
Orrun finally spoke: "Time for a break. You two've got blood in your arms now. Go and lose it in the woods."
Renil perked up. "Can we, uh, hunt?"
The old man gave them a glance so sharp it could've sliced bark. "Hunt? Hah. Don't come back limping and cryin'. Bring me something that walks on four legs and tastes like victory."
Then, he turned and rummaged beneath a pile of unsold, rusty blades. From it, he pulled a narrow, worn-down sword with a faded hilt, and a bundle of arrows with warped tips.
He held them out, not gently. "Take it. Used to belong to someone dumb, now it belongs to you. Try not to die with it."
Tovan bowed slightly. "Thank you, sir."
"I'm not your sir. I'm the fire that burns your skin if you touch me wrong."
They left with awkward thanks, packs slung on their backs, the worn sword sheathed at Tovan's side. Behind them, the forge roared still—its breath rising into the coming night.
Ahead lay the forest, and the silence between trees that knew the taste of blood.
And so began their first real test.
So they left the forge behind and slipped into the woods. The morning was crisp, the shadows long, and the trees whispered like old friends as they passed.
Tovan began with the basics how to move without a sound, how to breathe with the forest, how to read a trail. He spoke softly, each lesson a quiet ripple through the silence. Renil followed closely, nodding, whispering questions.
They found tracks soon a deer, young, slow.
Tovan crouched. "Watch the wind. See how the leaves stir. Don't aim for the head. Wait for the ribs closer to the heart."
Renil nodded, fingers trembling slightly as he nocked an arrow.
The deer stepped into the clearing, unaware.
A breath. A heartbeat.
The arrow flew.
A thud, a cry, the deer staggered and fell.
Renil gasped in triumph, both hands raised. "I did it!"
But then
A rustle.
A growl.
Something massive crashed through the underbrush. A brown bear, larger than anything they'd seen before, roared as it stepped out of the trees. Its eyes were filled with wild hunger, its claws glistening.
Renil froze.
Tovan stepped forward, drawing the rusted sword without hesitation. His stance shifted not like a child but like a man forged in the fire of battle. The sword, though old, felt like an extension of his hand. Back in his village, the axe he wielded was twice as heavy this was nothing. A dagger in his palm.
The bear charged.
Tovan met it head-on.
He sidestepped the first lunge, blade sweeping in a fluid arc, grazing the beast's shoulder. The bear turned with fury. Another slash low and precise. Blood darkened its fur.
Renil screamed as he stumbled back but the bear turned on him.
Tovan's heart dropped.
He leapt, blade cutting across the creature's eye just as it reared on Renil. It roared, blinded, swiping wildly. A claw caught Tovan's shoulder, dragging deep but he didn't fall. He twisted, rolled, stabbed. Steel sank into fur, bone, and muscle. The bear groaned, stumbled.
And then it was still.
The forest fell silent.
Renil rushed over, voice shaking. "Tovan! You you saved me!"
Tovan didn't speak at first. He looked down at the sword in his hand, blood trailing down its edge. He wasn't shaking. He felt no fear. Only stillness. Only the strange quiet that always followed a fight.
"I'm used to heavier blades," he muttered.
Renil looked at him, wide-eyed.
"I carried an axe back home. This?" Tovan lifted the rusted sword. "Feels like a feather."
The forest closed around them again, but this time, it did not feel threatening.
They had survived.