Fourteen Years Ago
The baby cried before the hammer struck.
In the deep stone chamber beneath Thornvale Forge, the air was thick with heat and soot. A forge blazed at the far end of the room, casting flickering shadows that danced along the blackened walls. Above the soft whimpering of a newborn, the ever-present hum of flame crackled like a whispering god.
Jorah Thornvale, sweat streaking down his face, held the infant boy gently in arms calloused by years of steel and fire. His wife lay weak on the cot behind him, breathing shallow but smiling. The child's skin was flushed from the warmth of the forge that surrounded him, his small fists curled tightly against his chest.
The great iron doors creaked open.
Boots clashed against the stone floor—rhythmic, cold, deliberate. Jorah turned to bow just as a tall, broad-shouldered figure entered, wreathed in royal crimson and steel. A golden crown rested atop dark hair, and his presence alone dropped the room's temperature. Behind him, black-cloaked guards moved like shadows.
King Gulliver the Iron-Fisted.
He came to a stop just short of the boy, eyes settling on the child's tiny face.
"So," the king said, his voice dry and deep. "You've given me a son."
"He is mine, Your Majesty," Jorah corrected quietly.
Gulliver's lips curled into something between amusement and warning. "A Thornvale boy. Born under flame. That makes him mine, too."
The king bent slightly, his fingers brushing the child's forehead. The forge behind them flared, as if recoiling.
"By sixteen, this boy will forge for the crown. If he cannot…"
The king's gaze slid back to Jorah, flat and final.
"…then he will die by the sword he fails to create. And so will your name."
He turned, his red cape sweeping the ground like a curtain of fire, and left without another word.
The baby cried again.
Present Day
The iron was glowing.
Rian stood in front of the forge, sweat clinging to every inch of his skin as the fire roared hotter, higher. His hands trembled slightly on the tongs, the iron billet clutched in his grip. Around him, the forge was no longer his sanctuary—it was a stage, and the audience had gathered to watch him fall.
The chamber was packed. Nobles lined the walls, their robes stiff with formality. Guildmasters stood at the perimeter, murmuring predictions behind gloved hands. At the far end, seated on a throne of sculpted iron, King Gulliver watched with his hands steepled beneath his chin.
Rian's father, Master Jorah, stood a pace behind him, silent as stone.
"Begin the Trial of Steel," said the Arbiter, voice booming through the forge.
Rian didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was dry, his heart hammering louder than any smith's strike.
He turned back to the fire. This had to work.
He plunged the billet into the heart of the flame. The metal changed color—black to dull red, then glowing orange. The longer it burned, the more alive it seemed. Rian counted in his head, every second precise.
He moved quickly—he had practiced a thousand times.
To the anvil.
He placed the metal across its face and raised the hammer.
Strike.
Sparks leapt upward like angry stars.
Strike again.
The shape began to emerge. A sword. Standard royal length. Balanced.
The ringing of metal sang through his bones. He found rhythm. His breath matched the swing. He could hear nothing but the blade and the fire.
Next came the quench—a hiss of oil, a plume of steam. Then the grindstone, where he carefully shaped the edge to perfection. He felt hope rising. Maybe this time—
Then the hilt. Simple, wrapped leather. Not elegant, but firm. The guard was slightly crooked—but only slightly.
He held the finished sword in both hands, breath shallow.
"I present my blade," he whispered, stepping forward.
The Arbiter took it, inspecting it with narrowed eyes, and passed it to one of the royal knights. Without a word, the knight strode to the far end of the chamber where an ironwood dummy waited.
Rian's heart thudded.
Strike one. The sword sliced into the dummy's shoulder, cutting cleanly.
Strike two. A sharp, angled sweep—part of the dummy's arm fell away.
Strike three.
The blade shattered.
A high, metallic scream echoed off the chamber walls. Fragments skittered across the floor. The knight stepped back, unharmed—but the blade was destroyed.
Silence.
Rian stared at the broken pieces. His legs weakened. He fell to his knees beside what was supposed to be his triumph. The steel had failed. He had failed.
From the throne, the King rose slowly.
"Promising," he said flatly. "But ultimately, still useless."
He turned away.
"You have two years left, Thornvale boy. Then I'll be back to collect."
The throne room emptied. The nobles filed out. The murmurs began again, like vultures circling something half-dead.
Rian didn't move. His hands still trembled. His sword—the best he'd ever made—was dust at his knees.
His father didn't speak.
And the forge… the forge offered no warmth.