The village of Nivara was so small you could cross it on foot in fifteen minutes.
And yet, among its narrow alleys, the faces were carved with exhaustion.
At its eastern edge, the blacksmith's workshop beat like a heart of fire.
Smoke rose from the chimney, and the echo of the hammer resounded like war drums.
But it was not a war between armies —
it was a battle between a boy and his fate.
Sain Lucien was fifteen years old.
His body was thin, shaped by hardship; his hands cracked and burned from labor.
He spoke little — so little that those who saw him might think a volcano slept inside him, waiting for the right moment to erupt.
Then came the voice everyone in the forge despised:
"Hit it straight, you worthless brat!"
That was Bron — Nivara's great blacksmith,
a man with a coarse voice and eyes full of hatred, more beast than human.
"I'm sorry, sir, I was just—"
Sain didn't finish his sentence.
Bron hurled the hammer; it struck the glowing metal, and sparks scattered like tiny stars before falling on Sain's arm.
He screamed as the fire sank its fangs into his skin — and Bron laughed.
"That's how you learn. Fire is the only thing that can raise trash like you."
Sain smothered the flame with his bare hand.
Inside him, a small soul cried out: Why? Why always me?
But as always, he swallowed it in silence.
Bron grabbed him by the collar.
"Do you think you're someone important? I pulled you out of the streets! Without me, you'd be dead!"
Sain's voice trembled — not with fear, but with restrained defiance:
"I'd rather die than live as your slave."
The blow came swift — hard enough to draw blood.
Bron laughed harshly:
"Slave? You're not even worth that title. A slave has a price… but you — you're worthless."
A heavy silence filled the forge; even the fire seemed to stop its flame.
But in Sain's eyes, a faint spark lit — new, fragile, but real.
As the sun bled into the horizon, Sain stepped out into the cold air.
By the river sat Lyra — a girl with black hair and gray eyes, her gaze always carrying worry for him.
She asked softly,
"Sain… what happened to your face?"
"The same thing that happens every day."
"Did he hit you again?"
"Yes. But this time… it was different."
"Different? How?"
"For the first time, I didn't feel afraid. It hurt, yes — but I learned something from the pain."
Lyra said nothing, but she felt it — something had changed inside him.
He was no longer a broken boy.
He had become steel — melted, hammered, reshaped until he grew sharper, harder.
When night stretched its curtain, Sain returned to his small house.
The roof leaked, the wooden walls were gnawed by time.
Inside, his mother sewed old clothes by candlelight, her hands trembling with exhaustion.
His father, pale and coughing blood, lifted his head with a weak smile.
"You're back, my little hero…"
"Yes, Father. I'm back."
Sain smiled faintly, but his mind boiled like the fire in the forge.
Every strike of Bron's hammer echoed within him — not as fear, but as a restless, urgent rhythm.
He looked at his fragile parents, fading slowly, and thought:
> "If I stay here, I'll rust like this place."
He blew out the candle — darkness filled the room.
But inside him, it wasn't dark — it burned like an endless furnace.
He remembered Bron's words, the heat of iron, the sound of fire devouring his weakness.
And for the first time, he felt that maybe the fire that tormented him… was calling to him.
He sat silently, listening to the wind's moan through the cracks, and thought:
> "The fire that burns me today may be the one that frees me tomorrow."
Then his gaze fell on the old hammer beside the hearth.
He reached for it, touching it gently, as if it were a promise.
He whispered, barely audible:
> "One day… this fire will be mine.
And maybe… that day is closer than I think."
Outside, the wind wandered through the empty alleys,
carrying with it a distant whisper from a kingdom that had long forgotten this village —
as if the world beyond was preparing for something no one yet understood.