The workshop stood at the edge of the village, where the black stone of Ignis met the shifting red sands. A stifling heat billowed from within, pulsed by the rhythmic, metallic ring of a hammer. Nameless pushed open the heavy door, his rusted sword concealed beneath his cloak and the black crystal clutched tight in his fist.
Instead of the massive master smith he had envisioned, he found a boy roughly his own age. His face was smeared with soot as he desperately struggled to straighten a twisted iron bar.
"Oh! A customer?" the boy exclaimed, dropping his hammer. It narrowly missed his toes. "Hi! I'm Milo, the master's apprentice. Bad timing, though—the old man isn't here. He was summoned by the Village Elders, and when they start talking, it lasts until the next morning!"
Nameless felt a prickle of panic. "It's too important. I can't wait outside. I was ordered to come here—to this specific forge."
Milo wiped his forehead, leaving a dark streak across his brow. "Sorry, friend, but the master's orders are strict: 'Milo, don't let anyone in, especially strangers, or I'll turn you into a horseshoe.' And since I quite like having two legs, you'll have to come back tomorrow."
Nameless lowered his head. His clothes were tattered, and his hands still shook from exhaustion. "I have nowhere else to go, Milo. I walked five days through the desert to get here. Just give me a corner of straw. I'll work. I'll carry coal, clean the furnaces—anything. Please."
Milo stopped smiling. He looked at Nameless's worn boots, then at his eyes, which seemed to carry the weight of the entire world. His craftsman's heart, tender despite the hardness of the metal, finally gave way.
"Alright, fine..." he grumbled, opening a small door toward the back. "But if the master comes back and sees you, we're both dead. You'll sleep in the coal shed."
Questions Beneath the Cinder
The forge had grown quiet, leaving only the faint crackle of dying embers. Milo, perched on an overturned barrel, devoured a piece of dry cheese while staring at Nameless with comical intensity. It was clear he was dying to speak.
"Okay, I lasted ten minutes. That's a new record," Milo finally blurted out, pointing his knife toward Nameless. "But I'm breaking. Who are you, seriously? You wander out of the desert like a ghost, wearing clothes that cost more than my whole house, yet they're in shreds... Are you a noble on the run?"
Nameless, sitting in a dark corner, unconsciously stroked his wrists where the iron gloves ended. "I'm no noble, Milo. I don't even know if I have a family name."
"No name? Then what's with those gloves?" the apprentice insisted, leaning in with technical curiosity. "I've never seen ironwork this fine. That's not Solis steel. Is it heavy metal? Enchanted? Why do you never take them off? Are you hiding monster hands or something?"
Nameless offered a sad smile. "If I take them off, I can no longer answer for what happens. They are there to protect me... and to protect others from me."
Milo paused, intimidated by the gravity of the answer, but his curiosity quickly resurfaced. "And that thing under your cloak? That rusted sword? Is that what you want to show the old man? Between us, he'll laugh in your face. Balthazar only repairs weapons of legend. Why would he bother with a piece of scrap picked up from a ditch? Who sent you here anyway?"
"A woman named Elara," Nameless replied simply. "She said this workshop was the only place I would find the truth."
"Elara? The 'Shadow Witch'?" Milo choked. "If it's her, then you're even more dangerous than you look. What else are you carrying? A dragon egg? A curse?"
Nameless remained silent, clutching the black crystal in his pocket. Milo was about to ask a tenth question when, suddenly, the floor of the forge vibrated. It wasn't an earthquake, but heavy, deliberate footsteps.
The Arrival of Balthazar
The door swung open with such violence it nearly flew off its hinges. The air turned scorching. A two-meter-tall colossus with tanned skin and arms as thick as tree trunks stood there.
"Milo!" the man roared. "I told you: no strangers!"
Milo jumped, nearly toppling off his barrel. "Master! It's... he's here for you! He was sent by—"
Balthazar ignored his apprentice. His nostrils flared. He approached Nameless like a predator. He didn't look at his eyes; he looked at his bag. "Take it out, boy," he ordered in a low, gravelly voice. "I can smell the scent of steel that thirsts. Show me the sword."
Nameless obeyed slowly. He placed the rusted blade upon the anvil. Balthazar seemed to age ten years in a single second. He placed a calloused hand on the cold metal.
"So it's true," the blacksmith whispered. "The cycle begins again."
He had no time to say more. In the distance, the blare of a war horn erupted, tearing through the silence of the Ignis night. Reflections of white and gold armor appeared atop the dunes, surrounding the village.
"The Knights of the Solis Temple..." Balthazar spat. "They waste no time. Milo! Lock the cellar! Boy, if you want answers, you're going to have to survive the dawn."
The Chronicles of the Eternal Anvil
The floor of the forge pivoted with a dull groan. Balthazar pushed Nameless and Milo down a spiral staircase that descended so deep the desert heat was soon replaced by a heavier, more ancient warmth.
They emerged into a subterranean cathedral. There was no coal here. Rivers of lava flowed through channels of black stone, and the walls were lined with weapons that made the head spin just to look at: spears that seemed to weep blood, shields engraved with screaming runes. This was the sanctuary of a god of the forge.
Balthazar turned toward them. His silhouette, magnified by the lava's glow, seemed to shift. His skin no longer looked merely tanned, but covered in a fine film of diamond dust.
"You wonder why I reveal this place to you," he said, his voice echoing like a war drum. "Why an old village hermit would possess the secrets of sacred and cursed steel."
He placed the rusted sword on an anvil of white crystal. "Balthazar... that name is but a borrowed ornament for human ears. Long ago, the Great Anciens called me Aethelgard, the Comet Striker."
Flashback: The Age of Gold and Blood
Balthazar closed his eyes, and the air in the room filled with ghostly images. Milo and Nameless saw, as if in a waking dream, a world where cities floated atop mountains, carried by wings of leather and scale.
"I lived a thousand years before your first breath," he began. "I was the blacksmith of the Drakonides. That is the name of your people, boy. I did not forge for fleeting kings, but for the Lords of the Sky. I received the Blessing of the Breath of Life: I cannot die of old age as long as a forge burns somewhere to welcome me."
His face contorted with pain. "We thought we were eternal. But fear is a potent poison. Humans, corrupted spirits, and shadow demons formed the Alliance of Agony. They feared our power. They feared the dragons would make the world their hunting ground."
Nameless saw images of total war. Millions of human soldiers perishing under draconic flames. "We were winning, Nameless. The Alliance was going to collapse. But then... the impossible happened."
Balthazar struck the anvil with his fist, sending blue sparks flying. "The Betrayal. One of our own blood—a Great Dragon whose name has been erased from every stela—turned his magic against his kin. A draconic magic of such high level that it petrified the hearts of our warriors in mid-air. That traitor sold us for a throne of ashes. The massacre that followed lasted a century."
The Birth of the Circle
"I fled, dying, my vitals burned by that treacherous magic," Balthazar continued. "I wandered in limbo for centuries, fueled by hatred and the desire for revenge. It was then that I met other outcasts. Humans who, unlike their kings, worshipped the wisdom of dragons. Together, we founded the Dragon Circle. My mission was simple: forge the weapons of the return, and find the scattered survivors."
Milo, pale as a ghost, stammered: "So... everything they say about dragon demons... it's all lies?"
"History is written by the victors, Milo," Balthazar snapped.
The Mystery of Nameless
The blacksmith finally turned toward Nameless. He scrutinized him as if trying to read through his very bones. "I forged those gloves to contain the uncontainable. I forged this sword for a special warrior—a legend that was to be born at the end of time. But you..."
He stepped so close that Nameless felt the heat radiating from him. "I know every draconic lineage. I know the scent of the blood of Fire Dragons, Ice Dragons, and even those of Shadow. But the blood that flows in you... it is alien. It is a mixture of gravity and void that I do not recognize. You are a dragon, Nameless, but you belong to no family I have known in my thousand years of existence."
Nameless recoiled, shock written across his face. "If even you don't know who I am... then what am I?"
Balthazar placed a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "You are the unforeseen. The pawn no one saw coming on the chessboard. But know this: the sword you hold was forged for the greatest of us. Whether it reacts to your touch is a sign of divine hope... or a curse that will destroy us all."
Above, an explosion vibrated through the foundations. Dust fell from the ceiling. "They've forced the door," Balthazar grunted, picking up his hammer. "Milo, take the boy through the South tunnel. I'm going to show them why you never disturb a Drakonide blacksmith in his lair."