The morning after his return from the town, Kaizlan was summoned by his father.
He found Lord Sevald Falric in the rear courtyard, where the forge burned hot and steady.
The old blacksmith, Joram, was at work—his hammer striking red iron with a rhythm that filled the air with sparks and the smell of coal.
"If you wish to become a knight," Sevald said, "you must first understand the iron you'll carry."
Kaizlan stepped closer, feeling the heat grow with each pace.
Joram lifted a glowing bar from the fire and set it on the anvil, his arms steady despite the years.
"Iron doesn't bend without fire," the blacksmith said, his voice rough.
"Neither do men."
Kaizlan didn't fully grasp the meaning, but he nodded all the same.
Joram held out the hammer.
"Try."
Kaizlan took it with both hands and brought it down on the metal.
The blow wasn't strong enough. The hammer rang back into his arms, sending a sharp ache through them.
The blacksmith gave a faint, knowing smile.
"It's not only strength. Patience and weight—those shape iron."
An hour later, Kaizlan's shoulders burned and his palms were slick with sweat.
The piece he had worked on was far from perfect—crooked, uneven—but it was something he had made.
As he prepared to leave, his father spoke again, his tone firm:
"Remember this, Kaizlan… the world will not wait for you to be ready."
The boy said nothing.
But the words felt heavier than the hammer in his hands.
That night, in the small room that smelled faintly of iron and ash, he wrote in his notebook:
"Strength is not born in an instant.
It's beaten into shape… strike by strike."
He set down the pen and stared at the wall,
not knowing that one day, the hammer's lesson would return—
in ways far crueler than he could imagine.