*Date: 33,480 Second Quarter - Iron Confederacy, Secluded Valley*
The morning bells of the valley rang with the rhythm of hammers long before the sun had cleared the mist. For the first time in decades, the forge belched smoke in earnest, and dwarves who usually only drank or whittled gathered in the square to whisper about the human lad and the elder who had sworn never to touch smithing again.
Demir stood before the forge with ash already smeared across his cheeks. His arms ached from yesterday's endless pounding of nails, yet his chest carried a strange pride. Each nail had been a lesson. Somewhere between the thirty-fourth and the forty-second, something invisible had clicked inside him. He had felt the steel's resistance bend to his rhythm. And when the fiftieth was quenched, he swore something deeper had stirred, a faint rush, like the world itself had acknowledged his persistence.
"It was more than charged strikes. I am actually learning," Demir said to himself. "Maybe they're combining."
Durnak arrived with his cane tapping, his thick beard still damp from his morning wash. Brovick trailed after him, yawning, carrying a sack of kindling.
"All right, human," Durnak said, settling onto his stool beside the forge. His eyes were sharp, even though his body seemed to drag with age. "Yesterday ye learned to hit metal until it stops lookin' like pig iron. Today, ye'll learn why swords're nae armor. Ye ready?"
Demir nodded, swallowing dry spit.
Durnak leaned forward, pointing with his cane at the billets stacked nearby. "A plate o' armor? Ye hammer, ye shape, ye rivet it to leather. Even if it bends, the bastard wearin' it still lives. A sword? One bad quench, one hairline crack, and it'll snap the first time ye trust it. An' when that happens..." He tapped his chest with the cane. "Yer belly's open, an' yer blood's in the dirt. So don't ye ever forget, boy. Armor forgives mistakes. Weapons don't."
Demir let the words sink in. They sounded less like smithing instruction and more like law.
"So... cooling is the most dangerous part?"
Durnak's eyes narrowed. "Dangerous? Hah! It's cruel. Ye spend hours hammerin', foldin', coaxin' the steel to behave, an' in a breath o' water or oil, it can betray ye. The quench is when the steel decides if it'll be yer friend or yer killer. An' steel remembers."
Demir frowned. "Remembers?"
"Aye. Every strike ye give, every heat ye rush, every time ye hammer without listenin', the steel keeps count. Treat it like a stubborn mule, and it'll buck ye when ye need it most. Treat it with respect, and maybe, maybe it'll hold."
Demir felt a chill crawl up his back despite the forge's heat.
"Now," Durnak continued, shifting in his seat. "Homework. Fifty blades. Nae fancy. Nae polish. Just billets hammered, drawn, shaped, quenched. Ye'll do every step as I say. Slow, steady. Heat to red, nae white. Quench in oil, nae water. Handle with tongs, nae with those bare fingers like ye did yesterday, unless ye fancy stumps. Fifty blades, lad. By the end, ye'll ken what steel wants."
Demir's mouth fell open. "Fifty? In how long?"
Durnak leaned back with a smirk. "Till I say stop. Maybe a month, maybe a year. Depends how fast ye learn. Depends if ye live that long."
Brovick clapped Demir on the shoulder. "Ye asked for this, boy. Remember that."
Demir exhaled through his nose. "Fifty blades. I'll do it."
The forge became his world. From dawn to dusk, Demir hammered billets into crude blade-shapes, sweat dripping from his brow, arms screaming with exhaustion.
The first few bent like warped planks. Durnak hurled insults from his stool.
"Ye call that a sword? Looks like somethin' a goblin would use to scrape dung from its boots!"
Demir tried again. His second cracked in the quench. "I made them in the Basin. Why are they turning up like this?"
"Ha! Quenched too fast. Ye drowned it like a kitten. Ye learn nothin', lad?"
By the fifth, Demir's hands blistered, raw against the hammer's grip. He bit his cheek and kept going.
The dwarves passing through the square began laying bets on how long he'd last. By the end of the first week, Demir had produced a row of ugly blades leaning against the wall, but each one survived the quench intact.
And each night, when he dragged his weary body to bed, he swore he would figure it out like he had with armor.
Every morning, Durnak handed Demir a slab of meat wrapped in cloth. Sometimes venison, sometimes boar, once even goat.
"What's this for?" Demir asked the first time.
Durnak scowled. "For Asena, ye thick-skulled pup. Ye think she follows ye for yer charm? She's a spirit o' the woods. Ye're in her debt. So ye'll bring her meat every day. A pact, of sorts. She keeps ye alive, ye feed her."
Demir balked. "What if she doesn't show?"
"She's watchin'. Always. Leave it at the treeline. She'll take it when she likes."
So Demir did. Each dawn, before hammering, he walked to the edge of the valley and laid down the meat. At first, nothing happened. But by the third day, he found the offering gone before he returned. On the fifth, he caught a glimpse of silver fur sliding between the trees. On the seventh, he woke to pawprints around the forge, as though Asena had circled him while he worked.
It unnerved him. Yet it also steadied him. Somehow, knowing she was out there watching pushed him to strike straighter, to endure longer.
Days blurred.
Demir's body toughened. His shoulders hardened, his forearms knotted with new muscle. Blisters became calluses. His strikes grew surer, more rhythmic, ringing like music instead of random clanging.
Still, the failures came. Blades cracked. Some twisted beyond use. Durnak sneered at each one, but behind the insults Demir began to hear a grudging respect.
"Better. Still shite, but better shite."
By the twentieth blade, Demir could tell by the glow alone when the billet was ready. By the thirtieth, he could hear the steel's pitch shift under the hammer, a subtle note telling him when it was too thin or uneven.
And through it all, Durnak barked reminders.
"Patience, boy! Ye rush, ye break!"
"Balance! Nae one wants a sword that swings like a club!"
"Respect the steel, lad. It's got more memory than ye do!"
Demir cursed under his breath more than once, but he obeyed.
On the thirty-fifth blade, Demir lost control. He swung too hard, too fast, trying to force the steel into shape. The billet cracked down the middle. All those hours, wasted.
He dropped the hammer, chest heaving, anger rising. "This is pointless. I'll never get it right. I should've stayed with the others. I should've..."
Durnak's cane smacked his shin.
"Quit yer whinin'. Ye think I made my first good blade in a week? I spent twenty years makin' scrap before I forged one sword worth swingin'. Twenty years, boy! Ye've barely been at it twenty days. Pick up the hammer."
Demir clenched his teeth. Slowly, he did.
By the fortieth blade, something changed. Demir no longer thought about each swing. His body moved in rhythm, guided by the steel itself. Heat, hammer, fold, quench. Over and over, until the steps blurred into instinct.
When he put the blade into oil, [Bzzt!]. He got another skill notification. "Is this a cooling skill?" he said to himself.
When he pulled the blade from the oil, it gleamed straighter than any before. The line of the edge was cleaner. It flexed, then held when he struck it against the anvil.
Durnak eyed it. "Ugly, aye. But it's a sword. A real one. Maybe ye'll live long enough to make one worth swingin'."
Demir allowed himself a thin smile. He was exhausted, covered in soot, his hands raw. But inside, a spark of pride glowed.
That night, Demir walked to the treeline with the day's offering of meat. He set it down, bowing his head slightly.
"I don't know why you follow me," he whispered. "But thanks. I'll get stronger. I'll forge something worthy."
A low growl rumbled from the dark. Silver eyes glimmered between the trees. The wolf stepped forward just enough for Demir to see her before vanishing again.
Demir exhaled, heart pounding. He turned back toward the forge, ready to face another day.
Fifty blades. Fifty lessons. And maybe, if he endured, a sword that would not fail him when it mattered most.