*Date: 33,480 Second Quarter - Iron Confederacy, Secluded Valley*
Demir's hands were blistered raw, the calluses stretched and cracking like old leather. The forge's heat clung to him day and night until his tunic smelled of smoke and iron, until even his dreams were filled with the rhythm of hammer to anvil. For three days he lived by the count of his swings. Each rise and fall of the hammer was another step toward mastery.
He whispered numbers under his breath, the tally ticking away in his head like a drumbeat.
"...nineteen...twenty..."
[Bzzzt!]
When the charged swing ran through his arm, that strange static hum of the invisible system responding, Demir shifted, focusing the power into the sword's edge. Sparks scattered like stars. By the time his arms trembled with exhaustion, he had hammered ten solid blades. Straight, balanced, cooled with discipline.
The failures lay in the corner, cracked and warped. Monuments to wasted nights. But these three gleamed on the bench, proper swords worthy of soldiers. Demir touched them with pride, chest swelling.
Demir had no words for it, only the thrill of faster rhythm. The game might have hidden the system, but the world still whispered through his bones. His charged swings were down from twenty-five to twenty.
By the third evening, sweat-soaked and swaying, Demir staggered toward Durnak's hut. "Master, I'm finished. Ten swords with good quality."
The old dwarf squinted at him, a half-drunk mug of beer in his hand. "Aye? Ten blades, be it? Good fer ye, boy. But I be too old fer admiration speeches. Rune lessons'll wait. Tomorrow." He waved him off with all the care of brushing crumbs from his beard.
Demir almost collapsed where he stood.
That night, Brovick appeared with a barrel tucked under one arm and a grin wide enough to split his face.
"Ye've done it, lad," he announced, slapping Demir on the back so hard his teeth rattled. "Ten swords solid. By the Mountain god's beard, when I was yer age I could barely keep the metal from crumblin' like stale bread. Ye've gone further in three days than I did in three years. Boundless potential, that be what humans are. Dunnae let anyone tell ye otherwise."
He cracked the barrel, and the two of them drank until the forge's glow blurred into warm haze. Demir laughed at jokes that weren't funny, raised toasts to swords that weren't sharp, and passed out on the workshop floor, head pounding like a smith's hammer.
The broom bristles stabbed his ribs.
"Get up, ye drunken eejits!" Durnak's voice cracked like thunder. He prodded Demir and Brovick mercilessly until both groaned awake. "Forge be no place fer pissheads. Gods help me, what kind o' master must deal with such... bah! Come on, lesson time."
Demir staggered upright, still reeking of ale. Brovick just grinned through the headache.
Inside the forge, Durnak set the ten swords on the bench. He looked them over with his fiery eyes, then grabbed one at random. The balance made him grunt approval, but he didn't say it aloud. Instead, he fetched a small chisel and held it up.
"Ye think makin' swords be about hammerin'? Bah! Hammerin' be the easy part. What makes a weapon sing be the rune." He tapped the flat of the blade. "Here. At its heart. Without it, it be just sharpened steel."
Demir leaned in. "What kind of runes are there?"
The old dwarf smirked. "Plenty. Rune o' Power, fer when ye be wantin' yer strikes heavier. Rune o' Swiftness, makes the blade dance faster than yer feet. Rune o' Guard, makes steel resist shatterin'. And hundreds more, though most be just dwarves makin' up new names fer old tricks."
He pressed the chisel into Demir's hand. "Etchin' be no swing o' hammer. It be patience, precision. One wrong cut, one slip, and the whole blade be ruined. And mind ye, etchin' isnae carvin' a picture. It be cuttin' a channel fer magic itself. Ye dunnae coax it proper, the stone willnae bind."
Demir nodded, pulse quickening.
"Watch, now."
Durnak set the blade across his lap, hand steady despite his years. He scored the steel in a looping pattern, a runic knot of lines and curves that shimmered faintly in the forge's glow. Then he pressed a small stone into the hollow he'd made. The gem pulsed once, faintly, then settled.
"There. Rune slot, rune set. Sword now holds Power. Swings harder, bites deeper. But mind ye, etch wrong, and ye'll weaken the steel. Might as well sell it as scrap."
Demir felt another hum in his bones. [Bzzzt!] His vision blurred for a heartbeat, then clarity surged. Something inside him understood. The invisible system acknowledging the skill.
"I... think I learned something just now," he whispered. "Yesterday it was the title. Today... I feel it. The skill. It's like the sword is talking back."
Durnak eyed him warily. "Hmph. Humans. Always rushin'. But aye, that be the feelin'."
The next hours were agony.
Demir tried his hand on the first blade, carving the rune with all the care he could muster. The chisel bit too deep. The steel cracked. Useless. Junk.
The second blade warped at the chisel's touch. Junk.
The third split in half before he even finished the lines.
Durnak's voice roared at every mistake. "Ye be scratchin' like a child drawin' in mud! Hold yer wrist straight, curse ye!"
"Too shallow, ye donkey-headed ape!"
"That isnae a rune, that be a piss-poor doodle!"
Even Brovick wasn't spared. "And ye! Quit hoverin' over him like a hen with one chick. Let the boy fail!"
By the fifth ruined blade, Demir's hands shook. Sweat poured down his back. His arms, still weary from three days of forging, cramped with the delicate work.
But then the hum came again and the lines flowed smoother. On the sixth try, the rune etched clean. When he pressed the stone of Power into the slot, the sword pulsed faintly.
It lived.
Demir exhaled like he'd been drowning.
"That be one," Durnak muttered, hiding his satisfaction behind a grunt.
The next four failed again, leaving him snarling in frustration. Steel cracked, runes slipped, stones rejected his carving. By the end, only two swords gleamed true with runes embedded. The rest were junk, fit only for the scrap pile.
Durnak gathered the ruined blades and tossed them aside with disdain. "Eight corpses, two survivors. That be the way o' runes, boy. One mistake, whole thing wasted. Any fool can hammer a blade, but only a smith worth his beard can give it a soul."
Demir sagged, arms trembling. "All that work, wasted..."
"Not wasted. Lesson learned. Each blade ye ruined taught ye what not to do. That be worth more than the two ye saved."
Demir forced a weak grin. "That sounds like something you tell a child after breaking his toy."
Brovick chuckled. "That be exactly what it is."
Durnak smacked them both with the broom he'd brought in. "Ye'll learn, or ye'll die swingin' dull steel. Now clean the forge, then take the meats to the spirit. Asena be waitin' fer her due."
Demir trudged out into the woods, arms aching, two runed swords strapped to his back. In one hand, he carried the wrapped haunch of meat Durnak had prepared.
The giant wolf was waiting. Always waiting.
"Asena," Demir muttered, setting the offering on a flat rock. The beast prowled forward, eyes gleaming like molten silver. She sniffed the meat, then looked at him, almost insulted.
"Yeah, yeah," Demir grumbled. "I know it's not much. I ruined eight swords today. What did you do?"
The wolf ripped into the meat and spat the bone at his feet, as if in mockery.
Demir threw up his hands. "Fine! You win again."
He trudged back to the forge, Asena's howl following him like laughter.
By the time he collapsed on his cot, Demir's body ached from hammer, chisel, broom, and wolf alike. But despite the failures, despite the ruins of eight blades piled at the forge's edge, his heart beat with stubborn pride.
Two swords. Two living blades. His first steps toward true weaponsmithing.