—Year 312 of the Ascension of the Celestial Monarch—
The stellar steel furnace glowed with vibrant blue flames that distorted the air, to the point that he himself felt some pain in his eyes when focusing his gaze on it.
—Clank, clank.
Heavy blows of metal striking metal resonated in the smithy as his adoptive father struck the hot steel with his own hands. Ignoring the flames, the black hands covered in miraculous runes of his father and master traced and shaped the metal as if it were clay, while he watched with attentive eyes.
"Incredible, isn't it, Jac?" asked a voice in a soft whisper behind him.
Startled, he found the face of his cousin, Aragon, son of the High Lord of Ulheim and his uncle.
Unlike him, who had barely lived ten winters, his cousin already had more than thirty winters past, so he was quite older than him, but not that much; his uncle kept having children despite everything.
But despite that, he was quite attractive, with a sturdy and wild appearance. The fey blood in his body was that of the Feynir and Feymor tribes, descendants of the ancient Vanir and Fomorians from Grandma Tess's legends.
Standing out over his Feynir lineage, and as a sign of it, two curved horns similar to those of a goat protruded from his forehead, covered in mysterious runes.
At that point, the pounding against the metal had ended while the black jade flames were consuming themselves, as the lunar crystals that fueled the furnace flames scattered into ashes.
And then, his tall figure that had served as a blacksmith now stood up casting a long shadow behind him, as if he were not a Feysir, but one of the extinct celestial cyclopes who forged the lightning of divine tribulation.
His adoptive father was much older, even if he doubled his current age and added it to Aragon's; after all, he himself was his uncle's adoptive father, which left the filial relationships between everyone in a comical tangle that was always discussed by everyone amidst laughter.
"Yes, it is," replied Jac Drain as he watched his adoptive father grab the smoking sword with his hands and then leave it in the cold water, causing a column of steam to rise into the air with the characteristic sound of boiling water.
"I'm surprised Uncle let you watch; he's quite protective of you, brat," said a second voice, much more youthful than Aragon's, which emerged from the side of the smithy door.
It was a young man, of slender appearance. He had blond hair, as if they were golden curls, while his eyes were of different colors: one blue like an amethyst and the other black like the mouth of a wolf. But his only defect was that his neck was twisted at a strange angle of forty-five degrees to the left.
"Serach," Aragon murmured with a forced smile.
Like Aragon, Serach was a cousin to both, but he was younger than Aragon although older than him, already surpassing twenty winters and reaching another year of life shortly.
"Uncle told me that now that I'm almost a man I can have a weapon," Jac said with an irritated expression, while trying to straighten up to look taller than he really was.
Laughing openly in mockery of him, Serach smiled and ignored him as he arrogantly approached the smithy.
At that point, his adoptive father was already about to finish the weapon: a sword made of meteoric steel and carved in Sanskrit runes, like the ones any true Feysir man must possess.
"That's a nice sword. Unfortunately, it's going to be used by a kid," Serach mocked again as he reached out to grab it.
"Stop, Serach. Uncle is working, you know he doesn't like to be bothered while he works," Aragon said suddenly as he put his hand firmly on Serach's shoulder.
Serach's twisted neck moved backward, letting his black eye fix directly on Aragon's head, who quickly retreated terrified.
"Pfft, trash," Serach mocked, to which Aragon could only respond by clenching his teeth tightly while looking at Serach with anger.
Jac looked with pity and some empathy at his older cousin. Although he was a bit older than Serach, the latter was the most powerful warrior in Ulheim, only surpassed by the members of the Red Branch sect. And soon the latter would swell their ranks, if he weren't arrogant enough to look with disdain even at that position.
But then, a figure as large as a bear emerged behind Serach, suppressing his momentum in a blink. Serach was already quite tall, measuring over two and a half meters in height, bordering on three meters, lacking only a head; but the figure behind him was even more imposing.
His adoptive father was no ordinary blacksmith. Giant like the extinct Jotunn, Ducanor Kal Arreus stood over three meters tall; he was a giant of flesh and blood, with hair black as ebony and an abundant beard carefully trimmed, clearly showing his blood-red lips. His arms were black as ink, covered in pale runes that danced around his skin, while his eyes were amber-colored.
"Do you seriously want to start a fight in front of me, brat?" growled Ducanor as he buried the sword that would now belong to him through several centimeters into the hard black stone of the floor.
Feeling Ducanor's harsh gaze, a shiver arose in Serach's eyes, as he growled: "I'm leaving, I'm not here to play with swords." Suddenly his gaze fell on him. "I hope you don't cut yourself, brat. It would be best if you didn't play with swords, you could lose more than a little blood."
And with those words, he simply withdrew.
"Seriously, someone should take Serach down a peg. Sooner or later he'll die from some stupidity," said Aragon between sighs.
"Sooner or later he will learn the lesson. He is young, for now let him enjoy annoying or acting brave, it is better than other more... attitudes..." Suddenly Ducanor, who had been talkative, fell surprisingly silent.
He seemed to be looking with a certain nostalgia at Serach's arrogant figure.
"Father, is that sword mine?" asked Jac suddenly as he observed the sword with an excited expression. The sword was still buried deep in the ground, as if it had merged with the floor upon piercing it.
"Yes, boy, it's your sword. It took me a bit of work to shape it with you being so small, but well, you know: sometimes, the sooner the better. Although there's no hurry for you to learn to fight either, you know?" said Ducanor with a warm look, which was not transmitted through words but actions, as he patted Jac on the shoulder.
Smiling jovially, he quickly rushed to the handle of the sword that was still buried in the ground. He felt the cold touch of the metal upon touching his hand, as he began to sweat from nervousness and excitement.
"From now on I will be a true man," Jac growled as he tightened his grip on the sword.
Leveraging with his own weight, his eyes shone with a mysterious blood color when suddenly his body fell backward, while beneath him the earth where the sword was split slightly in two.
Dazed and confused, he realized that in front of him he was seeing the reflection on the shiny metal of his own face: a youthful face covered in a shock of reddish hair, as if it were flames, and sky-blue eyes.
"Well done, boy. It seems you are strong enough to wield a sword," said Ducanor suddenly, who helped him up.
"Yes, adoptive father! Let me show it to my mother and uncle, they will be very happy."
"Be careful, boy, remember to put a..." But before he could hear the rest, he had simply run outside with his sword sheathed in his belt, running with a huge smile toward the fortress.
While in the smithy itself only remained the giant figure of Ducanor, who looked with a worried expression at the crack in the ground, before sighing and returning to what he knew: weapons and armor.
The rest was indifferent to him.