The ground beneath my feet quaked as I swung my hammer, striking the anvils face hard enough to make stand protest. The red hot steel sang, moving little by little against my every blow. I had been working on this sword for months, praying to the fathers for even the slightest of chances to make such a weapon. Making a sword for Aries, the God of War, was one of the highest of honors, and now I was here, standing in the very forge the brought zeus' thunder bolts to fame.

With one final swing, I brought the hammer down upon the sword blade speaking a prayer for it to serve Aries well. I then quickly quenched the blade in nectar (the wine of the gods) turning the black steel into a ruby red, telling me that the sword had claimed its owner...But then, a burn rushed through my body, striking me in the head like a mace,

"Hello Paris, son of Hephestis of the forge," spoke a voice, "I, the crimson steel in your hand choose you, not Aries, to be my owner...and I pronounce you the next great god"....