Chapter 1: The Flames of the Forge

The rhythmic clang of hammer against steel echoed through the village of Tansmere. The summer heat radiated from the forge as young Edric, his bare arms streaked with soot, hammered a glowing length of iron into shape. At eighteen, he was already a striking figure—broad shoulders, a chiseled jawline, and unruly dark hair that clung to his sweat-slick forehead. His sapphire-blue eyes gleamed with an untamed fire that drew stares wherever he went. Women giggled and whispered behind hands when he passed, while boys his age cursed his good fortune. Edric wore his confidence like armor, secure in the belief that he was destined for more than a blacksmith's hammer.

The scent of hot metal filled the air as his father, Osric, passed him a pair of tongs. "Hold it steady," the old blacksmith grumbled, his thick arms and weathered face betraying years of toil. "This blade is no good if the tang isn't right."

Edric grinned, cocky as ever. "You mean no good if you make it, old man. Wait until they see what I've forged." He turned the steel in the fire, his grin widening as sparks flew. "You'll be out of a job soon."

Osric chuckled under his breath, unbothered by his son's arrogance. "Skill's only half the battle, boy," he muttered. "The rest is knowing when to use it."

Edric waved the words away like smoke. To him, the old man was wise in matters of iron and fire but hopelessly cautious in everything else. Why bother with patience when strength and skill could solve any problem?

The forge door creaked open, and Edric's playful banter died on his lips. The village's headman, Aelfric, strode in with five soldiers wearing the colors of a neighboring lord—Lord Cuthbert. Their leader, a burly man in a battered leather tunic, scanned the shop with cold eyes.

"Osric," the captain called. "Lord Cuthbert demands tribute. Grain, iron, and livestock. We'll need it before the week is out."

Osric wiped his hands on a rag, his movements calm. "We gave our share not two months past. There's nothing left to spare."

The captain's lip curled in disdain. "The Danes are raiding every village within a day's ride. Tribute's going to fortify Cuthbert's walls. If you'd rather let the Danes take what's yours, that's your choice."

Edric stiffened. His blood boiled at the arrogance of the man. He took a step forward, his hand already drifting to the hilt of the sword resting on the forge table. "We don't owe your master a thing," Edric snapped, his voice sharp. "Take that message back to him, if you've got the spine for it."

The captain's gaze landed on Edric, and the older man sneered. "Careful, boy. You're playing with men's lives, not toys."

Osric's hand gripped Edric's shoulder like a vise. "Enough," the old man said quietly. He turned to the captain with a steady look. "You'll have what we can spare, but no more. Take that to your master."

The captain smirked, satisfied. "See that you do. The Danes won't be the only ones taking what isn't given freely." With that, the soldiers turned and left, their boots crunching on the dirt path outside.

Edric stood seething, his hand still on the hilt of his sword. "We should've run him through," he muttered. "Cowards like him don't deserve respect."

Osric gave him a long, tired look. "And what would that have earned you, eh? One dead soldier? Then they'd come with twenty more—and burn the whole village to the ground."

"Then we fight!" Edric spat, clenching his fists. "What good is all this strength if we don't use it?"

Osric shook his head. "A sword's just iron until you learn when and how to use it." He picked up a freshly forged blade and placed it in Edric's hand. "You think power's in the strike—but real power is knowing when not to swing."

Edric's jaw tightened. To him, his father's words were the musings of a man who'd grown soft behind the forge. "We'll see about that," he muttered under his breath, hefting the sword. "Next time, I won't hold back."

Osric only sighed. "Next time, boy, might be your last."

Later that evening, Edric took the new sword outside the forge and swung it through the air, savoring the weight and balance. The way it glinted in the light felt like fate itself—a weapon destined for greatness, for his greatness.

His best friend, Leofric, strolled over with a grin. "Still playing knight, I see?" the lanky young man teased.

Edric twirled the sword, smug. "One day, I'll be more than a knight. I'll have a lordship—land, men under my command." He sheathed the sword with a flourish. "And you'll be begging to serve me."

Leofric laughed, shaking his head. "You've got the look of a hero, sure enough. But you've never seen a battle, Edric. A real one. Not some village brawl."

Edric's grin turned wolfish. "Doesn't matter. I've yet to meet the man who can best me."

"Careful," Leofric warned. "Pride's a sharp sword—it cuts both ways."

The day wore on, the forge growing quiet as the sun dipped below the horizon. As Edric cleaned the tools and extinguished the forge's fire, his mind wandered to the soldiers' words. The Danes were coming—everyone knew it. And Edric felt an undeniable pull toward the storm that was brewing. The forge was too small for him. His father's lessons, the quiet life—none of it would satisfy the fire that burned in his chest.

Later, sitting beside his father in their small home, Edric asked, "What were you before the forge, father?"

Osric smiled, a faraway look in his eyes. "I was a young fool with a sword, just like you. Thought strength would make the world bend to my will."

"And what did you learn?"

Osric's smile faded. "That no man stands alone for long. Not in this world."