In the heart of a bustling village, Steven, a determined young man with aspirations larger than the small workshop he called home, stood in the dimly lit confines of his family's smithy. The air was thick with the enchanting smell of coal and hot metal, a testament to years of craftsmanship. Passersby paused with curiosity, captivated by the resounding rhythm of metal clashing against metal — a melodic symphony crafted by the skilled hands of father and son, each strike reverberating with history and tradition. Heat poured out from the door of the aged workshop, an inviting warmth against the chill of the outside world. With each swing of the hammer, Steven carefully followed his father's steady beat in the forge, embodying the lessons he had absorbed over many seasons. He meticulously practiced every technique his father had imparted, from the art of shaping a blade to the intricacies of tempering steel, his heart swelling with pride and purpose as he honed his craft alongside his mentor.
CLANG, clang, CLANG, clang.
***
Hours had passed, and the two smiths talked while taking their much-needed lunch break. The clang of metal and the glow of the forge had been replaced by the warm, familiar smells of roasting meat and freshly baked bread.
"You're really improving a lot, Steven," his father, Gerald, remarked, pride evident on his weathered face as he surveyed the impressive array of tools and pieces they had crafted so far. With a satisfied smile, he continued, "Maybe it won't be long before you run this place, and I can finally hang up my apron and enjoy some rest."
"Really, Dad!?" Steven replied, his eyes wide with surprise and excitement. He couldn't help but feel a rush of joy at his father's words.
"Of course," Gerald said, chuckling softly, the sound reminiscent of the crackling fire. "Your hammering technique has improved remarkably; it's become far more even, and I've noticed far fewer warps in the blade when you quench it in the trough. Your craftsmanship has reached a level that gives me complete confidence in your abilities."
Gerald continued to gush about their future endeavors, sharing stories of the great works ahead of them. The bond between father and son deepened as Steven seized the opportunity to ask about specific techniques he struggled with, eager to learn. Gerald patiently guided him through the challenges, always encouraging him to stumble and find his footing in the intricate dance of blacksmithing, a skill passed down for generations.
The lunch break was not just a pause in labor but a moment of connection, learning, and a shared dream of a bright future in the forge they both loved.
The bell on the heavy wooden door chimed melodically as a tall man clad in crisp military attire strode into the warm smithy, his boots clicking purposefully against the stone floor. Inside, Geralt and his young son, Steven, were busy tidying up their lunch remnants—plates and utensils were hastily stacked while the rich aroma of the midday meal lingered in the air.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," the stern-faced soldier greeted, his voice rich and commanding. "My name is Patrick, and I am here to represent the Kingdom of Thesia's armed forces. We require a batch of new blades and armor to equip our latest recruits."
Curious glances exchanged between father and son, Geralt stepped forward, wiping his hands on a rag as he led Steven behind the counter, where various weapons leaned against the walls, showcasing their craftsmanship. "How many do you need?" he inquired, his brow furrowing with thought over the potential workload.
"As of now, we are distributing the orders among all of the smithies across the kingdom. For our current needs, we aim to place an order for 50 short swords and 50 sets of standard armor," Patrick explained, his demeanor stoic. "All items will be constructed from bronze, as this material allows for easier repairs should the equipment sustain damage. Steel, while stronger, is prohibitively expensive for our new soldiers."
Geralt nodded, considering the logistics of the order. "That is not a problem," he replied, a glimmer of anticipation in his eyes. "When do you need the order fulfilled, and what budget are you working with?"
"The government has allocated 150 thes for this batch," Patrick stated, his expression firm yet accommodating. "This sum should adequately cover the cost of materials and labor, leaving you with a surplus of 30 thes for your expenses. We will need the order by the end of the month."
Geralt took a moment to absorb the information, envisioning the work ahead and the prospect of meeting a vital need for the kingdom's troops while ensuring their own business thrived in these uncertain times.
"It appears we have no reason to deny your request, then," Geralt declared, a spark of enthusiasm lighting up his eyes. The mention of the substantial sum they stood to gain filled him with a sense of patriotism and excitement, amplifying the thrill of
money they were about to make.
***
Over the next thirty minutes, the two parties hashed out some of the finer details that would shape their collaboration. As the last points were agreed upon, Patrick finally turned to leave, the weight of the conversations still lingering in the air. The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind him, Geralt and Steven wasted no time strategizing their upcoming agenda for the month ahead.
"Steven, I am leaving the blades to you," Geralt declared, his tone firm yet encouraging. "This is your opportunity to demonstrate your skill and craftsmanship, to showcase your capabilities. I will take on the armor since you haven't had the practice in that area. However, I have full faith that you will rise to the challenge and meet the expectations I have set for you."
"I won't let you down, Dad!" Steven exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm and determination, thrilled at the opportunity to finally prove himself worthy of his father's trust.
"That is enough time for today, though," Geralt replied, glancing at the setting sun, its golden rays casting long shadows across the dusty clearing. "We won't have enough time to accomplish anything substantial at this hour. Let's head home, rest our weary bones, and tomorrow, we can dive back in and make some real headway." His voice carried a tinge of fatigue, the weight of years and the grime of soot from countless days of hard labor etched onto his face. Age had certainly not been kind to him, leaving behind lines of experience and a weariness that lingered in his eyes.
***
The next morning, as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Steven and his father returned to the bustling smithy, eager to dive into the day's labor. The air was thick with the rich aroma of coal and metal, infusing them with energy. Steven, his heart pounding with excitement and nerves, began forging his very first solo sword. He carefully placed the bronze bar into the roaring forge. He watched it intently as the flames danced around it, gradually igniting it to a brilliant, white-hot glow that illuminated his focused expression.
Once the metal reached the perfect temperature, Steven, with steady hands, removed it from the fiery embrace of the forge. He grasped his heavy hammer, feeling its weight and the familiar comfort of the handle, and began to strike with determination. Each blow resonated through his arms as the rough shape of the blade started to emerge from the once-solid bronze. Sweat dripped down his brow as he poured every ounce of practice and knowledge he had accumulated over countless years as an apprentice into this creation. He channeled his passion and dedication into each swing of the hammer.
As he continued his labor, he carefully observed the transformation of the bronze, skillfully releasing the blade from its molten mass. With every strike, his determination became evident; it was as though the blade itself was sculpting his spirit along with its form. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of focused work, the sword was finally forged, gleaming under the dim light of the smithy.
With a deep breath, he approached the trough, where a sizable vat of oil waited to cool and harden the freshly forged metal. He plunged the blade into the oily depths, watching as ripples pulsed outward. The quench produced an outstanding reaction with no warps or imperfections, and Steven's heart swelled with pride at the flawless result.
Next, he brought the blade to the grind wheel, where he could refine its edge. As the blade met the grinding stone, the sound of course stone grinding against metal filled the air—it was a symphony of creation. He carefully worked, adjusting the angle of the blade to achieve a perfect sharpness. The process was meticulous, yet invigorating, and by the time he finished, a sense of accomplishment washed over him. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, he realized it was already lunchtime, the sun high in the sky, casting warm rays through the smithy's open door.
The father-son duo met for lunch and as they savored their sandwiches and steaming cups of coffee, Gerald couldn't help but keenly inspect the intricate details of Stephen's work laid out before him.
"This is amazing work, son," Gerald exclaimed, an unmistakable sense of pride illuminating his grime-covered face, a testament to the long hours spent laboring in the workshop. "This looks nothing like what an apprentice could make; your skill has truly blossomed."
Stephen smiled broadly, his face radiating joy as he basked in his father's praise. The warmth of Geralt's words wrapped around him like a comforting embrace, filling him with a sense of accomplishment that made the sun-drenched afternoon feel even more special.
"Thanks, Dad," Stephen said, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "I think at this rate, I can manage two swords a day! It's not just productivity; it's great practice too. I believe I can reduce that time even further as I work out some of the finer details, like perfecting the heating times and refining my hammering patterns."
"Keep it up, son," Geralt replied, his eyes gleaming with pride and warmth as he watched his son's dedication. "You should feel incredibly proud of the impressive work you're doing here in the forge."
***
As time slipped by, the days melded into one another, the rhythmic sounds of the forge becoming a comforting backdrop to their labor. Three weeks passed in a blur as the due date approached for the large order that had loomed over them. Steven poured his heart into the craft and, through perseverance and hard work, managed to improve significantly. He reached the remarkable feat of crafting three swords a day and finished his entire portion of the work a week ahead of schedule, his skills shining brightly.
A month after their first meeting, Patrick walked in right after lunch. The grizzled soldier bore the same stern expression as before, but now a new rank adorned his uniform, indicating his progression and success within the army.
"Gentlemen, I am here today to pick up my order," Patrick declared, his voice steady and laced with the gravity of authority. "I hope all is in order."
"Of course," Geralt responded with a nod, rolling a sturdy cart laden with glistening blades and armor that caught the light with a striking bronze sheen. "All 100 pieces are forged and accounted for, ready for inspection."
Patrick began meticulously inspecting the blades and armor, his sharp eyes assessing every detail.
"These are phenomenal!" Patrick exclaimed, the stern façade he maintained finally cracking to reveal a hint of genuine excitement. "These swords look as if they were crafted by a seasoned journeyman. And this armor surpasses anything I could have ever hoped for! I had no idea we possessed such extraordinary skill in this town."
"My son, Steven, is the master behind those swords," Geralt replied, a proud smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. "He has shown remarkable improvement in recent days and has now taken the lead in overseeing this forge."
Steven froze, his heart racing, and stared at his father in disbelief.
"What do you mean, Dad?" Steven asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "You run the forge; I'm still learning from you."
"No, son. Today marks a significant day—one that requires you to step into the role of headsmith. The day I take a step back." Geralt chuckled, his eyes twinkling with a mix of humor and nostalgia. "With the payment from this order, I can finally retire. Your mom and I can enjoy some much-deserved relaxation. It's becoming quite the challenge to keep up with this beaten body of mine."
"Ahem." Patrick interrupted, clearing his throat to regain their attention. "Congratulations on your retirement, Geralt, but I believe we must first finalize our deal."
"Of course," Geralt replied, rubbing the back of his head in a moment of slight embarrassment. "That'll be 150 thes, please."
The two finished their transaction, with Geralt collecting the payment promptly while Patrick skillfully stored all the swords and armor into a magical ring, a feat that showcased his mastery of practical magic, as he made his way out the door.
Satisfied with their day's work, Steven and Geralt decided to call it quits early. They left the forge, hearts light with excitement, looking forward to celebrating Geralt's retirement with their friends and family, and to honoring the milestone of Steven taking over the forge. The air was filled with anticipation as they planned for their joyous gathering, marking a new chapter in both their lives.