The sanctuary's forge room was unlike any other space Sam had seen. Its walls were made of dark stone, lined with glowing sigils that pulsed faintly with energy. The air shimmered with heat and smelled of molten metal, old magic, and earth. The forge itself was a massive structure at the room's center, its fire crackling with hues of blue and gold. Sparks danced like fireflies, tiny motes charged with a power that seemed almost sentient.
Sam stood before the anvil, the unfinished sword laid out in front of him. Its raw shape reflected the ambient light, casting a ghostly glint that whispered of untapped potential. The Elder had given him guidance but little instruction, leaving Sam to navigate the delicate art of merging time's essence with the blade.
Mara leaned against the far wall, arms folded and eyes narrowed with a mix of curiosity and concern. "You sure you're ready for this?" she asked, breaking the silence.
Sam nodded, the weight of her question heavy in his chest. "I don't think I have a choice."
The Elder stepped forward, his robes moving like whispers of wind. "Remember, Sam, this is not just metal and magic. This sword will carry a part of you. It will resonate with your energy and reflect your intent. Channel your power carefully, or it will break you before you wield it."
Sam clenched his jaw, taking in the Elder's words. He placed his hands on the sword's cool surface and closed his eyes, calling to the time energy within him. He felt it respond, a current winding through his veins, humming with anticipation and resistance. The pain from his wounded shoulder throbbed in protest, a reminder of what was at stake.
Slowly, he focused on infusing the blade. The metal began to glow faintly, a silvery light spreading like veins across its surface. He felt the energy waver, the balance between too much and too little as fragile as the breath he held. The room seemed to hold its own breath, the fire in the forge flickering as if observing.
Mara's voice cut through the tension. "Careful, Sam. You're pushing too hard."
Sam's brow furrowed, sweat trickling down his temple as he loosened his hold on the energy, letting it flow more naturally. The light steadied, and the sword accepted the infusion, glowing with a steady, ethereal brilliance.
The Elder's eyes flickered with approval. "Good. Now, you must temper it. Make it yours."
Sam lifted the blade, feeling its weight shift in his hands as though it were an extension of his arm. He placed it into the forge's flame, which roared and wrapped around the metal, turning it a deep, molten silver. The room crackled with power as he withdrew the sword and laid it onto the anvil. Sparks flew with each strike of the hammer, rhythmic and resonant, like the ticking of an ancient clock.
With each hit, Sam felt fragments of his experiences meld into the blade—fear, determination, moments of fleeting triumph, and the relentless march of time. The room pulsed in response, each impact sending waves of energy through the sigils on the walls. Mara's gaze never left him, a silent promise that she would intervene if things spiraled out of control.
The process stretched for hours, the fire dying down as Sam finished the final strike. The blade was now complete, its surface marked with intricate patterns that seemed to move, reflecting the flow of time itself. He lifted it, the weight now familiar, almost comforting. The sword thrummed with a power that resonated in his bones, a subtle hum that promised both protection and devastation.
"Done," Sam whispered, his voice hoarse.
The Elder nodded, a rare smile touching his lips. "You have forged more than just a weapon. This will be the heart of your strength, but remember—it must be wielded wisely."
---
The First Test
The sanctuary erupted in a flurry of activity the next morning. Word had spread that the attackers from the night before were part of a larger force, one that now moved through the city's edges. Tension buzzed like an electric charge as the sanctuary's members prepared for what might come.
Sam stood at the gates, the sword strapped to his back, its presence a comforting weight. Mara approached, eyes scanning him. "You sure you're ready for this? That sword isn't just a symbol anymore. It's a target."
"I know," Sam said, determination hardening his features. "But we can't let them keep coming, not without resistance."
Before Mara could respond, a blast shook the ground beneath them. The city roared to life, the shouts of people mingling with the clash of metal and the hiss of magic. Figures cloaked in dark robes surged forward, their movements synchronized and fierce.
Sam drew his sword, the metal singing as it left the scabbard. Time energy surged through him, into the blade, which gleamed with a shifting glow. The nearest attacker lunged, and Sam countered, his movements fluid as he channeled a burst of time, quickening his strike. The sword cut through the air, and the attacker staggered back, stunned as if they had skipped a heartbeat.
Beside him, Mara fought with lethal precision, the pair moving in tandem. Sam felt the pulse of the battle, the way time seemed to bend around him as he wielded the sword, each swing more attuned to the ebb and flow of power coursing through it.
But even with the advantage, the numbers were overwhelming. Sam's muscles burned, and the familiar ache of time's resistance crept into his limbs. He knew they couldn't hold the line alone for long.
A sudden cry rang out, drawing his gaze to the center of the battle where a tall figure with eyes like polished obsidian stood watching him. Sam's breath caught—this was no ordinary opponent. The man's presence exuded an ancient, predatory power that made the hair on Sam's neck rise.
"Sam!" Mara shouted, pulling him from the trance. The man stepped forward, raising a hand. The world slowed, not by Sam's will but by another force. The air thickened, the battle sounds muffled as if submerged in deep water.
Sam's grip tightened on the sword. The test wasn't over; it had just begun.