The forge roared like a cornered beast, each flare of its flames casting jagged shadows across the cluttered workshop. Kain Veyrath's hands moved in a practiced rhythm, muscles taut with strain as he hammered the half-formed blade into submission. The clang of metal against metal was a cruel symphony, drowning out the whispers of his own exhaustion.
"Focus, boy!" Master Gorran growled from the corner, his voice rough as iron filings. The old blacksmith's one good eye glared beneath bushy brows, while the other—an empty socket hidden by a scrap of leather—seemed to bore into Kain's soul. "A dull blade kills slower, and we don't make tools for cowards."
Kain bit back a retort, letting his frustration flow through the hammer's swing instead. He wasn't just shaping steel; he was venting years of unspoken resentment. The forge had been his life for as long as he could remember, a cage of fire and smoke where dreams went to die. But unlike most, Kain hadn't forgotten how to dream—he'd simply replaced hope with something sharper.
Revenge.
A sudden crack echoed through the air as the blade's edge split under the pressure of his strike.
"Damn it," Kain muttered, dropping the ruined piece with a hiss of frustration.
"Your anger will ruin more than steel," Gorran said, stepping closer. "Control it, or it'll burn you alive."
Kain didn't reply. He'd heard the lecture a hundred times before, and it never changed the reality of his situation. Caldrath Keep wasn't a place where control kept you alive—only strength mattered here, and the will to use it.
But before the silence could settle, the door to the forge slammed open with enough force to rattle the tools on the walls.
Three figures stepped inside, their presence commanding as much as their armor. They were soldiers of House Avaric, their dark, weathered steel adorned with crimson wolf sigils. The lead soldier, a man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw, took a step forward.
"Kain Veyrath," the man barked, his voice sharp enough to cut. "By decree of Lord Avaric, you're conscripted to the front lines. You leave at dawn."
The words hung in the air, heavy as the anvil behind Kain.
He felt the weight of Gorran's gaze before he heard the man's voice. "Don't do anything stupid, boy."
But Kain was already stepping forward, his fingers curling into fists.
"Conscripted?" he repeated, his tone cold and clipped. "I'm not a soldier."
The scarred man smirked. "You're a body, and that's all the front lines need."
The other soldiers chuckled, but Kain didn't flinch. Instead, he stared the man down, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl.
"If you think I'll die for your lord's wars, you're mistaken."
The smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of unease. "Watch your tongue, blacksmith, or I'll—"
"You'll what?" Kain interrupted, stepping closer. "Kill me? Go ahead. But if I fight, it won't be for House Avaric. It'll be for the ashes I'll leave in my wake."
The forge seemed to grow hotter, the flames casting an eerie glow across Kain's face. The scarred soldier hesitated, his bravado faltering under the intensity of Kain's glare. Finally, with a muttered curse, he gestured for his men to leave.
As the door slammed shut behind them, Gorran exhaled a long, weary sigh.
"You've just made your life a hell of a lot harder," he said.
Kain didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned back to the forge, his eyes fixed on the molten steel glowing like liquid fire.
"I wasn't living before," he said finally, his voice low and steady. "Now, I have a reason to fight."
Gorran shook his head, but there was a hint of reluctant respect in his expression. "Then you'd better make that reason worth it."
That night, the forge burned brighter than ever, its flames dancing to the rhythm of Kain's hammer. And for the first time, he wasn't just making a blade—he was forging his destiny.