The forest was alive with sounds: the rustle of wind through the pine trees, the cheerful chirping of birds, and the occasional chatter of squirrels darting between branches. The scent of pine sap mixed with the dampness of the earth, a crisp and invigorating reminder that this world was far removed from the one he'd left behind. He stepped into a small clearing, surrounded by towering trees, their branches forming a natural canopy that dappled the ground in shifting patches of sunlight.
Dropping his bag onto a patch of moss, he took out a handful of coins, their polished surfaces catching the sunlight. Each one glinted with the promise of power—power he still didn't fully understand.
He burned steel, and the familiar blue lines sprang into existence, radiating outward like the strands of a spider's web. Each line connected him to a piece of metal in the area: the coins in his hand, the buckles on his belt, a discarded horseshoe half-buried in the dirt, and even small nails embedded in a fallen log. The lines pulsed faintly, tethering him to the metallic world around him.
He selected one of the coins and focused on the blue line connecting him to it. Start small, he thought. With a mental push, he sent the coin rocketing forward. It flew straight and true, striking a tree with a sharp ping! before embedding itself deep in the bark.
A grin spread across his face. "Alright," he murmured, flipping another coin into the air before repeating the process. This one struck the ground and ricocheted into the bushes.
"Close enough."
But steelpushing wasn't just about firing coins like bullets—there was another, far more exhilarating use. He crouched and picked up a coin, dropping it onto the ground in front of him. Burning steel, he focused on the line connecting him to the coin and pushed. The effect was immediate: the coin pressed into the dirt with tremendous force, and the opposing push sent him flying backward, his feet leaving the ground.
The rush of weightlessness lasted only a second before gravity reasserted itself. He landed hard on his back, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Staring up at the canopy of trees, he groaned. "Okay. That could've gone better."
Pushing himself up, he dusted off his tunic and tried again, dropping the coin onto a flatter patch of earth. This time, he focused on adjusting the angle of his push. He visualized where he wanted to go, aligning himself carefully with the direction of the force. Burning steel again, he pushed harder—and this time, the launch was smoother. The coin drove into the ground with a faint pop, and he soared forward in a graceful arc.
The sensation was incredible. Wind rushed past his face, and for a brief moment, he felt weightless, free from the pull of the earth. But the landing was less than graceful—he stumbled as he hit the ground, tumbling forward and scraping his palms on the rocky soil.
"Balance," he muttered, shaking his head. "It's all about balance."
Over the next hour, he practiced tirelessly, dropping coins and adjusting his pushes. Each attempt taught him something new: pushing too hard sent him careening wildly, while pushing too softly barely lifted him off the ground. He quickly learned the importance of anchoring himself before a jump. A poorly-placed push could throw him sideways or send him spinning uncontrollably, his trajectory dictated by the angle of the force.
The real breakthrough came when he started experimenting with stationary objects. He spotted a rusted horseshoe half-buried in the dirt and pulled it free. Placing it against the base of a sturdy tree, he aligned himself and burned steel, pushing hard. The horseshoe held firm against the unyielding tree trunk, and the opposing force launched him high into the air.
This time, he kept his body tight, focusing on his landing. When he hit the ground, he tucked into a roll, dispersing the impact. A triumphant laugh escaped him as he stood, brushing dirt from his tunic.
With the basics of steelpushing in place, he turned his attention to precision. Steel jumps weren't just about getting height—they were about control. If he could master the angle and force, he could use this power for rapid travel, combat, and maybe even evasion. But precision required practice.
He placed a coin on the ground and picked a target: a large boulder about twenty feet away. Burning steel, he pushed, launching himself forward. The trajectory was slightly off, and he veered to the left, slamming into a tree with enough force to make the branches above tremble.
"Damn it," he groaned, rubbing his shoulder.
After another dozen attempts, he began to understand the delicate interplay of weight and force. Coins and small pieces of metal were ideal for launching himself—they were light enough to be pressed into the ground without resistance, but sturdy enough to provide a powerful push. Larger objects, like the horseshoe, gave him greater stability but required more effort to position.
He also discovered an important rule: the mass of the object he pushed against mattered. When he tried to push off a coin set on a loose rock, the rock flew backward, and he barely moved. It was only by using stationary or heavier objects—those firmly anchored to the ground—that he could achieve consistent results.
Feeling more confident, he decided to test his skills with a more ambitious jump. Climbing onto a large boulder at the edge of the clearing, he surveyed his surroundings. The trees formed a dense canopy, their branches interwoven like the ribs of some ancient beast. About fifty feet away, a sturdy pine rose higher than the others, its trunk marked with deep grooves.
Taking a coin from his pouch, he dropped it onto the ground at the base of the boulder. Burning steel, he focused on the line connecting him to the coin and pushed. The force sent him rocketing off the boulder, the wind tearing at his hair as he sailed through the air. His heart raced as the pine loomed closer. Twisting his body mid-flight, he spotted a metal hinge embedded in a wooden beam that supported a nearby hunting stand. Burning iron, he pulled on the hinge, redirecting his momentum.
He hit the pine tree feet-first, bending his knees to absorb the impact. Clinging to the bark, he burned steel again, pushing off the coins below and launching himself toward the ground. His landing was a bit rough—he rolled awkwardly and came up with a fresh scrape on his forearm—but he was grinning.
He made his way back to the Sleeping Giant Inn, his muscles aching from the day's rigorous training. His boots crunched on the frosty path, each step a reminder of how much progress he'd made with his powers—and how much farther he still had to go.
The inn's warm, golden light spilled through the cracks of its wooden shutters, a beacon of comfort in the encroaching cold. Pushing open the door, he was greeted by the familiar smell of roasted meat and spiced mead. The common room was lively tonight, filled with the hum of conversation and the clatter of mugs. Taking a seat at the bar, he flagged down Orgnar, the innkeeper.
"Back again, eh?" Orgnar said with a smirk, setting a mug of water in front of him.
He slid ten septims across the counter, the coins clinking softly. "One more night, and dinner if you've got it."
Orgnar pocketed the coins and nodded toward the kitchen. "We've got stew tonight. I'll bring it out in a moment."
While waiting, he pulled his bag onto the bar and began rummaging through its contents. His dwindling supply of metals stared back at him, a reminder of his precarious situation. The vials of iron, steel, and pewter solutions were still half-full, but the others—zinc, brass, copper, and tin—were running low. He frowned, rolling one of the nearly-empty vials between his fingers. His experimentation over the past two days had been costly, and he was burning through his reserves faster than he'd anticipated.
"Not good," he muttered under his breath. If he kept this pace, he'd run out of usable metals before the week was out.
The blacksmith. He'd seen Alvor working tirelessly at his forge earlier that morning, hammering out nails and tools with expert precision. If anyone in Riverwood could help him replenish his metals, it would be Alvor. The man might even have scraps of the alloys he needed. Resolving to speak with him first thing in the morning, he carefully packed the vials back into his bag.
Orgnar returned with a bowl of steaming stew and a hunk of bread. "Eat up," he said, before moving on to another patron.
Back in his small room, he bolted the door and set his bag on the table. He rummaged through his bag until he took out all of the metal studs, spreading them out in front of him. Eight studs in total, each corresponding to one of the base metals. These little tools had been his lifeline, but now he wanted to push their limits.
Storing brass, he stored warmth into its stud, shivering as the heat drained from his body. His breath misted in the cool air, and he pulled his cloak tighter as he extinguished the power. Next, he moved to iron, focusing on his weight. The familiar sensation of lightness crept over him as he transferred his weight into the stud. He bounced on his toes, testing the effects, but stopped abruptly when the stud felt… full.
He frowned, rolling the iron stud between his fingers. The warmth he usually associated with storing attributes had disappeared. No matter how much he concentrated, the stud wouldn't absorb more.
"Looks like there's a limit," he murmured. He grabbed the pewter stud next and began storing strength, watching his arms lose their bulk and definition. As his muscles weakened, he could barely lift the small bag of vials on the table. When the pewter stud stopped accepting energy, he felt that same fullness—a complete saturation of the metal's capacity.
One by one, he tried each of the remaining studs, storing speed, senses, and other attributes until all eight were full. Each attempt taught him more about the nature of Feruchemy. The size of the stud seemed to determine how much it could hold, a limitation that hadn't occurred to him before. If he wanted to store more attributes, he'd need larger metalminds—or more of them.
The realization frustrated him. The small studs were convenient, but their size restricted their usefulness. He made a mental note to ask a blacksmith about making larger versions, perhaps bracelets or rings. The thought of crafting specialized tools for his powers brought a flicker of excitement, but it was tempered by the knowledge that he still had much to learn.
Despite the excitement of his discoveries, a nagging fear lingered in the back of his mind whenever he glanced at the studs. Each one was filled with precious reserves—strength, speed, warmth, weight—pieces of himself he had painstakingly stored away. The thought of burning them for Allomancy, consuming them entirely, sent a chill through him. What if he found himself in an emergency with nothing left to draw from? Those small metalminds were more than tools; they were lifelines. Until he had replacements, something larger or more plentiful to fall back on, he couldn't justify experimenting further.