The sound of hammers striking metal echoed across Brindlemark, a steady rhythm that cut through the village's usual quiet. Sparks flew from the forge at the edge of the square, their brief, flickering light competing with the faint glow of the Abyssal Shard. Inside, the air was thick with heat and the tang of molten metal.
Eryndor stood just outside the doorway, peeking in as his father, Calder, worked at the anvil. The broad-shouldered blacksmith moved with practiced precision, his hammer rising and falling in time with the rhythmic hiss of the bellows. His face was streaked with soot, and sweat dripped from his brow, but there was an ease to his movements, a confidence that only years of experience could bring.
"Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to come in and help?" Calder's deep voice cut through the din.
Eryndor hesitated. He was painfully aware of his frailty, of how the forge's heat sapped his strength after mere minutes. But the faint grin on Calder's face gave him the courage to step inside.
The heat hit him like a wall, and his breath caught in his chest. Still, he moved to his father's side, wiping his damp palms on his tunic.
"What do you need me to do?" he asked, his voice steadier than he felt.
Calder handed him a pair of tongs, motioning to a glowing rod of dark-resistant steel resting in the coals. "Grab that and hold it steady while I work."
Eryndor nodded, gripping the tongs tightly as he pulled the metal from the forge. It was heavier than he'd expected, and his arms trembled under the weight.
"Hold it firm," Calder said, positioning his hammer. "If it slips, we'll have to start over."
Eryndor bit his lip, focusing all his energy on keeping the rod steady. Each strike of the hammer sent vibrations through the metal, making his hands ache, but he didn't let go. He wouldn't.
After what felt like an eternity, Calder stepped back, nodding in satisfaction. "Not bad," he said, clapping Eryndor on the shoulder. "You've got a steadier hand than I expected."
Eryndor felt a flicker of pride at the praise, though his arms were screaming in protest. He set the tongs down carefully, taking a step back to catch his breath.
Calder wiped his hands on a rag, his expression softening. "You don't have to push yourself so hard, you know."
"I want to help," Eryndor said firmly, meeting his father's gaze. "I know I'm not strong like you, but I can learn. I can do more."
For a moment, Calder said nothing. Then he sighed, placing a hand on Eryndor's shoulder. "You've got a good heart, Eryn. And a sharp mind. That'll take you farther than strength ever could."
As the days passed, Eryndor began spending more time in the forge. Calder taught him the basics—how to identify different metals, how to shape them, and how to temper them for strength. It was grueling work, especially for someone as frail as Eryndor, but he threw himself into it with a determination that surprised even himself.
One evening, as they worked on repairing a damaged blade, Calder set the hammer aside and leaned against the anvil. "Did I ever tell you about my first forge?" he asked, a wistful smile tugging at his lips.
Eryndor shook his head, curious.
"It wasn't much," Calder continued. "Just a small shack with a makeshift bellows and a rickety anvil. I was younger than you are now, and I had no idea what I was doing. The first sword I ever made snapped the moment someone tried to use it."
Eryndor chuckled, the image of a younger Calder fumbling with tools bringing a rare moment of levity.
"But I kept at it," Calder said, his tone growing serious. "Every mistake taught me something. Every failure made me better. That's how you learn, Eryn. By trying, failing, and getting back up."
Eryndor nodded, the words sinking in. He thought of his own struggles, his frailty, and the shard's whispers. Maybe Calder was right. Maybe the key to unlocking his potential wasn't in avoiding failure, but in embracing it.
Late one night, after Calder had gone to bed, Eryndor sat alone in the forge. The embers in the hearth glowed faintly, casting flickering shadows on the walls. On the workbench before him lay a small piece of dark-resistant steel, untouched and waiting.
Eryndor picked up the tongs, his hands steady despite his exhaustion. He placed the steel in the coals, watching as it began to glow. The heat was intense, but he didn't back away.
Gripping the hammer, he began to work. The sound of metal striking metal echoed in the empty forge, a rhythm that felt almost natural. Each strike sent sparks flying, illuminating the determined set of his jaw.
It wasn't perfect. The metal bent unevenly, and the edges were rough, but by the time the embers died down, Eryndor held his first creation—a crude but functional blade.
He stared at it, a mixture of pride and frustration bubbling within him. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
As he set the blade down, the ember in his chest flared softly, a subtle warmth that seemed to echo Calder's words: You learn by trying, failing, and getting back up.
Eryndor smiled faintly, his resolve strengthening. This was just the beginning.