The forge was not the only place where Eryndor's mind was kindled. Calder, though a man of calloused hands and steady strength, had a hidden softness for knowledge. It was in the quiet moments between the hammer's strikes, when the forge cooled, that Calder would sit with Eryndor by the fire and pull out the village's most treasured possessions: a small collection of weathered books and scrolls.
"Strength alone isn't enough," Calder would often say, his deep voice tinged with warmth. "A strong arm can only do so much. But a sharp mind? That can change the world."
Eryndor would sit cross-legged on the floor, his notebook open and his pencil poised, ready to capture every word.
One evening, as the fire crackled softly in the hearth, Calder laid a thick, leather-bound book between them. The cover was faded, the title long since rubbed away, but the pages within were filled with diagrams, formulas, and notes written in a careful hand.
"This," Calder began, "is a record of techniques passed down by forge masters. It's not just about shaping metal—it's about understanding the materials, the energy, and the forces you're working with. It's a science as much as it is an art."
Eryndor's eyes widened as Calder flipped through the pages. There were instructions for creating alloys, notes on heat tolerance, and even rudimentary calculations for distributing weight in weapons.
"This," Calder continued, pointing to a series of equations, "is how you calculate the stress a blade can take before it breaks. If you understand this, you can make weapons that don't just look strong—they are strong."
Eryndor leaned in, his pencil scratching across his notebook as he copied the formulas. The numbers fascinated him. They weren't just abstract symbols—they were tools, a way to see the world in a new light.
"How do you know all this?" Eryndor asked, looking up at his father.
Calder chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "I had a mentor once—a forge master from the north. He taught me that a forge is only as good as the mind that works it. I've tried to carry that lesson with me ever since."
Eryndor nodded, his respect for Calder deepening. He wasn't just a blacksmith—he was a thinker, a problem solver. And he was sharing that gift with Eryndor, piece by piece.
Over the next few weeks, their evenings were filled with lessons. Calder taught Eryndor how to read the old texts, deciphering the faded words and symbols. He explained the properties of different metals, the significance of tempering, and the delicate balance required to work with Abyssal crystal.
But it wasn't just theory. Calder made sure Eryndor understood the practical applications of what he was learning.
One day, as they worked in the forge, Calder handed Eryndor a sheet of raw steel. "All right," he said, crossing his arms. "If you're so eager to learn, here's your test. You're going to shape this into a blade. I want it balanced, durable, and sharp enough to cut through leather. Think you're up for it?"
Eryndor hesitated, the challenge daunting. But the flicker of a grin on Calder's face gave him confidence. "I'll try," he said, stepping up to the anvil.
He worked methodically, applying the lessons Calder had taught him. He calculated the length and weight, adjusted the heat carefully, and struck the steel with measured blows. The work was exhausting, and more than once, Calder had to step in to correct his grip or show him a technique.
Hours later, Eryndor held the finished blade in his hands. It wasn't perfect—there were slight imperfections in the edge, and the weight wasn't quite balanced—but Calder's nod of approval made it feel like a masterpiece.
"You're getting there," Calder said, clapping him on the shoulder. "With time and practice, you'll make something truly remarkable."
Eryndor looked at the blade, his chest swelling with pride. Each lesson, each strike of the hammer, was bringing him closer to understanding his own potential.
One night, as they sat by the fire, Eryndor mustered the courage to ask something that had been on his mind for days.
"Father," he began hesitantly, "why are you teaching me all of this? I mean, I'm not... I'm not like you. I'm not strong."
Calder set down the book he'd been reading, his expression softening. "You're stronger than you think, Eryn. Maybe not here," he said, tapping his arm, "but here." He pointed to Eryndor's head.
"Knowledge is a strength all its own," Calder continued. "And it's a strength that no one can take from you. That's why I'm teaching you. Because one day, when I'm not here, I want you to have something to hold onto. Something to guide you."
Eryndor stared at him, the weight of his father's words sinking in. Calder wasn't just teaching him to forge metal—he was forging Eryndor himself, shaping him into someone who could survive and thrive in a world filled with shadows.
That night, as Eryndor lay in bed, he felt the ember in his chest burn brighter. Calder's lessons were more than a gift—they were a responsibility. And Eryndor was determined to honor them.