The forge was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of metal and ash. Eryndor sat at the workbench, fiddling with the crude blade he had been working on for days. His hands were covered in soot, and his hair stuck to his forehead from the heat of the forge. Across the room, Calder leaned against the anvil, sipping from a chipped mug, his expression uncharacteristically relaxed.
"You've been staring at that thing for an hour," Calder said, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "Are you trying to polish it to death?"
Eryndor looked up, his cheeks flushing. "It's still off-balance," he muttered, turning the blade over in his hands. "I can feel it when I hold it. The weight's all wrong."
Calder set down his mug and walked over, holding out his hand. "Let me see."
Eryndor handed him the blade, watching nervously as his father inspected it. Calder tilted it this way and that, running his fingers along the edge and testing its weight. Finally, he nodded.
"You're right. It's a little uneven," he said, placing the blade on the bench. "But you're thinking like a craftsman, and that's what matters. Balance is everything."
He picked up a scrap of leather and tossed it onto the bench. "Let's fix it together. I'll show you a trick my old mentor taught me."
They worked side by side, the rhythmic clink of tools filling the space. Calder's large hands moved with precision, guiding Eryndor through the process of reshaping the blade's tang and adjusting the hilt's grip to distribute the weight more evenly.
As they worked, Calder began to talk—not about techniques or materials, but about his own early days in the forge.
"The first time I tried to temper steel," Calder said with a chuckle, "I heated it too much and ended up with a lump of slag. My mentor just stood there laughing while I panicked, thinking I'd ruined everything."
Eryndor laughed despite himself, imagining a younger, clumsier version of his father. "What did you do?"
"I cleaned up the mess, started over, and didn't make that mistake again." Calder glanced at him, his grin widening. "That's the thing about mistakes, Eryn. They're just lessons in disguise. The only real failure is giving up."
Eryndor nodded, filing the words away as they continued working. The blade began to take shape under their combined efforts, its balance improving with each adjustment.
As they finished, Calder stepped back, wiping his hands on a rag. "There," he said, gesturing to the blade. "Give it a try."
Eryndor picked it up, testing its weight and grip. The difference was subtle but noticeable. It felt steady in his hand, the balance no longer pulling awkwardly to one side.
"It's... better," Eryndor said, a small smile breaking across his face.
Calder clapped him on the back. "Better is good. Perfect comes later."
They sat down by the hearth, the finished blade resting on the bench behind them. Calder poured two mugs of lukewarm tea, handing one to Eryndor.
"You've got a good eye," Calder said after a moment, his tone softer. "Not just for the work, but for people. You notice things others miss. That'll take you far, Eryn."
Eryndor sipped his tea, his chest swelling with pride. Moments like this—rare and unguarded—were the ones he cherished most. Calder wasn't just a teacher or a protector. He was family, the anchor that kept Eryndor grounded in a world that often felt overwhelming.
For the first time in days, the forge felt less like a place of toil and more like a home.
Later that night, as Eryndor lay in bed, the blade resting on the table beside him, he thought about the hours he had spent in the forge. The sweat, the frustration, and the small triumphs all felt like steps forward, pieces of a larger journey.
The ember in his chest flickered warmly, and he smiled to himself. He wasn't just learning to craft tools and weapons. He was building something deeper—something that would stay with him, even when the forge grew cold.
And in that quiet moment, beneath the faint hum of the Abyssal Shard in the distance, Eryndor felt like he belonged.