The morning light crept through the cracks in the forge, casting long streaks of gold across the soot-stained floor. Eryndor sat at the workbench, the largest shard glowing faintly in front of him. Beside it, his carving knife gleamed with its newly sharpened edge.
For the first time in days, the shard's hum didn't feel like a challenge. It was calmer now, almost inviting, as if it had recognized his effort and patience. The ember in his chest burned steadily, its rhythm matching the shard's pulse.
Eryndor held the shard in one hand, letting its energy flow gently into him. Numbers flashed briefly in his mind—the weight of the tools on the table, the temperature of the forge fire, even the density of the walls around him. It was overwhelming, but instead of resisting, he let the information settle.
"Focus on one thing at a time," he muttered to himself, repeating Calder's advice.
Calder entered the forge, carrying a bundle of iron bars slung over one shoulder. He paused when he saw Eryndor, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"You're looking more comfortable with that shard," Calder said, setting the bars down with a heavy thud.
"It's starting to make sense," Eryndor replied, glancing up. "The numbers, the energy... it's like it's teaching me how to see the world differently."
Calder nodded, pulling up a stool to sit beside him. "Good. But don't get cocky. The shard's power is a tool, not a crutch. You still need to rely on your instincts."
Eryndor smirked. "I think my instincts are getting better, too. Watch this."
He turned his attention to the bundle of iron bars, placing the shard over them. The hum grew slightly louder, and the ember in his chest flared as numbers flashed in his mind: Iron quality: 78%. Impurities: 4%. Density: 7.8 grams per cubic centimeter.
"The second bar from the left," Eryndor said, pointing. "It has the least impurities. That's the one we should use."
Calder raised an eyebrow, pulling out the indicated bar. He inspected it closely, then grunted in approval. "Not bad. You're getting a feel for it."
Eryndor leaned back, a flicker of pride in his chest. "It's like I can see things I couldn't before. If I can refine this even more, imagine what we could do. Better weapons, stronger tools, even—"
"Even strategies in a fight," Calder finished for him. "That's the real potential here. If you can read your opponent like you're reading those bars, you'll have an advantage no one can touch."
The rest of the morning was spent testing the shard's abilities. Calder brought different materials into the forge—wood, leather, even a damaged shield from one of the hunters. Eryndor used the shard to assess each item, identifying weak points and potential improvements.
By midday, he was exhausted but exhilarated. The shard's energy was no longer an overwhelming force but a guide, helping him see the possibilities in everything he touched.
That afternoon, Elder Thorne arrived at the forge. The village leader's presence was always commanding, even with his frail frame and weathered cane. He studied Eryndor for a moment, his gaze sharp.
"Calder tells me you've been making progress," Thorne said.
"I have," Eryndor replied, standing straighter. "The shard—it's more than just energy. It's showing me things. Helping me understand how to fix and improve... well, everything."
Thorne nodded thoughtfully. "And you think this knowledge will help us if we're attacked again?"
Eryndor hesitated. "It's a start. I still have a lot to learn, but the shard's power... it's giving me hope that we can be ready next time."
Thorne's gaze softened slightly. "Hope is a powerful thing, boy. But it's fragile. Use it wisely."
After Thorne left, Calder clapped Eryndor on the shoulder. "You impressed him," he said. "That's no small feat."
Eryndor shrugged, though a small smile tugged at his lips. "It's not about impressing him. It's about making sure we're ready."
"And are you?" Calder asked, his tone serious.
Eryndor looked at the shard, its steady hum filling the forge. "Not yet," he admitted. "But I'm getting there."
That evening, Eryndor sat by the forge fire, the shard resting in his lap. Its glow reflected in his silver-gray eyes as he stared into the flames. The ember in his chest burned softly, a steady reminder of the power he was beginning to understand.
The potential was there—he could feel it, see it. But potential alone wasn't enough. There was still more to learn, more to master. And the shadow of Varik's warning still lingered in the back of his mind.
Eryndor clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. He would uncover every secret the shard had to offer. Not just for himself, but for Brindlemark—for the village that depended on him to be ready when the next threat came.