The morning air in Ravenholt was thick with smoke and the tang of hot iron. The village's forge roared like a beast awakened, its glowing maw fed endlessly by Harwin Veldar's tireless apprentices. Sparks danced through the hazy light as blacksmiths hammered iron into submission, each strike reverberating through the cobblestone streets.
Among them was a young man whose hands were calloused and blackened by years of labor, though his face still carried the shadows of youth. Bran Fletcher, now nearing his eighteenth year, wiped a streak of soot from his brow with the back of his hand, smearing it further across his cheek. His amber eyes gleamed with determination as he inspected the edge of the blade he had been forging since dawn. It wasn't perfect—not yet—but it was getting closer.
"You're too gentle with it, boy," Harwin's gravelly voice cut through the din. The master blacksmith stood at Bran's side, arms folded across his broad chest. His gray beard was flecked with ash, and his eyes were sharp as steel. "A sword doesn't need kindness. It needs conviction. Strike it like you mean it, or it'll never hold an edge."
Bran gritted his teeth, gripping the hammer tightly. Harwin's words stung, but they were never unearned. The old smith demanded perfection, and for good reason—Ravenholt's reputation rested on their blades. Failure wasn't just a personal loss; it was a stain on the village itself.
"I'll get it right," Bran promised, his voice steady despite the ache in his arms.
"You'll do more than that," Harwin grunted. "You'll master it, or you'll never make a blade worth bearing."
As the older man strode away to oversee another apprentice, Bran returned to his work. The sword before him was no ordinary commission—it was a longsword meant for one of the local lord's knights. If successful, it would be Bran's first independent piece, a symbol that he was no longer just an apprentice but a smith in his own right.
He lifted the hammer and brought it down hard, sending sparks skittering across the anvil. Each strike was a conversation between metal and willpower, a battle between resistance and determination. Bran had grown up in this forge, the son of a humble tanner who had died too young. Harwin had taken him in, not out of kindness but because he saw potential in the boy's relentless spirit.
As the morning stretched on, Bran lost himself in the rhythm of the forge. The heat was oppressive, sweat slicking his skin beneath his leather apron. The blade began to take shape, its edges clean and true. A sense of pride flickered in his chest, though he knew better than to celebrate too soon.
"Bran!" a familiar voice called from the doorway. He looked up to see a young woman with fiery red hair tied back in a loose braid. Lyssa, Harwin's daughter and the only person in Ravenholt who could match Bran's stubbornness, leaned against the wooden frame with a mischievous grin.
"Still hammering that same lump of iron?" she teased. "At this rate, the knight will be dead of old age before you finish."
Bran smirked despite himself. "At least I'll finish it before you learn to make a proper horseshoe."
Lyssa laughed, the sound light and free despite the forge's grim atmosphere. "Careful, Fletcher. Keep talking like that, and I might outshine you yet."
As she disappeared into the forge's storage room, Bran shook his head, the smile lingering on his lips. Lyssa was one of the few people who could pull him out of his focus, even if only for a moment.
The clang of metal continued as Bran returned to his task, hammering with renewed vigor. This blade wasn't just a commission—it was a test, a chance to prove himself worthy of the forge he called home. And he wouldn't stop until the sword sang with the strength of his resolve.