Darien's first few days in the city were nothing like he had imagined. The streets, bustling with activity, seemed to mock his sense of purpose as he wandered aimlessly, searching for something he could hold onto. With no money to his name and no connections, he found himself falling into a rhythm of failure. The few inns he tried were far too expensive, and he couldn't find work anywhere that didn't require more experience than he had. His stomach growled more often than not, and sleep came in restless bursts on cold stone alleys or beneath the skeletal framework of abandoned buildings.
Each morning, the weight of his choices pressed harder on his chest. Why had he come here? What had he expected? The city was nothing like the dream he had painted in his mind during his travels. It was a place of harsh realities, where only those with power or wealth had any real chance of thriving. And here he was—just another nameless wanderer, lost in the sea of people.
One evening, as the sky darkened and the last of the city's merchants packed up, Darien found himself once again sitting on a cobblestone street corner, staring at the faint glow of a distant lantern. His mind was clouded with regret, replaying every moment that had brought him here. Maybe it would have been better to stay home, to work the forge he had left behind. The thought gnawed at him. At least there, he knew his place.
With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and began to wander once more, aimlessly drifting through the streets. That's when he saw it—a rundown alley, forgotten by most, with a small, crumbling building at the end. At first, it seemed like just another derelict structure, but something about it caught his eye. The faintest flicker of a spark—no, it was just the last light of dusk reflecting off something metallic.
Curiosity tugged at him, and he made his way toward the building, his steps tentative. As he drew closer, the shape of a forge emerged from the gloom. Its door was hanging off its hinges, and the roof sagged in places, but it was a forge—something Darien hadn't seen in days. The fire pit inside still had remnants of old coals, and rusty tools littered the floor. But the most jarring thing was the figure slumped over one of the workbenches.
An old man.
Darien's pulse quickened as he approached. He didn't know what to expect, but the sight of the elderly blacksmith brought a strange sense of urgency. The man's back was hunched, his once-proud clothes ragged and worn. His hands were still gripping a crumpled piece of paper, but his body was cold—lifeless.
Darien knelt beside him, his heart heavy with confusion. How long had the man been dead? The air in the forge was stale, and the dim light made it difficult to determine when exactly the old blacksmith had passed.
Gently, Darien took the paper from the man's hands. The note was yellowed with age but still legible. As he read it, his breath caught in his throat.
"To whomever finds this letter,I leave my forge, my tools, and my legacy.I have lived my life and passed on my craft.If you find this note, you are now the rightful heir to this forge.Do with it what you will—make it prosper or let it decay,but know that the fire of creation is now yours to tend.May the flames never die."
Darien stared at the note for a long moment, the weight of the words settling over him. This was a sign—an opportunity. The forge was his now, for better or worse. It didn't matter that it was dilapidated, that it was filled with dust and decay. This was his chance to start over, to rebuild from the ground up.
With newfound determination, Darien carefully placed the note in his pocket and stood. The old man, though long gone, had given him something far more valuable than he could have imagined. He stood tall, ignoring the fatigue that had weighed him down only moments before. He wasn't going to let this opportunity slip away.
But first, he needed help.
Darien made his way back to the city gates, where the night watch guards were still stationed. His eyes, tired from days of wandering, scanned the area until he found the two guards from earlier, who had let him into the city.
"Excuse me," Darien called out, his voice firm despite the lingering doubt in his chest. "I found something… something I need help with. There's a dead man in a forge I want to claim. I need help bringing him to the temple, and I could use some assistance with the place."
The guards exchanged a look, then nodded, moving to accompany him. When they reached the forge, they examined the body and the surrounding area, but neither seemed to question Darien's intentions. After a brief exchange, they helped him transport the old man's body to the temple for proper rites.
Once the task was done, Darien returned to the forge alone. The weight of the night's events hung over him, but he didn't falter. He began sweeping away the dust, gathering tools, and making small repairs. He started with the basics—fixing the roof, clearing out the old coals, and finding what he could salvage. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
Darien spent the next few days cleaning the forge, his hands raw from the work but his mind alight with purpose. The once-neglected forge slowly began to come back to life. He cleared away debris, swept the soot from the floors, and set about fixing the tools that had been left in disrepair. The firepit, still functional though charred and cracked, soon flickered with fresh flame, and the anvil—though tarnished—had a weight to it that gave him hope.
It wasn't much, but it was a start. Yet, despite the rush of renewal, Darien held back from fully diving into the forging process. He knew he couldn't just pick up where the old man had left off without understanding the deeper knowledge of the craft. His own skills, however far they'd come, were still lacking in many ways.
It was during one of his cleaning sessions, as he moved deeper into the dusty corners of the forge, that he stumbled upon the box.
It was hidden beneath a tarp in the back, nearly buried under a pile of scrap metal. He pulled it out with some effort, feeling the weight of it as it shifted in his hands. The box was old—its wood worn smooth by time and use. There was a small, rusty latch, and after a brief struggle, it popped open with a faint creak.
Inside, to Darien's surprise, were several leather-bound books. Their pages, though yellowed and fragile, were filled with sketches, detailed notes, and intricate diagrams of weapons, tools, and smithing techniques. The kind of work that made his heart beat faster just thinking about it. He hadn't expected to find such a treasure, especially in a place as run-down as this.
He flipped through the first book carefully, his fingers trembling with anticipation. The pages were filled with detailed illustrations of different forging methods—from sword-making to armor crafting, with clear instructions on how to manipulate metal at different temperatures, hammering techniques, and even tips on how to craft with specific alloys. Some pages had annotations, written in the old man's hand, about failed attempts and improvements. The old blacksmith had clearly been someone who refined their craft over a lifetime.
Darien's mind raced as he moved to the next book. This one focused more on specialized tools, some of which Darien had never seen before. They were intricate, designed for fine work, with delicate touches that seemed well beyond what he had learned so far. The margins were filled with tips and theories—some practical, others seemingly experimental. The kind of knowledge Darien could only dream of acquiring.
As he continued to peruse the books, it became increasingly clear to him that the old man had been far more than just a run-of-the-mill blacksmith.
For the first time in days, Darien felt a sense of certainty. He wasn't going to rush into forging without understanding what he was doing. These books, these techniques—they were the key to mastering the craft. If he was going to be the blacksmith he dreamed of becoming, he needed to study them, understand them, and learn from the mistakes and triumphs of the old man who had come before him.
He sat down on the worn floor, the box open beside him, and began reading. Hour after hour, day after day, he poured over the books. He took notes, practiced the techniques on scrap metal, and slowly, methodically, began to absorb the knowledge within the pages. It was difficult, at times frustrating, but Darien could feel himself growing—his understanding deepening, his hands learning the rhythm of the craft.
The forge, once abandoned and decayed, began to feel like a place of potential once more. It became his classroom, his workshop, and his sanctuary all in one. With each passing day, he moved closer to the moment when he could begin forging in earnest.
But for now, Darien knew that patience was just as important as the fire in the forge. He would wait—study, learn, and perfect his skills—until the time came when he could strike the anvil with confidence, knowing that every hammer blow would be the result of knowledge, dedication, and the legacy of the old man whose books he had found.
And when that day came, Darien would be ready.