Orin's Perspective
When King Arthur ordered that we each have to train one of the Rising Heroes, I thought, "Well, why not?" I've lived through more battles than I can count, swung all kinds of weapons, and seen young adventurers grow and fall. When we met in the dungeon and he introduced himself… and that he called himself the Warriorsmith... well, I'll admit, I laughed.
Not out of mockery, mind you. It was just funny, hearing a youngster give himself such a grand title. Warriorsmith. Like some kind of living forge that fights with fists and fire. But the moment I saw him fight , I saw he meant it. The name wasn't just for show. He carried himself with pride, confidence, and the thick arms of someone who's worked with metal for years. And there was a fire in his eyes. That part… I respected.
I took him to Gravenmire, a town with old roots and strong stone. Not fancy like the capital, but honest. It's where real work gets done. We settled near the edge of the town where the forge roared like a beast day and night. The perfect place for Doran to start his path.
My first lesson was simple. "Make a spear," I told him.
He raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"
"That's it."
He grinned and got to work. I could see from the start he was skilled. The way he held the tools, the way he heated the metal, shaped it, cooled it—it all showed years of learning. In a few hours, he handed me the finished spear, chest puffed with pride.
I looked at it, nodded… and handed it back. "Try again."
He looked confused but didn't question it. He made another. Then another. And another. Each time, I said the same thing: "Try again."
By the tenth spear, he was frustrated. His grip on the hammer grew tighter. Sweat poured from his brow. He kept checking my face for a hint of approval but found none. Finally, after rejecting what might've been the fifteenth spear, he snapped.
"What kind of spear do you really want, old man?! Or are you just wasting my time?"
I didn't get angry. I've seen enough tempers in my day. Instead, I wiped my hands, took him outside, and we sat on a wooden bench under a tree. I pointed to a bird fluttering up into the branches, carrying twigs in its beak.
"Watch that bird," I said. He gave me a puzzled look. "What about it?"
"Just watch."
And so we did. Day after day, morning and evening, I dragged him out there to sit with me. That bird kept coming back, building its nest one twig at a time. Sometimes it would toss a twig away, sometimes it would place one carefully, turning it just right.
Doran didn't say much the first few days, but I could feel the tension growing in him. Then, one morning, the nest was done. The bird had laid eggs inside.
Doran stared at it for a moment. Then threw his hands up. "Now what?! Even the bird's laid the eggs! You want me to sit here until they hatch? Feed the chicks too?!"
I couldn't help but laugh. Then I looked him in the eye and asked, "What did you observe these past few days?"
He blinked. "What?"
I repeated myself. "What did you see?" He scratched his head. "I don't know. A bird making a nest?" I smiled and nodded toward the tree.
"That bird wasn't just piling twigs together. It was building a home, something strong enough to hold life, delicate enough not to harm the eggs, and safe enough to survive wind and rain. That nest wasn't made in one go. It was made with care, day by day, because it mattered."
Then I turned back to him.
"The spears you made? They were strong. Beautiful, even. But you made them just because I told you to. Not because they meant anything to you. You're a smith, Doran. And a warrior. That means your hands are meant to create, not just strike. You need more than just skill, you need heart."
Something in his eyes changed.
He didn't say much that day, but I could tell the message had landed.
The next day, we changed course. I'd seen enough of his forging for now, it was time he learned to swing his creations right.
Doran's weapon of choice was a giant hammer, which he has named Moltenheart. Heavy, thick, and brutal. A tool and a weapon in one. I figured he needed a real opponent to test his strength, so I sent word to an old friend of mine, Marek Stonebreaker. A retired warrior, Marek was once famous for smashing enemy shields like glass with his own hammer.
When Marek arrived, the training began anew.
Every day, Doran sparred with Marek while I supervised. It wasn't easy. Marek didn't hold back. He knocked Doran down more times than I could count. But the boy always got back up. Bruised, bleeding, but never broken. And after each spar, the three of us would sit by the fire, sharing food, drink, and stories of old battles.
Marek didn't just teach Doran to swing, he taught him to think. "A hammer's no good if you can't move with it," he'd say. So they ran drills through snow-covered fields, uphill with weighted packs, practicing footwork on uneven stone. Marek would throw wooden shields at him from odd angles to test his timing, make him catch flying tools with gloves on, all to build reflex and rhythm. It was brutal work, but Doran never gave up. He started to move not just like a fighter, but like a craftsman in battle, every step measured, every swing full of purpose.
Slowly, Doran's movements grew sharper. He learned to twist his hips with the swing. To use the hammer's weight, not just his strength. To aim not just to hit, but to end a fight. His confidence grew again, but this time, not from pride. From knowing.
I watched him change. Not just in skill, but in spirit.
He became quieter, more thoughtful. And his next spear? It was different. Every curve, every edge felt like it belonged. It wasn't just a weapon. It was a part of him. I didn't even have to say anything when he handed it to me. I could feel it. He had found the meaning behind the name he had given himself.
Before trying again, Doran started doing something different. Each morning, before the forge got too hot, he'd walk through Gravenmire's workshops and watch the local smiths work. He didn't just look, he asked questions. Why one used a heavier hammer, why another cooled their blades slower, why a third lined spear shafts with ashwood instead of oak. At first, they saw him as just another curious kid, but over time, they came to respect him. He didn't just listen, he helped. He'd hold tongs, pump bellows, or clean tools without being asked. Day after day, he watched, worked, and learned. Not just how to make weapons, but why each choice mattered. And when he finally returned to his own anvil, he wasn't the same. This time, the spear wasn't just made with skill, it was made with thought.
He gave me the spear and said that this is thank you gift for training him. How kind of him.
---
Then, the day came.
The day when we were summoned by Thaldrik Haildaleom before we left for the corrupted dungeon. The lord stood before us, tall and stern, but proud. When he got to Doran, he paused.
He looked at the young warrior's broad shoulders, the hammer on his back.
"You call yourself the Warriorsmith," he said. "A bold name. But from what I see… it suits you. I hope you become everything that name stands for."
Doran bowed, his voice steady. "I will, my lord."
And I believed him.
In my long life, I've seen many pass through battlefields, some broke, some rose. But Doran… he's different. He's building something. Not just weapons, not just strength, but a future. And I, Orin , am proud to have been a part of his path. He truly is what he calls himself...
Doran, The Warriorsmith.