Ash stained his fingers black. It clung beneath his nails, smudged his cheeks, and turned every line of his palm grey. Ruvan scrubbed his hands with lye soap until his skin burned, but no matter how hard he tried, the ash stayed.
He hated it. But he also loved it.
It meant he belonged here, at Ferric's Forge. It meant he had purpose.
"Again," Ferric growled.
Ruvan steadied his grip on the hammer. Sweat trickled down his neck as he lifted it high and struck the glowing steel. Sparks danced around him like angry fireflies. His arms burned from the weight of the hammer, but he forced himself to keep going.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Each strike felt like it would shatter his bones, but he refused to stop. He wanted to shape the steel perfectly. To make a blade that didn't just cut – but sang.
"Too soft." Ferric snatched the hammer from his hand. "You're letting your fear control your wrist."
"I'm not afraid," Ruvan muttered, though his voice cracked.
Ferric narrowed his eyes. He was a thick old man, skin tanned to leather from decades at the forge, but his gaze was sharper than any blade they'd ever made. "You're always afraid. Of everything."
Ruvan clenched his fists. The ash dug under his nails. "I'm not afraid of forging."
"No. You're afraid of what comes after." Ferric set down the steel and rubbed his temples. "Listen to me, boy. Swords aren't for boys like you. They're for soldiers. And soldiers die."
Ruvan said nothing. He knew Ferric was right. War was coming – everyone said so. The Silent King's army marched from the north, burning villages, tearing down city gates like rotted wood. Saerholm might be next.
He should have been terrified. But as he stared at the half-formed blade glowing red on the anvil, something hot and sharp twisted in his chest.
He wanted to make swords. Even if they would kill men. Even if they would shatter in battle. Even if they would end up buried in blood and mud. Because a sword… a sword was remembered. Even when the wielder turned to dust.
"Get the charcoal barrels from the back," Ferric barked. "We'll finish this order tonight."
Ruvan turned towards the storage room, wiping sweat from his brow, when a strange silence fell outside.
Then – BOOM.
The forge windows rattled in their frames. Tools clattered from the racks. Ferric swore under his breath and rushed to the door. Ruvan followed, heart pounding so loud he could barely hear.
Outside, the street was chaos.
People screamed as thick black smoke curled above the eastern gate. Guards in steel helms sprinted down the road, their spears shaking in their grips.
"Form the line! FORM THE LINE!" a captain roared, spittle flying from his lips.
Another blast shook the ground. Ruvan stumbled against the doorframe, his legs weak. Through the smoke, he saw flickers of red and orange. Fire. And something darker behind it.
The Silent King's army.
"Ruvan!" Ferric's grip was iron on his shoulder. "Go to the shelter under the temple. Do not come back here. Do you hear me?"
"I…" Ruvan swallowed. The hammer burns on his palms throbbed. He looked back at the forge. At the half-formed blade on the anvil. At the cooling embers he had tended since dawn.
"Go!" Ferric shoved him into the street.
But Ruvan couldn't move. Because at the edge of the smoke, marching in perfect black lines, came warriors clad in bone-white armour. Each step they took made the earth tremble. Their swords were jagged, wide as a man's chest, each etched with glowing crimson runes.
And at their front rode a figure in robes darker than night, his hood casting his face in shadow. Around his neck burned a silver medallion – the mark of the Silent King's priests.
As the figure raised his staff, the runes on the soldiers' swords flared brighter.
"RUN, RUVAN!" Ferric roared.
But Ruvan stood frozen.
All he could see were the swords.
Their edges gleamed with death.
Their shapes burned into his mind.
Weapons worthy of legends. Weapons forged to end the world.
The priest's staff slammed into the ground with a thunderous crack. A wave of dark force erupted, sweeping across the street. Buildings cracked like eggshells. People were thrown off their feet, screaming.
Ruvan felt himself lifted from the earth. The world turned upside down – the sky where the street should be, the smoke where the sun once shone. Pain burst through his back as he slammed into stone. His breath vanished. His vision blurred.
He tasted blood.
When he forced his eyes open, everything was silent. Dust and ash drifted from the shattered forge roof above him. Through the ruined doorway, he saw the invaders cutting down men and women like wheat at harvest.
And lying just out of reach, half-buried in rubble, was the unfinished blade he had been forging.
His chest heaved with ragged breaths.
He reached for it, fingers trembling. Heat pulsed from the steel, still warm, still alive.
I will forge swords that sing, he thought, as tears blurred his sight.
Outside, screams rose like a choir of despair. War had come. His life as an apprentice was over.
All that remained was the boy with ash-stained hands…
…and the steel that would shape his destiny.