We found Alana crumpled on the floor, and the sight of her sent a jolt of ice through my veins. A mottled galaxy of purple and black was already blooming across her temple, a brutal testament to an ambush. Before us, at the forefront of the chaos, Kainan and a stranger were a whirlwind of steel and sweat. I had seen Kainan and Kyle spar countless times, two titans clashing in a symphony of "seemingly" perfectly matched strength.
However, this was different. Kainan, our rock, was yielding ground. The stranger, a wraith in the gloom of the forge, held the advantage with a dancer's grace. His movements were a smooth, seamless combination of attack and defense, his weapon not just blocking but guiding Kainan's powerful strikes, deflecting them into useless arcs of wasted energy. He wasn't just fighting; he was conducting a symphony of violence, and Kainan was being forced to play a part he hadn't learned.
I scanned my brain, a frantic search through a library of faces and factions, trying to place this phantom. Was he from the Academy? No. Impossible. Only first-years of our specific branch were permitted to roam the Royal Territory, and no cadet from Yulo, not even the most disgraced, would be caught in such shabby gear. The equipment was worn, the forge itself a testament to poverty. There was only one answer—I had none. Our best bet was to de-escalate, to douse this fire before it consumed us all.
That was an idea, but a foolish one. There was no way we could step into that maelstrom, that mad match of clashing wills. It was like watching two forces of nature collide, an invisible wall of pure kinetic energy keeping us pinned in place.
"Think, think!" I screamed inside my own head, the thought a useless, frantic drumbeat against my skull. I looked around the surrounding environment—the dead coals of the forge, the half-finished weapons leaning against the walls, the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light. Nothing clicked. Until it did. It was a desperate, insane gamble, and it would only work if this wild attacker could even hear me over the din.
"We're not here to harm you or your smithy!" My voice cracked, shot through the air like a thrown stone.
The battle raged on, a storm of steel, but the others shot me looks as if I'd just sprouted wings. The air itself seemed to thicken, to hold its breath. And amidst the chaos, I could notice it—a subtle shift, a slowing in the rhythm of the stranger's breathing.
"We're here to help you, so calm down!" I pressed on, my heart hammering against my ribs. "We can help each other."
"Will that be enough? How do I build on that obvious white lie?" I thought, my mind racing for the next piece of the puzzle. Then, I had it. I had remembered the weapon on his anvil, below the tunnel. It was a sword he was clearly trying to forge, a clumsy imitation of the Ice-Breaker that Xilan used to subdue a clan of arctic bandits a couple of decades ago. And lucky for us, I knew its make-up, exactly. And also, why he had messed it up.
"The ratio of iron to copper on the handle," I said, my voice gaining a sliver of confidence. "That's why the balance is off. You used 2:3and not 3:4, hoping it would work the same. But a master at crafting like you wouldn't forget such an important detail. The shabby interior and the fact that you only skimped on the iron says it all. Money's been tight, hasn't it?"
The fight stopped. Not with a clang, but with a sudden, deafening silence. The attacker froze, his hammer held mid-swing.
Now that he was still, I could get a proper look at him. He was short—perhaps 5'5"—and was fighting with, you guessed it, a hammer. Not a war hammer, just a blacksmith's hammer, but in his hands, it was a thunderbolt.
"You deduced my financial situation from just that?" he asked, his voice rough, like gravel. "So what now? You gonna make fun of me for being poor? Is it a crime to be poor?"
"Uhh, no," I stuttered, because I was finally looking at him, really looking at him. He was a boy, no older than fifteen. His skin looked hard and rough, like old leather, and his unkempt, disheveled hair and the deep bags beneath his eyes didn't help either. In his eyes wasn't the fire of anger, but the dull ache of shame, of disdain. I may have been too blunt. "Rather, we... we came to help."
"I'll take it from here," Josiah said, his voice a calm baritone as he gently urged me aside.
He went down on one knee, closing the great distance in height between them. He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and spoke slowly, his tone deep but clear, respectful. "Boy, we apologize for barging into your workshop in this way. If you so please, could you lead us to the—"
"On the left," the boy snapped, shrugging Josiah's arm off him as if it were a fly. "The arena's on the left. There. You can leave. I didn't need your help, and I don't want it." He stormed off toward the tunnel, his small frame rigid with anger. "Close my door on your way out. Master doesn't like the mosquitos."
Suddenly, Kainan, who had been watching with a warrior's intensity, reached into his pocket. He grabbed a small, heavy pouch and threw it underhand at the tunnel's entrance. The bag landed with a violent, metallic chorus of clinks. Coins.
"You proved to be a good opponent, even at your age," Kainan said, his voice filled with a genuine, almost disappointed respect. "I am disappointed we cannot continue, but I must repay you for the warmup. After all, it is your body."
The boy stopped in a jerking motion. He looked back at Kainan, a complex storm of emotions on his face, sighed, and faced away again. "Just leave already."
As we were all about to leave, filing out of the oppressive heat of the forge, I noticed Muna was still standing there, a statue in the chaos. Vince was frantically whispering to him, gesturing for him to get out.
"Wait," Muna said, his voice cutting through the silence. He looked directly at the boy. "Could you perhaps, make me a sword? I noticed your work downstairs, and I have to say, I'm impressed."
Vince's face went straight into his hand.
"No"
But Muna wouldn't give up there, oh no. That just wasn't his character. "If you wish for something in exchange, I will gladly give it to you."
The strange boy didn't even break his stride, his small frame disappearing into the oppressive darkness of the tunnel without a backward glance. We listened to the sound of his receding footsteps, a soft, rhythmic tapping that grew fainter and fainter until it was swallowed by the forge's flame, an ambient cackle. He was gone. Just as Muna, his broad shoulders slumping in a rare show of defeat, forced himself to turn and leave, a voice echoed from the void. It was the boy's, but it sounded different now—devoid of its adolescent shame, cold and detached as if it were coming from the stone itself.
"In the Eastern Forest," the voice stated, not asked. "You'll find a noticeable cave. You couldn't miss it. In the heart of that cave, however, is a dangerous, metal-like mineral called 'Gar.' It bleeds a faint purple light and eats through leather and flesh if you touch it for too long. Fetch me a fist-sized piece. If you do, I will make your sword." A pause, thick with condescension. "When, no, if you come back, I might not be here. Go to the market first and ask for Doran. He'll know what to do"
Muna froze, his entire body going rigid. His fist, which had been loosely at his side, clenched so tightly the knuckles turned white. The passionate, almost obsessive drive that had fueled his request moments before was gone, extinguished like a candle in a gale. All I could see now was a heavy, suffocating cloud weighing over him, a visible aura of bitterness and old pain that seemed to suck the warmth from the room. He turned, his movements stiff and robotic, and made his way for the door, his gaze fixed on the floor as if he were tracking ghosts.
"Anything but that," he said, his voice a low, strained whisper, cracked with an emotion I couldn't place. It wasn't fear, not exactly. It was deeper, more ancient. A wound that had never closed. "I'm sorry I wasted your time."