The materials arrived on the third day, delivered by a merchant caravan that seemed excessive for a simple delivery. Six armed guards escorted a reinforced wagon containing three carefully sealed crates, each bearing Celeste's house seal in crimson wax.
Kieran signed for the delivery with trembling hands.
"Premium goods," the lead merchant said, eyeing Kieran's modest forge with poorly concealed skepticism. "Lady Varnham must think highly of you. That's two thousand gold worth of materials, easy."
After they left, Kieran and Mira stood in the forge, staring at the unopened crates like they might contain something dangerous.
"Well," Mira said eventually. "Are you going to open them, or should we just admire the boxes for the next six weeks?"
Kieran grabbed his prybar.
The first crate revealed the steel—and calling it steel felt like an insult to the material. The ingots gleamed with an inner light, the distinctive iridescence of true mithril-alloy. Not the commercial grade garbage that got passed off as "mithril-enhanced" in most markets, but genuine dwarven-forged stock from the deep mines of the eastern territories.
Kieran lifted one ingot, feeling its weight. Lighter than standard steel, but the density spoke of incredible strength. The metal practically hummed in his hands, resonating with potential energy.
"That's beautiful," Mira breathed.
The second crate contained the auxiliary materials: a focusing crystal the size of Kieran's fist that pulsed with golden light, clearly attuned to radiant energy. Dragonbone fragments for the grip, still carrying traces of the original beast's essence. Silver wire so fine it looked like spun moonlight. Monster-core leather from something with scales that shifted colors in the light.
And in the third crate, nestled in velvet like a precious jewel: half an ounce of powdered moonstone in a crystal vial.
"She actually found it," Kieran whispered.
Mira picked up the accompanying note, written in Celeste's elegant script:
Master Ashford,
I've acquired everything on your list. The moonstone cost me a favor I'd been saving for emergencies, but something tells me this qualifies. The merchant assured me these are the finest materials available outside of royal armories.
Create something worthy of them.
No pressure.
- C.V.
"No pressure," Kieran repeated, his laugh slightly hysterical. "Just the finest materials I've ever worked with, three hundred twenty-five gold, and the hopes of a desperate noble riding on my ability to perform."
"You can do this," Mira said firmly. "You know you can."
Kieran looked at the materials spread across his workbench—a fortune in raw components, waiting to be transformed into something greater than the sum of their parts. His hands itched to begin. His mind was already racing through designs, calculations, the thousand tiny decisions that would determine success or failure.
"Close the forge," he said quietly.
"What?"
"Close it. For the next six weeks, we're not taking any other commissions. No repairs, no sharpening, nothing. Just this." He met Mira's eyes. "I need to focus completely. Can you handle the business side? Deal with anyone who comes asking?"
Mira's grin could have lit the forge. "Finally. Finally you're taking something seriously. Yes, I can handle it. You just worry about making the impossible possible."
"Right." Kieran took a deep breath. "Then let's begin."
Kieran didn't touch the forge for the entire first day. Instead, he sat at his workbench with the materials, studying them with an intensity that bordered on religious devotion.
The mithril-alloy had a grain structure unlike anything he'd worked with before. He examined it under different light, tested its resonance with a tuning fork, even tasted a tiny filing to understand its composition. The metal sang to him—not literally, but close enough that it didn't matter.
He filled three notebooks with calculations. Blade length: thirty-two inches would complement Celeste's reach and fighting style. Width: two inches at the base, tapering to a reinforced point. The fuller would run three-quarters of the blade length, deeper than standard to reduce weight while maintaining structural integrity.
But those were just numbers. The real design happened in Kieran's mind, where he could see the finished sword as clearly as if it already existed. Every curve, every angle, every minute detail.
He sketched obsessively. Drew the same design from a dozen angles. Worked out the geometry of the crossguard, the proportions of the grip, the exact placement of the focusing crystal in the pommel.
Mira brought him food that he forgot to eat. The day bled into night, and still Kieran drew and calculated and revised.
"It has to be perfect," he muttered, scratching out another sketch. "Not good enough. It has to be perfect."
By dawn of the second day, he had it. The design existed in complete form, both on paper and in his mind. Now came the hard part.
Actually making it.
Kieran lit the forge before sunrise, feeding it coal until the heat shimmer made the air dance. The mithril-alloy needed to reach precisely 2,400 degrees—hot enough to work, but not so hot that it would damage the metal's internal structure.
He'd never worked with material this valuable before. His hands shook slightly as he placed the first ingot into the forge with his tongs.
Don't think about the cost. Don't think about failure. Just think about the metal.
The ingot began to glow—first red, then orange, then a brilliant yellow-white that hurt to look at directly. Kieran watched the color with the practiced eye of someone who'd spent ten thousand hours reading temperature by sight alone.
When it reached the perfect shade—a specific tone of yellow-white that existed for maybe thirty seconds before the metal got too hot—he pulled it from the forge and placed it on his anvil.
The first hammer strike rang out like a bell.
The sound was wrong. Too pure, too clear. Kieran adjusted his grip, angled the hammer differently, struck again.
Better. The metal responded, beginning to flatten under the controlled impacts. But mithril-alloy wasn't like normal steel—it had memory, fought back against the hammer, required constant attention to temperature and technique.
Kieran fell into the rhythm. Heat, hammer, fold. Heat, hammer, fold. Each cycle compressing the metal, aligning its grain structure, working out impurities that didn't exist because the material was already perfect.
He wasn't improving the metal. He was teaching it what it wanted to become.
Hours passed. Kieran's shoulders burned. Sweat poured down his face despite the cold morning air. The hammer rose and fell, rose and fell, each strike precise and purposeful.
This is meditation, he thought distantly. This is prayer.
By the end of day two, he'd completed the first folding cycle. The ingot had become a rough bar of metal that gleamed with internal light. Sixteen layers compressed into one.
By the end of day three, sixty-four layers.
By the end of day four, two hundred fifty-six.
Each fold made the metal stronger, denser, more aligned with Kieran's vision of what it should be. He could feel it responding now, the mithril-alloy beginning to resonate with his intent.
"How's it going?" Mira asked on the evening of the fourth day, appearing with dinner.
Kieran looked up from the glowing metal, realizing he hadn't spoken to another human in almost seventy-two hours. His voice came out hoarse: "It's singing."
"That's... good?"
"That's perfect." He returned the bar to the forge. "The metal is accepting the work. It wants to be shaped. Another three days of folding, then I can begin the actual blade geometry."
Mira set down the food and left without another word, recognizing when Kieran was beyond conversation. He ate mechanically, not tasting anything, his entire focus on the forge and the metal and the rhythm of creation.
The folding complete, Kieran began the true forging.
This was where art met science, where his skill as an Artifact Smith would either prove itself or reveal him as a fraud. The blade had to be drawn out to precise dimensions while maintaining the perfect crystalline structure he'd built through days of folding.
He worked in stages. First, establishing the rough profile—the overall shape of the blade, its length and width. The mithril-alloy resisted, wanting to stay compact, and Kieran had to coax it into lengthening with carefully controlled heat and patient hammer work.
Each section of the blade required different treatment. The tang—the part that would fit into the handle—needed to be dense and strong. The blade itself needed flexibility with hardness. The point needed to be reinforced for piercing without being brittle.
Kieran worked with three different hammers, switching between them based on what the metal needed in each moment. The heavy hammer for rough shaping. The medium hammer for refinement. The small hammer for detail work on the fuller and edge geometry.
On day six, he ground the primary bevels—the long, flat surfaces that would form the blade's cutting edge. This required hours at the grinding wheel, working slowly, checking measurements constantly. Too much material removed and the blade would be ruined. Too little and it would be unbalanced.
The grinder's wheel sang against the mithril-alloy, throwing golden sparks that reminded Kieran of Celeste's radiant abilities. Perfect. This sword was meant for her, should reflect her nature.
He caught himself smiling—actually smiling while working—and the realization was so startling he almost messed up his grinding angle.
When did I start enjoying this instead of fearing it?
On day seven, he forged the fuller—the groove running down the blade's length. This was delicate work, requiring a specialized tool and absolute precision. The fuller reduced weight while maintaining strength, but more importantly, it would serve as a channel for the enchantments Kieran was planning.
Because this wasn't just going to be metal. This was going to be an artifact.
He worked the moonstone dust into the fuller while the metal was still hot, using techniques that came to him from his Artifact Smith class—knowledge that existed in his mind like inherited memory. The moonstone bonded with the mithril-alloy, creating microscopic pathways for energy to flow.
Day eight was heat treatment. This was the moment where everything could go catastrophically wrong. Kieran had to heat the blade to exactly the right temperature, then quench it in oil at exactly the right speed to lock in the perfect hardness without making the metal brittle.
His hands shook as he raised the blade from the forge. It glowed like a captive star, beautiful and terrifying.
Please, he thought to the sword, to the metal, to whatever gods watched over desperate craftsmen. Please be what I need you to be.
He plunged it into the oil.
The liquid exploded into flame—not unusual, but the intensity made Kieran step back. Golden fire danced across the surface as the mithril-alloy's magic reacted to the rapid temperature change. The blade hissed and sang, and for a heart-stopping moment, Kieran was certain he'd ruined everything.
Then the flames died, and he lifted the blade from the oil.
Perfect. The metal had hardened exactly as planned, the structure locked in place. He could see his reflection in the blade's surface, could see the faint shimmer of the moonstone channels running through the fuller.
"Thank you," he whispered to no one and everyone.
Sharpening took a week.
Most smiths spent a few hours on edge work. Kieran spent seven days.
He started with coarse stones, establishing the basic edge geometry. The angle had to be perfect—too acute and the edge would be fragile, too obtuse and it wouldn't cut properly. For Celeste's fighting style, he needed something that could slice through light armor while remaining durable enough for sustained combat.
Twenty-two degrees per side. That was the magic number his calculations had produced.
He worked in the early morning light when his hands were steadiest, making long, even strokes down the length of the blade. Each pass removed microscopic amounts of material, gradually refining the edge.
Medium stones came next, smoothing out the scratches from the coarse work. Then fine stones. Then extra-fine. Each progression made the edge sharper, more refined, closer to the theoretical perfect edge that existed only in Kieran's mind.
On day twelve, he switched to specialized whetstones—water stones that cost more than most people's monthly wages. The blade whispered across their surface, and Kieran fell into a meditative state where nothing existed except the steel, the stone, and the rhythm of sharpening.
Mira checked on him periodically, bringing food and water that he consumed without conscious thought. Once, she asked if he was okay. He'd looked up with wild eyes and said, "I can see the molecules," before returning to his work.
She'd left quickly after that.
By day fifteen, the edge was sharp enough that Kieran could shave with it. Sharp enough to cut falling silk. Sharp enough that looking at it too directly seemed dangerous.
But more than that—the edge seemed to glow faintly in low light, a side effect of the moonstone integration. It was beautiful in a way that transcended mere function.
This is what I was meant to make, Kieran thought, holding the blade up to examine his work. This is what the class was trying to tell me I could do.