The village leaned on the edge of survival. Fields were tilled, but yields were poor. Roofs sagged, doors leaned from hinges, and laughter came rarely, mostly from children who did not yet understand the weight their parents carried.
At its heart sat a forge that had once sung with fire but now groaned with age. Willy, its smith, was strong still, but his shoulders bent more than they used to, his sons long gone to better prospects. The forge needed hands, and so when the boy with bruised arms and hollow eyes appeared, Willy took him in.
"You'll earn your bread, boy," Willy said. "Swing the hammer till your arms give, or you'll be out come morning."
The villagers laughed at the sight of Ryen lifting the hammer — a frail thing compared to the apprentices who had once filled the forge. But though he swayed under the weight, though each blow seemed to tear at his bones, he did not stop.
The first night he collapsed.
The second night, too.
By the seventh, his hands blistered and raw, his arms quivered too badly to hold food steady.
But every dawn, he returned.
And so began the rhythm of survival.
---
The Forge as Crucible
Ryen's work was never wasted. His strikes were not fast, nor were they mighty, but each was deliberate. He rested when his muscles burned, drew air in ragged gulps when his chest felt like fire, then struck again — each blow ignited with his entire being.
The steel yielded to him, not because of force, but because he gave nothing less than everything.
Willy watched from the shadows of the forge, pipe clenched in his teeth. "Strange lad," he muttered once. "Not a master, but damn if he doesn't hit like the world ends with every strike."
The villagers began to notice. The plows held better, the nails bent less, the knives cut longer. Slowly, the crippled village straightened its back. And when they passed Ryen on the street, they no longer saw just a wanderer. They saw the hands that steadied them.
Seven months passed this way, and in the last, Willy called Ryen to the anvil.
"You've bled enough for others. Time you made something for yourself."
Ryen blinked, confused.
"A blade," Willy said. "You'll wander again. I can see it in your eyes. You're not meant to root. But a wanderer shouldn't walk empty-handed. Forge a weapon, boy. One that carries you."
---
The Black Blade
The steel hissed as it entered the fire. Orange flames wrapped it like serpents, licking until it glowed red. Ryen drew it out with tongs, laid it on the anvil, and struck.
Clang.
The hammer fell, slow but full, each blow pressed from his very core.
Fold. Hammer. Heat. Fold again. He bent the steel upon itself, layer after layer, dozens becoming hundreds. The metal darkened as if swallowing the fire it was forged in, taking shape with every deliberate collapse of Ryen's body against his own limits.
His arms trembled, muscles raw, sweat streaking through soot across his face. Sometimes he faltered, chest heaving too hard to lift the hammer, and would rest — not from choice, but necessity. Then he rose again, steady and stubborn.
The steel grew thin, long, then curved slightly under the relentless shaping. Quenched in oil, it hissed like a beast denied prey. When it cooled, Ryen drew it across a whetstone, each stroke slow, precise, scraping sparks that bit the air.
When it was done, the blade was impossibly light in the hand, almost deceptive. Its edge was so keen it whispered through leather with no resistance. In the forge light, it held no gleam. It absorbed light, dark as shadow.
It was a weapon born of silence, carrying the echo of his every desperate strike.
---
The Shining Blade
But Ryen wasn't finished.
He set aside a second billet. This time his movements changed — not desperate, but careful, measured. He hammered for balance, not hunger. The core he left softer, the edge he worked hard, shaping two natures into one.
Days passed. He heated, hammered, quenched, then reheated, shaping patiently. He drew out the spine thicker, the edge finer. Every strike seemed slower, more deliberate, as if each one was a breath he wanted to last.
When the blade was finally formed, he polished it. Stone upon stone, grit upon grit, until the metal gleamed. Under firelight, it caught every flicker, reflecting it back with a glow that seemed almost alive. Unlike the black blade, which consumed light, this one radiated it.
When he tested the edge, it did not bite hungrily but sang — slicing smooth and true, clean as water flowing.
It was no shadow. It was a mirror of fire.
---
The Smith's Realization
Both blades rested across Ryen's lap. One black as night, light as smoke, sharp enough to whisper death. The other gleamed bright, resilient, polished to a brilliance that refused the dark.
Willy's pipe glowed in the dim forge as he finally spoke.
"You didn't ask. Didn't wait to be told. Two blades, not one. Strange thing, lad. A shadow and a light. One to cut unseen, one to stand in the open. That's no accident, no matter how you look at it."
Ryen ran a hand across the black blade, then the shining one. His face betrayed no pride, only quiet weariness, but his eyes — if one looked close enough — held a recognition. These were not tools. They were survival.
Willy tapped ash from his pipe. "You'll go. Wander again. I can see it clear as the fire. Can't stop it. But those blades will carry you now, boy. And you carry them. Don't forget that."
Ryen looked up, lips parting, but no words came. He only gave the faintest nod, then lowered his gaze to the steel once more.
---
Departure
Then the time came, he had to go.
Previously he had to leave for his safety but this time he had to.
The forge was still warm, smoke curling faintly from its chimney. Willy stood at the doorway, pipe in hand, staring into the morning haze.
Willy thought, the kid had real hurt and patience.
"Two blades," he muttered. "One forged from his suffering. One from his patience. Both his truths."
The villagers stirred, unaware of what had been born in their midst. But somewhere beyond their fields, Ryen walked on with steel at his side — one blade of silence, the other of light.
And every strike he had given, every collapse, every ragged breath, burned within them still.