The forge of Korvan Village awoke with the dawn.
Smoke curled into the pale sky, carrying the sharp scent of iron and coal. The hammer had been silent for months — ever since Hunnt had left — but now, under Maerin's hands, the anvil sang again.
Its rhythm was steady. Patient. Alive.
Rogan stood at the doorway, sweat already gathering beneath the heavy fifty-kilogram weights strapped around his limbs. The early light caught the faint shimmer of the steel bracers as he walked forward — slow, deliberate, his breath laboured.
"Good," Maerin said without turning from the fire. "You didn't collapse before reaching the forge. That's progress."
Rogan tried to straighten, a faint grin pulling at his lips. "Progress hurts, ma'am."
"Good," she said, her tone flat but approving. "Then you're learning."
The forge's flames flared as she worked the bellows, and the roar filled the room like the breath of a sleeping beast. Maerin turned, her grey hair tied back, her eyes sharp and clear despite her age. She handed him a hammer — long-handled, its head blackened from years of use.
"This," she said, "is older than you. Older than half the hunters in this region. Treat it as a teacher, not a weapon."
Rogan accepted it carefully, feeling its weight pull at his arm. "It's heavier than I expected."
Maerin gave a faint smirk. "Everything worth holding feels that way."
She gestured toward the glowing coals. "We'll start with iron. Heat it until it glows orange — not red, not white. The color will tell you when it's ready. Not me."
Rogan nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "Yes, ma'am."
---
The heat from the forge struck him like a wall. He stepped closer, gripping the tongs awkwardly. His weighted arms strained just to hold the metal steady as he placed it into the fire.
Maerin watched him with folded arms. "Don't fight the weight," she said. "Let it remind you where your strength comes from. Control starts with awareness."
He nodded, trying to focus, but every muscle in his body screamed. The metal began to glow faintly orange, and Rogan hesitated.
"Now," Maerin said.
Rogan raised the hammer and struck.
CRANG!
The sound was violent — too sharp. Sparks erupted, filling the air. The iron bent unevenly, its surface pitted and warped.
Maerin's expression didn't change. "Too much power. You're not fighting a monster, boy — you're shaping one."
Rogan frowned. "I thought blacksmithing needed force."
Maerin shook her head slowly. "Force is nothing without focus. Hit with your whole strength, and the metal breaks. Strike with your whole intent, and it bends."
Her voice was low, controlled — the kind that could calm fire itself.
Rogan grit his teeth and tried again.
The hammer fell too soon this time.
Then too late.
Then at the wrong angle.
Each blow made the metal worse. His grip trembled. Sweat rolled down his temple and stung his eyes.
"Again," Maerin said.
He exhaled and swung once more. The iron screamed under his strike.
"Too hard."
"Again."
"Too soft."
"Again."
"Off rhythm."
The hammer rose and fell, over and over. His hands blistered, his breath came ragged, but he kept going.
Finally, he missed his mark entirely, the hammer glancing off the edge of the anvil. The vibration shot up his arm, numbing his shoulder.
Rogan stumbled back, panting. "It's impossible!"
Maerin said nothing. She simply walked to the anvil, picked up the warped iron, and held it up between them.
"This," she said quietly, "is what happens when strength rules over discipline. The same thing happens when you swing a sword without control."
Rogan froze. Her words pierced deeper than he expected.
She tapped the bent metal with her finger. "Tell me, how many swords have you broken?"
He hesitated. "...Too many to count."
"And why?"
He opened his mouth — then closed it. The answer was too obvious now.
Maerin's eyes softened. "Because every time you swung, you forced your strength through the blade without guiding it. You never gave it time to breathe. You never gave it rhythm. A weapon, like the metal you shape, must flow with you — not fight you."
Rogan stared at the iron glowing faintly between them. "So that's why it always chipped…"
She nodded. "Raw strength is chaos. Controlled strength is art."
The young hunter lowered his gaze, ashamed but enlightened. "I understand now, ma'am."
"No," she said, her tone firm but patient. "You feel it now. Understanding will come when you stop thinking and start listening."
He looked up, confused. "Listening?"
Maerin turned back to the forge, setting the iron down again. "Every piece of metal sings differently. Each blow of the hammer changes its voice. Too hard, and it screams. Too light, and it whispers. Find the sound that breathes — and you'll know it's right."
Rogan swallowed and nodded. "I'll… listen this time."
---
The next hours passed like a blur of sound and sweat.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The rhythm was uneven at first. Harsh. Wild.
Then, slowly, it steadied — like a heartbeat aligning with the forge's pulse.
Maerin said nothing. She simply watched.
By midday, Rogan's hammer no longer fought him. Each swing landed cleaner, more controlled. His breathing synced with his movements.
When he finally stopped, he looked down at the result — a half-shaped piece of iron, rough but recognisable.
"It's… not terrible," he said, uncertain.
Maerin smirked. "Not terrible means you're learning. The forge rewards patience."
She reached for a jug of water and handed it to him. "Drink. Then clean your tools. The fire doesn't forget sloppy work."
Rogan took a deep breath, drinking heavily. As he set the cup down, he hesitated. "Ma'am… those weapons — the ones Alder and the others use… who made them?"
Maerin's expression shifted, a glint of pride and melancholy passing through her eyes. "The one who forged them used this very forge."
Rogan blinked, his voice quiet. "You mean… the Grandmaster Blacksmith?"
Maerin nodded slowly. "Yes. Him. But it's better you don't mention him again. You're not ready."
"Did he… die?" Rogan asked, hesitant.
She looked into the flames, the light flickering against her lined face. "He lives in every strike of this hammer. That's all you need to know."
Rogan bowed his head respectfully. "Understood, ma'am."
"Good," Maerin said softly. "Now pick up your mess. The forge remembers those who respect it — and forgets those who don't."
---
That night, Rogan sat on the bench outside the forge, his arms trembling, his hands raw and blistered. The moonlight spilled across the stone floor, glinting faintly against the anvil's edge.
He looked at his palms — blackened, burned, cracked — and smiled. "This pain," he murmured, "feels like progress."
Inside, Maerin cleaned her tools in silence. The rhythmic clink of metal echoed softly in the forge.
She looked at the flames one last time and whispered under her breath,
"Another stubborn one… but maybe worth the effort."
Outside, the faint sound of Rogan's slow breathing blended with the crackle of the forge fire — the steady heartbeat of two souls learning patience, one strike at a time.