Master Lunt approached a larger workbench after he and his grandson had finished hammering away at the red-hot piece, letting it rest for the moment.
A jagged slab of raw metal lay on the workbench, its rough surface gleaming faintly in the forge’s light.
“This here,” he said, tapping the slab with a calloused finger, “came from a new vein we uncovered just weeks ago. Strong, dense, but with a give to it—rare stuff. Once it’s hammered, tempered, and forged right, it’ll be something to last generations. Something I’ll take pride in.”
“I have no doubt anything you work on becomes a masterpiece,” Vell replied with a small smile.
The old dwarf snorted, “Lay off the compliments. It gives people the wrong idea.”
Lunt Junior stood nearby, gazing at the slab as though it were a relic of legend. “Master Lunt says that if a wizard carves runes into it, it could make a blade that never dulls. Is that true?” he asked Vell, his voice full of hope.
“Technically? Not quite,” Vell said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “In practice? More or less. Enchantments and master forging can create something incredibly durable, perhaps outlasting several lifetimes. But truly unbreakable or eternal? That’s a myth, even for magic.”
Master Lunt grumbled under his breath. “Bah, like the fancy arms and armor of those lords and ladies. Pompous fools. Thinkin’ they’re the Stoneborn themselves, just ‘cause their pockets are deep.”
Sonder, who was also looking at the unfinished piece on the workbench, tilted her head. “The Stoneborn?”
“Aye, them,” Master Lunt said with a gruff wave of his hand, offering no further explanation.
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Vell stepped in. “The Stoneborn are legendary figures in dwarven lore—warriors and leaders said to embody the very spirit of the mountains. They weren’t just heroes; they were craftsmen, miners, and protectors with a deep connection to the stone. Not unlike the druids and the queen of the forest. Their spirits are believed to watch over dwarves who live underground.”
Lunt Junior nodded eagerly, and with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things, recited a rhyme in a clear voice: “Birthed by stone and tempered in fire, guardians bold of the mountain’s spire. Their axes sang, their hammers roared, in stone halls grand, the Stoneborn soared. We forge to honor the Stoneborn,” he added. “Every piece, no matter how small, should be made with their memory in mind.”
Sonder’s gaze lingered on the jagged slab of metal. In her mind, she imagined the Stoneborn as dwarven kings of old, clad in gleaming armor, their presence larger than life. Like many stories that her people, humans, shared of old kings.
Without warning, Lunt Junior reached over to a nearby bench and picked up a small, unpolished blade. Its edges were rough, and the surface was still marred with forge marks, but he held it out to her. “Here,” he said simply. “Hold this.”
Sonder hesitated before taking it. The blade was surprisingly heavy, its weight much greater than the training swords she’d been given by Inure, the half-elf swordmaster.
But it wasn’t all too unfamiliar.
“A blade,” Lunt Junior began, his eyes fixed on her as she adjusted her grip, “is more than just its edge. It carries the intentions of the smith who made it—their skill, their respect for the craft. Every hammer strike shapes its purpose.”
Sonder nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around the crude hilt. Though she didn’t fully grasp the intricacies of smithing, she could feel the care imbued in the blade despite its unfinished state.
Vell watched her thoughtfully before turning to Lunt Junior. “Did your grandfather teach you that?”
Junior nodded, casting a quick glance at Master Lunt, who gave a single approving nod in return.
“Well then,” Vell said, resting a hand on Sonder’s shoulder, “we should be on our way. There’s still plenty to see in the mine for a first-timer.”
Master Lunt inclined his head toward them, his expression as stern as ever. “If you come back, come with purpose. We’re not here to waste time.”