The roar of the forge became Daedren’s constant companion. The flickering glow of molten metal illuminated his days and bled into his dreams. What had begun as a decision to remain on Prometheus and refine his skills had quickly become a crucible of relentless labor and mental endurance. Every hour, every minute, was a meticulous dance of fire and steel. No distractions. No interruptions. It was just him, the materials, and the steady cadence of his hammer against the anvil.

Master Torhak’s expectations were brutal. Any misstep, any slight flaw in technique, was met with swift correction. There was no room for error here, no space for half-measures. But this suited Daedren. The challenges were as harsh and demanding as the unforgiving wastelands of Nocturne, but they only fueled his determination. Here, at the heart of the forge, he was being tempered like the very steel he sought to master.

The first task Torhak set him upon after his success with the short sword was the creation of a combat knife, a tool that was both a weapon and an emblem of the Salamanders’ craftsmanship. The design was straightforward, but the execution was anything but simple. It had to be light and strong, with a razor-sharp edge capable of maintaining its integrity through the harshest conditions.

The knife began as a plain billet of high-carbon steel, its surface raw and unformed. Daedren held the billet firmly in his tongs, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. He placed it into the forge, watching as the flames licked hungrily at the metal, heating it to a bright orange-red. Timing was crucial here.

He let the steel soak in the heat, counting the seconds silently in his head. One hundred and fifty… one hundred and sixty… at one hundred and seventy-five, he pulled it free. The bar of metal glowed like a miniature sun, its surface shimmering with energy. Quickly, he set it on the anvil, raising his hammer high.

Each strike had to be precise. The first blows were heavy, aimed at drawing out the metal into a rough shape. He started with the spine, flattening the steel and thinning it out to create the basic outline of the blade. Sparks flew as he worked, the sound of the hammer ringing through the air in a rhythmic, steady beat. The billet resisted at first, but Daedren adjusted his angle, directing the force to where it was needed most. The steel responded, shifting and elongating under his strikes.

The process was painstakingly slow. Every inch of the blade required careful attention, the heat of the metal fading with each blow. Soon, it was cooling too much to shape effectively. Daedren paused, his eyes narrowed as he studied the blade’s form. It was rough, but the foundation was there. He placed it back in the forge, letting the metal regain its heat.

As the days passed, Daedren moved on to more complex techniques. He worked the blade’s bevels, angling his hammer strikes to thin the edge and taper the point. This required a lighter touch, more finesse. The angle of each blow had to be precise, the force measured to avoid distorting the blade’s geometry. He found himself holding his breath as he worked, his entire focus narrowed to the spot where his hammer met steel.

One mistake could ruin everything. One blow too hard, and the edge would warp, throwing off the balance. Daedren lost count of how many times he had to start over, the blade twisting or cracking under the strain. Each failure was a bitter pill to swallow, the wasted hours burning in his mind. But he never allowed himself to fall into despair. Instead, he dissected each mistake, breaking down the exact moment where his technique had faltered.

“Do not strike with brute force,” Torhak had told him one evening, his voice low but firm. “The steel is not your enemy to be beaten into submission. You must coax it, persuade it to take the shape you desire. Each strike must carry intent, not just strength.”

Daedren took those words to heart. He began to approach the steel differently, adjusting his grip, his stance. He listened to the sound of the hammer meeting metal, felt the subtle vibrations through the handle. When the steel began to protest, he eased off, letting it cool slightly before continuing. Slowly, the blade took shape, a sleek, deadly form that seemed to flow from his hands.

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The true test came with the grind and quench. Daedren placed the nearly finished blade against the spinning grindstone, sparks erupting in a cascade of brilliant orange. The goal here was to refine the edge, creating a smooth, even bevel along the blade’s length. It was a delicate dance between pressure and speed. Too much pressure, and the metal would heat unevenly, risking warping. Too little, and the edge would remain dull and unfinished.

He worked the blade carefully, guiding it along the stone’s surface in long, sweeping motions. His hands were steady, his touch sure. Slowly, the bevels smoothed out, the edge becoming a gleaming line of silver against the dark steel. When he was satisfied, he prepared for the most dangerous step of all, the quenching.

Quenching high carbon steel involved rapidly cooling the blade in a bath of oil or water, locking the steel’s crystalline structure in place. If done incorrectly, it could shatter the blade or leave it riddled with tiny cracks. Daedren took a deep breath, lowering the glowing blade into the oil with a steady hand. The oil hissed and bubbled violently, steam rising in thick clouds. He counted the seconds again, his eyes never leaving the blade.

Ten… twenty… at thirty seconds, he pulled it free. The blade was darker now, the metal hardened. Daedren ran a critical eye over its surface, checking for any signs of warping or cracking. There were none. He exhaled slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

It was a success.

But Torhak did not allow him to bask in his triumph for long. The master smith’s demands grew with each project, pushing Daedren further and further. After the knife came the task of forging a shortsword, a weapon that required a perfect balance between cutting power and maneuverability. This time, the challenge lay in the blade’s fuller, a long, narrow groove running down the center to reduce weight without compromising strength.

Creating a proper fuller was a test of precision and control. Daedren spent days practicing on smaller pieces, honing his ability to hammer out the groove without weakening the blade’s structure. Each attempt was scrutinized by Torhak, the master smith’s gaze sharp and unyielding. If the fuller was too deep, the blade would be fragile. Too shallow, and it would be unnecessarily heavy.

When he finally moved on to the real blade, Daedren’s nerves were strung taut. He could feel every beat of his heart as he guided the chisel along the hot steel, his hammer tapping out a steady rhythm. He held his breath as the groove formed, the metal parting under his blows. The slightest deviation would ruin the entire piece, but Daedren’s hand was steady, his strikes true.

The weeks bled together in a haze of fire and steel. Each project was more complex than the last, curved blades, intricate crossguards, reinforced hilts. Daedren found himself working with new materials, experimenting with alloys and heat treatments. He learned the art of pattern welding, folding and twisting layers of steel to create blades with beautiful, swirling patterns and enhanced durability.

His skills grew sharper, his techniques more refined. But the forge did not yield its secrets easily. There were still days when everything went wrong, when the steel refused to cooperate, or a tiny mistake in the tempering ruined hours of work. Each setback was a blow to his pride, a reminder of how far he still had to go.

But Daedren did not falter. He took every failure as a lesson, every misstep as an opportunity to learn. He adjusted his methods, experimenting with different temperatures, different hammer angles. Slowly, the gaps in his knowledge began to close, his understanding of the forge deepening with each new challenge.

One evening, as Daedren stood over the anvil, shaping the curve of a falcata blade, he felt a shift in the metal. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, a faint resistance that told him he had found the perfect balance. The blade seemed to move under his hands, almost guiding itself into shape. Every strike, every adjustment felt right, as if the steel were an extension of his will, it became fun.

He worked late into the night, his focus unbroken. When he finally stepped back, the blade gleamed in the light of the forge, its surface smooth and flawless. He held it up, turning it slowly. It was perfect. A weapon worthy of a warrior of Vulkan.

For a long moment, Daedren simply stared at the blade, his heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. He had done it. He had taken raw metal and shaped it into something extraordinary. The realization sent a shiver through him, a thrill that no battle or victory could match.

The forge had tested him, broken him, and reforged him in its flames. And now, Daedren knew, he was not just an apprentice, not just a neophyte.

He was a smith.