To turn the tungsten paper-thin is proving much more difficult than I anticipated. I have been hammering this sheet for two long-hours now and it is still not flat enough. It is uneven in both thickness and heat; parts of it are trencher-thick and dull yellow, others thinner—though not yet thin enough—and blazing so ferociously I cannot look directly upon them.

I fear I have made a mistake by deciding to curl my weapon into shape. Such an unorthodox forging technique really ought to be attempted only after many, many months spent studying, and practicing by creating something small at first, like a knife, or at most a spearhead.

But Vanerak wants me to make a weapon to destroy demons, and my runes, the runes I think stand the best chance at breaking apart their lines of heat, will take best to the trident I have designed. Indeed, they would not work on a weapon less complex.

And this technique, of twisting and folding, is the only way to create that trident.

Thus I continue to beat the tungsten flat. A shiver runs up my arms each time I strike. White sparks fly up then float down. Each blow flattens the tungsten, but not by enough, and they raise metal ridges and ripples too.

I try to even the waves out with one of my smaller hammers. Each strike creates further waves. I curse; I'm getting distracted. I need to get it flat! Only then can I worry about evening things out. I take up my largest hammer again, then strike harder, more violently, over and over and over. The sound is deafening and the sparks leave blinding trails in the air. The heat pouring from the white metal is beginning to sting my skin, roast it.

Over a short-hour later, and some patches are thin enough. I continue, ruby blazing, mind focused, right arm rising and falling in a constant rhythm.

More patches thin out over the next hour. This impedes me. The tungsten must be beaten hard or it will not respond to me, yes, but it has a limit also. If the paper-thin patches thin any further, they will break. I am driving the metal to its limit.

I switch to a hammer one size down. Now I have to strike twice as hard to dent the thicker parts. My right arm is burning. My breathing is ragged, my mouth dry. My ruby is pushing me past the limits of my fatigue just as I am pushing the tungsten's.

My right arm begins to shake and I can no longer grip the hammer properly. I put it down rather than risk making an error, and tell Nazak that I would like to return to my quarters.

As soon as I am back, I fall into bed and drop into a fitful sleep. I wake feeling as if I have not slept at all, and my arm still burns. I cannot shake the feeling that I am going the wrong way about this craft, that I should choose another method, but try as I might, I can see no other way.

So I must continue. I return to the forge. The sheet has become just too wide to fit inside the furnace, so using all my strength I carefully bend it. It is so rigid as to be nearly unbendable, and I fear that this is a premonition of further difficulties to come.

Once more I heat it to bright white, and over the next many hours, continue my work. The thicker parts even out, finally, and at last I sense that the first stage of the hammering is over. When I can no longer see the various ripples and ridges for the heat-shimmer, I know it is time to move on to the second stage.

I equip my runic ears. My vision fades away. I hear everything in the forge—the low roar of the magma's heat, the quiet keening of the beaten tungsten, the breathing of the guards and Nazak. Their exhalations seem labored, like they're tense, anticipating something important, and anticipating it so much that their mental anguish is beginning to injure them physically. They need this craft. It is their hope.

And as much as I hate most of them, Hayhek is one of these warriors—if he still lives. For him and Guthah I must complete this task.

I strike with a smaller hammer, gently, and wince. The metal's discordance is extreme. I start work on fixing it, yet each tap only barely reduces it, and oftentimes actually increases it. A success in one place can cause a series of ripples elsewhere. And when I hear a relatively even note, it still sounds strained. The tungsten has truly come to its limit. I am almost torturing it.

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Several short-hours later, the tungsten is relatively smooth. When I run my hand over it, I can barely feel the ripples, and when I strike a note on it, the sound is relatively harmonic.

Relatively. Not perfectly. A few hundred long-hours ago, I would have judged this metal acceptable. Not anymore—yet if I continue, something is going to break. The tungsten is too strained. I cannot risk hammering it further. I even worry that when I take my diamond saw to it, the sheets will curl and break asunder.

It will be good enough. A fourth degree craft, not second or even third. That is all I can manage for now. I just have to hope that my new runes will be enough to allay Vanerak's inevitable anger and disgust.

I take up my glittering saw and slice, very slowly, according to my drawing. The design is complex, extremely complex, and I dare not mistake a single degree of an angle. I notice my hand is trembling—I sleep in my quarters—come back to the forge and barely remember that I left it. Each slice I take is slow, so slow, but that sensation comes upon me again—the sensation that time no longer matters, no longer exists.

This is a place of metal, and metal only barely knows time. It is still, not like us warm living creatures of flesh, or the roiling magma currents of the sea.

The pattern forms. It is three dozen chaotic slashes, some sweeping, some only a few centimeters. I don't think anyone but me could by looking tell that when curled and folded, this gashed sheet will become a weapon.

I end the last cut. I feel somewhat fresh, invigorated—I must have taken a rest in a recent hour, though I cannot remember exactly when or how long for.

But my feeling of invigoration fades as I realize the enormity of the next task. Curling the whole sheet just a little so it could fit in the furnace was difficult enough. Now I must curl it into far tighter loops, and even crease some parts, and do this all with precision. Simply good enough will not be good enough for this stage. The edges must align exactly or the welds will fail.

I start at what will become the bottom fifth of the main shaft. I test the flexibility a little. It is too stiff. My fingers ache from bending it just a few millimeters, and when I let go, it springs back to nearly its original flatness. I curse. Heating it could make it more pliable, but now that it's cut into strange geometries, uneven cooling could distort it just enough to make it unusable.

I find two pairs of iron pliers. Iron is much softer than tungsten—they will not scratch it by very much. With one in each hand, I try again. I meet with a little more success: after a few minutes, the metal is definitely curled.

But there's a slight illness in the pit of my stomach. I cannot see anything amiss, so I equip my runic ears. I bend it again. The tungsten is groaning. It's beyond its limits, and I am starting to form a stress fracture—a crack.

I curse violently. How cracked is it? I chime the metal a couple times. It is only barely cracked. This is still disgraceful. Should I remake the whole sheet? That is what I did each time I failed with my armor. Yet outside the forge time is real, and vital, and many will die if I do not finish this weapon quickly. Perhaps one will be Hayhek.

The cracks are only barely there. This is fine. I breath slowly to kill my panic. I can fix them totally. A touch of a heat stick will melt them back together. I take one up, hold it in the furnace. It glows to white. I touch it gently, side-on to the crack. I wait until its glow has been partly imparted into the tungsten, then pull it away.

Once the tungsten is cooled, I chime. The sound is nearly perfectly melodious once more. I breathe a sigh of relief and get back to work. This time I go more slowly, try to get into the state of timelessness.

But I cannot. My hands are too strained. With hammer-work, there is a rhythm to my exertions: aim, down, and a bounce back up in which my muscles loosen. They rest between each strike. But there is no such rhythm with this work. If I relax my movement, the metal springs back. I must exert constant force.

My ruby can only barely keep up. If shaping tungsten with a hammer is boxing, then this is wrestling. It exhausts me. After less than a short-hour my arms are like water and I have to rest.

I have only completed one curl, and it is not as precise as I need it to be.

During my next session, I painstakingly and painfully manage the next two curls. I fix the first also. One third of the handle is now complete.

The fourth twist of the haft includes a barb, onto which I plan to graft one of the demon-killing runes. A jutting piece groans as I attempt to twist and fold it into a thorn. I curse as I struggle to bend the tungsten to my will, to defeat it.

Half an exhausting, sweaty hour later, the barb, triangular at its base, has come into shape.

And its edges do not line up. My shouted curse echoes a hundred times around the forge. I have not calculated properly, or else my sawing was not precise enough—one of the base edges is off by a full millimeter.

And if one cut was off, that means many more are also.