The fire raged around me. The smithy was raging hot. Anyone else would have been burned asunder under the mighty flame. But I stood tall. I was a SMITH! Like the metal I forge, I do not yield! For generations, my lineage thought our name, our power, a curse. But I saw it differently. Anyone could become a blacksmith, but no one could be born with a hammer in one hand, and a steel ingot in another. No one but a Smith.

Throughout the generations, the name Smith, thus the power that came with it, dwindled. People changed their names to Darkfyre, Blizzard, Healer, and other such nonsense. The power we are born with was not meant to be controlled in such a way. They have grown content in their power. Content to rule with the strength of magic. But, like the Winds of Magic, times are changing.

Normally, I would make weapons out of normal metals. Bronze whips that rend flesh. Steel swords that cut through stone. Magic ran through my weapons like the blood through a human. That was the power of a Smith. To make any weapon with any material. But now, I needed something different. Something greater. Something to put down the man that named himself 'Cronus' and gained the power of the Titans.

Magic flew around me and my hands bleed. The flames flared around me, burning away at hair and skin. But I did not yield. I did my duty. I wielded my magic. Bent it to my will and infused it into my craft. I was the last of the Smiths. I would do my ancestors proud, even if it killed me.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

I could feel the Winds of Magic gathering around me. Blow into the forge and raise the flame higher and higher. I heard shouting from outside. But I did not yield. I reached out, and with my bare hand, grabbed the Winds of Magic, forcing them though sheer willpower into the weapon I was crafting.

"My metal shall never yeld!" I shouted. That man, Cronus, had approached me days before. He demanded a weapon fitting him. A sythe made out of the stars. I had to do as he said. I was unarmed, and making a sword out of dirt or rock would have been foolish. So I had cut away at the night sky, forging that sythe out of the very stars themselves. But now, I needed something even stronger to beat it.

A storm was raging outside. I knew it would come. I felt it in my bones. I kept crafting, waiting for the right moment. Eventually, it came. Lightning struck nearby. I reached out, not with my hand, but with the Winds of Magic I had grabbed but moments ago.

"Nature shall bend it's will to me like metal does to heat!" I cried out. The words were full of power. My power. The power of a Smith. The magic coiled around the lightning, pulling it from the sky and into the smithy. I would make the weapon that could strike down Cronus, or die trying.