Pheston hummed to himself while steering Humfrid up the jagged mountain path. It was a sturdy beast, that was for sure, but the fact it could ascend this path with nary a problem was astounding. The people of Millstone had truly offered their best steed as thanks.

Teleri sat in the back of the wagon stone-faced as ever, while Friedrich showed off his transformation from human to fox to human to minotaur to fox, and then back to human again for Alf, who was awestruck by the power. Bjorn was less keen on the use of soul magic, but he did not complain, knowing that it was this same young man and this same magic that had brought his father back to him.

“I’ll pray to the gods that one day, I’ll be able to transform as you do, Friedrich,” said Alf.

“Ah,” said Friedrich guiltily, immediately regretting his blatant disregard for what the use of soul magic actually entailed. “Well, Alf, I should probably have led with this, but I consider it more of a curse than a blessing. To be able to transform in this way means that another has died for it. Not to get too gruesome, but when I transform, I’m assuming the form of a deceased—”

“Friedrich,” said Teleri with a stern look, “perhaps you had better stop talking before you cause further problems.”

“Yes,” said the young man. “That’s probably for the best. Summed up, Alf, don’t use soul magic. Especially not as flippantly as I do.”

Pheston ceased his humming to bellow out a laugh. “It’s nice not to be the one in trouble for my choice of words,” he said.

Eager to change the subject, Bjorn spoke up. “Father, we are close.”

The quintet had been on the road for a day and a half already, while Marina had been sent on her mysterious mission by Pheston. She was bitter about not getting to see the forge, but she insisted that was Pheston had asked her to do was important. Even with Friedrich’s incessant questioning, she had kept silence on what she had to do, but he trusted both her word and Pheston’s word that it was all in service to a greater purpose.

Teleri, who tended not to initiate conversation at the best of times, had been especially quiet since the journey began. It was as though the presence of Bjorn and Alf irked her, even though they had been perfectly pleasant to her. It reminded Friedrich of her initial hostility towards Pheston, but less severe, as though she was keeping her thoughts to herself rather than muttering incessantly and making rude facial expressions.

“I can almost taste the embers on the tip of my tongue,” said Pheston, looking to the icy, stone-strewn path ahead. “It burns like the strongest distillation in the known world. Ah, I cannot wait to craft the dragon bones into weapons worthy of true heroes of the realms…and then promptly give one to the soul masker who will only use it if he’s stuck.”

“That’s not true at all!” insisted Friedrich. “Once I have a new sword, I won’t need to transform as often.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it, lad.”

Friedrich muttered to himself and Teleri flashed a brief smile before resuming her cold stare into the expansive tundra almost a mile below. She realised she had caught Friedrich’s eye and her face turned into a grimace as though she was trying to make him stop staring at her.

“What?” she barked, unable to shake his gaze.

The Mercian laughed at her. “I was seeing how long it would take for you to tell me off.”

“You are so childish. Although, I should remember that you are basically a child.”

“Have I not overtaken you in human years yet?”

“Quiet, you scoundrel. Let me enjoy the view in peace. I want to hear nothing further from you until we reach the forge.”

“That’ll barely be a silence, Teleri,” said Pheston, “because we’re no more than ten minutes away.”

“Then I will enjoy these ten minutes.”

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Alf muttered to Bjorn, not accounting for Teleri’s impressive hearing. “I thought they were supposed to be friends, father.”

“Quiet, boy,” said Bjorn, not wanting to get involved in the bickering.

“Sometimes, lad,” said Pheston, trying to hold in his laughter, “when a young lady is smitten—”

He couldn’t contain himself and his explosive laughter startled the horse, who almost steering the cart off the cliff. Teleri folded her arms and turned up her nose, not wanting to indulge the old man’s preposterousness. The sooner they could get the weapons, find a way to reach the Orion Tower, and rescue Lord Gaerfyrd, the sooner she would be rid of Pheston and his supposed jokes.

Friedrich stayed silent, knowing that Teleri would explode if poked further. He hoped that the ten-minute ride to the Forge of Ages would be enough to cool her down. He glanced at her every now and then and saw the red slowly drain from her face, leaving it her usual glowing gold that was highlighted by the sun in the clear sky over Corobath.

Rolling into a small valley, Pheston’s humming became fast-paced and eventually turned into a full-blown song about the forge. Based on the poor rhymes, it seemed as though he was making it up on the spot, but it was surprisingly intriguing. Eventually, the steps leading out of the valley and into the rounded stone building came into view and the cart slowed to a halt.

It was a thoroughly unimpressive building from the outside, reminding Friedrich of one of the old rounded theatres used by the Mercians of generations past. As with many of the ruins he’d seen in Corobath—which granted, was not that many—the doors themselves were made of stone, and these ones bore the image of an anvil with an ember sitting atop it. He had been expecting an ashy smell, but all that reached Friedrich’s nostrils was the scent of iron wafting out of the bags Bjorn had brought.

“Remarkable,” said Bjorn breathlessly while staring at the unremarkable building.

“Isn’t it?” asked Pheston, beaming with pride.

Alf looked from his father and grandfather before turning his gaze to the building. “Utterly remarkable,” he said, not sure what all the fuss was about. The young man had heard the stories of the Forge of Ages, but he had been expecting a grand hall or a palace of some kind, just like Friedrich had.

“Is it just me or…” whispered the Mercian to the Alaurian.

“I am equally unimpressed,” she said quietly.

“Alright,” said Pheston, hopping from the cart to the ground. “Let’s see if I’m deemed worthy of the greatest forge in the land.”

“Worthy?” asked Friedrich.

“Yes, I must pass the trial before I can use the forge. Did I not mention that?”

Friedrich started massaging his temples. “No, my friend. Funnily enough, you did not.”

“You led us into danger again?” snapped Teleri.

“Nah, just me,” said Pheston, resting Vigr on his shoulder and grinning widely. “I’m looking forward to the challenge.”

“This is your calling, father,” said Bjorn. “If you can’t do it, nobody can…and a few have, therefore, so can you.”

“Yep,” said Alf.

“Boys, I’m touched,” said Pheston sincerely, looking to his descendants with great pride. He cleared his throat to stop himself from tearing up and marched over to the forge door. “You sorry lot coming? I’m sure it’ll be a good show.”

The four followed Pheston up the steps. He paused at the door and put his hand upon it. He shoved it, but there was no movement as there had been in the Undercity. The phantom’s scoffing at Friedrich’s question about the method of opening now seemed justified.

“Great Forge of Ages,” called Pheston, his voice booming so loudly a tuft of snow fell into the valley at the bottom of the steps, “I humbly request entry in the name of Baldir. I come bearing dragon bones and no forge is greater; no more worthy of these grand gifts to a smith’s hands.”

The door rumbled open and a voice called out. “Ga,” it said, its tone filled with fire.

“I thank you,” said Pheston.

“You are worthy?” asked Friedrich.

“Of entry, yes, but I have yet to face the trial.”

Walking through the door, the chamber came into view. It was filled with everything a blacksmith would need, from tongs of every size to the grandest, cleanest anvil that Friedrich had ever seen. Most impressive of all was the large pit at the centre of the room filled to the brim with coal that warmed Friedrich with a glance, yet there was no fire in sight.

“Heik!” came the same voice as though from the coals itself. “You come to use ferocious flame to create weapons fitting of the most legendary of heroes, perhaps even weapons for the gods themselves. Is that why you are here?”

“No,” said Pheston. “I come to create weapons for those who seek to smite evil and rescue a beloved father from a hell untold, and I have been to the depths of hell myself.”

“A worthy purpose,” said the pit, “but only one with great strength is worthy of smithing that which unlocks great strength. I am the Forge Guardian. Will you face me?”

“I will face you,” said Pheston.

The tools faded from existence, leaving the five standing alone in the chamber with only the coal-filled pit. The coal started to shift, pulling itself together into various shapes that then connected, forming a body, limbs, and even a head. It stood tall, towering above even Pheston; taller than Friedrich as a minotaur. Its eyes glowed orange and when it opened its mouth, fire spewed with every word.

“Tell me, smith,” said the Forge Guardian. “What is your name?”

“I am Pheston of Lundstad.”

“And are you afraid?”

“I fear no man, no monster, no demon,” said Pheston, clutching Vigr tightly. “I will overcome you and your forge will be mine to use. Have at you, Forge Guardian.”