Alan of Vharzia rubbed two rocks together and lit the coal inside the furnace for another day of hard work. He pressed the blower, and a flame slowly erupted from what were at first only red sparks. Pressing it again, small particles flew out of the furnace, and heat emerged, familiar and exhausting, the giver of both beauty and pain.

The loneliness around him made him weary. Where was the boy who traveled every morning from the provincial capital to a barbarian village? Had he fallen ill? It left, however, the day to himself. He could not go out running after Alana. She, although youthful and fiery, was old enough to take care of herself. And, he trusted, old enough to understand. After all, he could not blame her. Alan remembered his wife Ileria, the same fire and light in her blue eyes, the same rebellious spirit and wish to fight. She had been a General, a married woman, a mother. He sighed, and his eyes moistened.

But he knew he had not completely lost Ileria, as her essence had, in the mysterious way of the gods, taken shape in their daughter. As he hammered the iron piece against the anvil and red and yellow sparks jumped out into the autumn air, his heart was also warm.

He could not complain, for so long had he fought, chasing after a peace that finally, the gods granted. His daughter was safe. Safer than Ileria ever was.

Alan’s sweaty arm did not stop. He smiled to himself and glanced at the red scarf on the side. The symbol on it, too familiar, too painful to remember, yet so fascinating and personal. An emerald-colored dragon, with its tongue sticking out and wings spread open. And his daughter was obsessed with it, like he had been, and that obsession had brought his people to the greatest battle ever fought.

He swore, once again, not to let his daughter near a sword, for his mind raced every night with images of the war. He woke up screaming almost every day, seeing the burnt roofs and the dragon flag above, seeing Ileria die over and over. And lately, Alana.

And he would not let that happen. He would not lose the one he loved the most again.

But those were merely, never accurate enough to be called visions, he thought to himself. He wiped the sweat with his forearm and stared out the window.

Something moved in the trees below. His smile faded, and he narrowed his eyes. He pulled the window open and stuck his head out into the cool air. He saw riders approaching from the hills and woods, like ants, their bodies armored and their necks covered in fur. But they could not be Gadalian legionnaires in service of the Empire, as their fur coats were dark, not made of possum but probably from the fur of the Sacred Bear. The mere thought of that made Alan press his teeth in disgust.

Alan focused on the furious riders below and the figures that emerged from the bushes in the distance.Then, he heard a sound he recognized from the distant past: an alarm horn, deep and piercing. It was the same type of horn he had heard back in the steppe, this time coming from the watchmen’s tower, and it meant only one thing. His hands paled, and a million images from the past passed through his mind. His soul weighed on him, as if being pulled away from his body.

But how could it be? There was peace among their peoples. What did it mean? How could they be attacked by their own hosts, the very people they served?

What he saw through the window made him gnash his teeth in rage. The riders and foot soldiers had their swords drawn, their lances in hand, going after the men Alan knew, who ran or tried to fight with their hands.

He stood, paralyzed, unable even to think, even to be in denial. Turning his head, he reached for the door and shut it. He had faced an attack time and time again; he had always survived. He looked to the side where the dragon armor leaned against the wall. He grabbed it carefully, fidgeting through the dusty iron plates that muddied his sweaty palms. He wiped the layer of dust with a hemp handkerchief. The reptilian scales regained a bit of their old brightness, but they still seemed dim. It had been more than a decade since he had worn it.

Behind the door, he heard the hooves of horses, and the horn kept ringing in his ears. The threat was serious, and he had to act fast.

He rushed to the corner, lifted the armor, and put his hands through the shoulder pads, but was surprised to discover that his frame could not go through it. He growled in frustration. How come? He did not feel fat at all, but of course, was not the slim, muscular youth he had been in his prime. He tried again, squeezing his arms through the narrow shoulder plates.

He sighed, giving up, and dropped it in frustration and haste. He looked around for scraps or bronze plates for unfinished cuirasses, but all his armor models had been sold. He only had an unfinished piece of chainmail, which he put on promptly. Then, in an old chest full of metal scraps and nails, he had hidden his greatest work. He knelt beside it and gently put his hand through the piles of metal, pawing through them, trying to feel the leather sheath that hid his dragon blade.

Then, the door flew open.

“Men of the house, yield yourselves!” he heard the too familiar accent from the Imperial capital.

“I am only a humble artisan,” he muttered, his hands still scanning through the scraps.

“Stand up, put your hands where we can see them!” the soldier growled. Alan lifted his head and glanced toward the small hallway. An effigy of the Bear Goddess stood at the entrance, and next to it, he saw the soldier. The armor had not changed after fifteen years; he had made hundreds of them, all in the same old design they wanted to preserve.Proofread lightly:

“Stand up,” the soldier said, and Alan noticed bloodstains on the sides of his drawn gladius sword and his forearms, partly hidden by dark leather wristbands.

“What is it about, soldier?” Alan asked, trying to keep his cool, but his heart hammered and yearned for Alana’s safety.

“Are you deaf, blacksmith? I said stand up and put your arms up. You come with me.”

“What is going on? We have a right to know. This is a peaceful village in the service of the Empire,” Alan said in a calm voice.

“Shut your rat mouth and come over here, or we’ll get you crucified. We have direct orders. Any hindrance to our operations will be dealt with in extreme measures.”

“I understand.”

Alan knew that the soldier could not be reasoned with. There were times when he had to be ready for violence.

The soldier shook his head, impatient, and with his sword drawn, forward, ready to be used, he dashed into the forge.

Alan kept his arms behind. He had found it. He slowly stood up, grasping the handle of his curved dragon blade and unsheathing it silently behind his back.

The soldier went for a sloppy forward thrust.

But Alan’s weapon was longer, and taking a step back, he blocked with his dragon blade, knocking the blade out of the hands of his attacker. The soldier paled, confused.

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“What kind of behavior is this, boy?” Alan said, holding his dragon blade in both hands, forward, and slightly bending his legs. The blade felt heavy in his tired arms, but he trusted his training.

The soldier instinctively lifted his hands; his expression had morphed into fear.

“What is going on here?” Alan asked, pointing the blade at the soldier’s armored belly.

“We are here... to put down a rebellion!” the soldier cried, sweat dripping from his forehead.

“Rebellion?” Alan frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The Mysteries!” the soldier said. “The Mysteries of Ares, you are planning to...”

“What are you talking about, boy?”

“Your people! They’re trying to destroy the Empire!”

Alan raised an eyebrow.

“Now, tell me, take a deep breath and tell me what this is about.”

The soldier shook his head, eyes wide open in terror.

“Surrender your sword, the entire village is surrounded,” the soldier said, but it sounded more like a plea than a threat.

“Tell me, boy, tell me what’s going on or I’ll put this through your belly.”

“No, please no,” the soldier moaned.

These soldiers were not like in the old days, Alan thought, giving up so quickly and so easily.

Suddenly, there was clanking of metal and rushed steps at his front door, and a young soldier with tanned skin and dark blonde hair stepped inside, another one waited from outside, his skin was darker and he was tall like a pine.

“Lucius, are you done?” said the first. “Come on, you can get fun with the girls after the work is...” he shook his head in disbelief. “What in Pluto’s name...”

“Hey!” The soldier Alan had beaten held his hands on high. “Help me!””My gods, is that a Dragon Blade?” the tall soldier asked, rushing in. He looked no older than eighteen. “Lucius, this guy must have been one of the guys Father told me about. The Dragon Knights!”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Lucius said. “You, old man. Drop that blade or we’ll give you a slow and painful death.”

“Who are you calling old, boy? You boys,” Alan looked at them, then lifted his blade up to Lucius’ neck. Lucius swallowed and lifted his head. “Now,” Alan looked at the soldiers at his doorstep. “You two get the hell out of my house and my village, or I’ll puncture through this fellow’s very long trachea.”

“You leave our friend alone,” the tall soldier said, unsheathing his gladius.

“Wait!” the shorter one said, stopping his friend with his hand. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You have no idea, there are five hundred of our men in this village. We’ve entered and overwhelmed the defenses. Most of your kinsmen are dead. Understand it? Dead. Our men will kill you, so be wise and yield yourself.”

Alan blinked. Once again, like fifteen years ago, his instincts overwhelmed him.

“Please be quick, or he’ll kill me,” Lucius moaned, his stretched arms shook as if they were in pain.

Alan clenched his teeth. They were killing his people. Like he had seen, an indiscriminate attack on the unarmed. A massacre. Why? Alan struggled not to let that information strike him hard. He pushed it away, to let it wreak havoc on his mind later, but… Could it be? Alana was not at home with him. She was in danger. No, he could not allow it. His heart pounded even harder, and he clenched his teeth, but he took a deep breath. It was not possible to fight with fear.

“Well, I won’t kill an unarmed man,” Alan said, and quickly kicked Lucius in the stomach, sending him flying across the room. Lucius crashed with his back against the table and it fell, breaking it in two.

Emotion rushed through Alan’s body.

“I’m ready,” Alan said.

The two soldiers lunged at him with their gladius swords. Alan’s reflexes blocked the tall soldier’s diagonal cut, and he ducked to avoid the blond one’s sword thrust. He noticed he was way slower than in his old days, so he stepped to the side to focus on one soldier at a time. He chose the short, blond soldier.

The soldier tried to stab him again, a terrible idea against a longer weapon. Alan swung his Dragon Blade, and it cut through the soldier’s temple, piercing two inches into his skull. His head dropped to the table on the side, his eyes remained open and lifeless, and blood poured out like the filling of a berry lava cake.

“You bastard!” the tall soldier cursed and went at him with his blade. Alan quickly pulled the blade out and blocked the incoming blow. The tall soldier had more range, and the circular blows he was attempting were faster and more dangerous.Alan pulled to the side and went for the soldier’s elbow, slicing through the inside. It wasn’t enough to slice the arm off, but blood did flow down like a pressurized fountain, and the soldier recoiled his arm with a loud shriek.

Alan shut his eye, whirled, and sliced the soldier’s neck with one blow. The head dropped like a ball, unleashing a crimson-purple shower, and the armored body fell with a clank.

The remaining soldier. The one who had broken in first. What was his name? Rufus? Lucianus? He lifted his hands again in surrender, shut his eyes, and lowered his head.

“Please kill me quickly!” he cried. “We just wanted a wife, we just came because they told us!”

“You will go and tell them to get out?” Alan said.

“Are you crazy?” he blurted out. “They will crucify me or make lions devour me. Kill me. Kill me now,” he begged.

Alan pressed his lips. The thing he thought of doing was selfish, he thought, but he could not bring himself, again, to kill an unarmed man. The pain of his past was too much.

“Grab that sword,” he ordered.

“What?” the soldier questioned with a moan, lowering his hands.

“Do it,” Alan insisted.

“Alright,” the soldier muttered, kneeling down, without taking his eyes from Alan, and grabbed his friend’s gladius with trembling arms.

Alan smelled urine. It was coming out of the soldier’s toga. Alan stepped forward and grasped Alana’s scarf with his left hand. He felt the strands of wool and the hemp embroidery his daughter had made.

“Go for it,” Alan said. The soldier swallowed and attacked, eyes closed and sword forward.

Alan had to make it painless.

He took a long step and thrust the blade through the soldier’s neck. It went halfway. Alan pulled the sword out. The body fell on knees and then dropped forward with arms outstretched.

Alan panted and leaned on the furnace. He wiped the sweat from his brow. It had been so long. Now, he had to find his daughter.

He reached for the corner of his house, put on the dragon-shaped helmet, panting, his eyes blurred like a serpent’s eyes, his mind struggling to keep control of his emotions.

He looked at his sword and kissed the bloodied blade.

“The Dragon will swallow the world,” he whispered the old formula, one he thought he would never say again. He stood up, his knee aching, and walked to the open door. Through it, he saw what had seemed like a distant nightmare of the past, and now under the piercing sun and not a wall of stars. He saw burnt roofs, he saw his neighbors dead on the street, others fighting with cooking knives and shovels, others being slaughtered by groups of soldiers. He saw the fair sons of his friends lying like slaughtered dogs, their bellies cut open. He saw the fair daughters of his people with their backs to the walls of their round houses, their eyes open wide, sweat and blood on their foreheads.

His heart turned again. There was nothing but rage pulsating through his soul.

“Alana,” he screamed.

The soldiers saw him.Fifteen years ago, he heard a prophecy.

He heard of it, and it came with images of death and words of something evil that waited under the surface of the earth. He had seen it in dreams, fearing for himself and his daughter.

And in that moment, his second sight was opened again.

He saw Alana.

She would survive that winter.

He saw the forest of deep greens, flowers blooming around her, her hair shiny like a golden sun dropping down to her hips, riding a brown stallion, a jeweled sword in her hand.

And although in the vision she wielded a sword, he did not mourn failing in his duty as a father. He smiled, but in the physical realm, three soldiers ran toward him. Their expressions turned into grotesque masks of war and fury, almost eyeless under the bronze galeas. Their swords were sharp and lustful for blood.

One of them brandished a bloodied sword at him. Alan blocked it again, then a spear was thrust into his side. He felt the piercing metal open and move into his skin; then the world around him seemed to slow down, and the pain was sweet, like a vaporous drug that entered through his open blood and dilated time itself. What was he seeing? And in the air above, he saw Ileria ride on her old white horse Yvarkas, a spear in her hand, just as it was fifteen years ago.

Alan grasped the scarf tightly in his left hand.

Metal cut through his knee, an attack he was not quick enough to block, and the weight of his body dropped down on one side. The blades of his enemies sought to penetrate his flesh, but his skillful arms deflected them.

His enemies surrounded him, but he kept blocking, he kept fighting. The spear exited his side, and he gasped for air. Another spear in his back, and his body stiffened. Ileria looked at him from above, her hand extended toward him, inviting him to join her in the Elysian fields. Her smile was as perfect as ever, her thin red lips sweet and inviting, her scarred tanned skin of her chest, and her eyes blue and gray like the raging sea of the south.

image [https://i.ibb.co/vJ7pw8Q/ALAN-the-Blacksmith.png]