Thorne always treated metal like he'd treat a stubborn, old friend: with patience, persistence, and the occasional heated argument. The morning his life changed forever was no exception, and that day, as any other day, the early sun peeked over the village of Ironreach, it found the old master working in his forge.

The rhythmic pounding of metal on metal echoed through the air as he worked. His muscular arms, glistening with sweat, moved with practiced precision as he hammered a glowing red blade on the anvil, sending sparks flying with each strike.

This particular blade had been giving Thorne a bit of trouble, as if it had a mind of its own. He could feel the resistance in the metal as he hammered, a stubbornness that threatened to undermine his careful craftsmanship. It was like trying to train a stubborn dog into obedience.

Clenching his jaw, Thorne leaned in closer, focusing all his attention on the rebellious steel. "Come on, now," he muttered under his breath, "don't be difficult." He infused his words with a sense of camaraderie, as if speaking to an old friend rather than an inanimate object.

The flames of the forge roared in response, the fire's heat caressing the metal and urging it to comply with Thorne's skilled hands. Sweat trickled down his forehead as he continued to work, the stubborn blade slowly bending to his will.

“You’re a willful one, aren’t you?” he said.

The hot metal winked red, as if in answer. Thorne sensed the weapon's spirit, a fiery determination that mirrored his own, and he couldn't help but admire it. It was this very spirit that would make the weapon truly exceptional, capable of withstanding the harshest of battles and the mightiest of foes.

Thorne won just as he always did, and as the sun climbed higher, he made his final adjustments to the blade. His face flushed with exertion and pride. The struggle had been worth it; the weapon before him was a testament to his skill and perseverance.

He plunged the now-compliant blade into the quenching barrel, steam hissing and rising from the water's surface as the weapon's fiery spirit was tempered and bound.

Thorne allowed himself a small smile as he held up the finished sword, admiring the result of his hard-fought battle with the steel. The blade shimmered in the sunlight, a physical manifestation of his dedication and unwavering resolve.

And then, with that brief moment enjoyed, his mind turned to the next order. Such as the life of a blacksmith. A battle was won, a weapon was forged, and then it was onto the next axe, the next longsword.

A clattering sound caught his attention. Thorne called out to his young apprentice, Percy, who was organizing a shipment of recently delivered iron ingots.

"Percy, make sure those ingots are stacked properly, and don't forget to sort them by quality. The last thing we need is an unstable pile causing an accident in the forge. Safety first when making weapons."

"Yes, Master Ironhart," Percy replied, his green eyes wide with determination, a smudge of soot on his cheek.

Thorne paused for a moment, looking over at Percy with a softer expression. The boy had been humming a tune from the village market earlier, and Thorne found the melody oddly comforting.

"And remember, Percy, always 'strike' while the iron is hot. You've got to seize the opportunity to learn and improve. Literally and figuratively." He chuckled at his own pun, the tension in the workshop momentarily lifted.

Percy rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he shook his head at the pun. "Oh, Master Ironhart, your jokes always 'forge' ahead, don't they?"

Thorne appreciated a good pun almost as much as he appreciated the crafting of a fine weapon, and he was pleased to see that his apprentice was learning from him. Satisfied that Percy was on the right track, he turned back to his work, knowing that Percy's enthusiasm for blacksmithing would serve him well in the years to come.

Thorne's workshop was always a hub of activity, with apprentices and journeymen working alongside him to create some of the finest weapons in the kingdom. The scent of burning coal and molten metal hung in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of leather and wood used for weapon handles and armor. The sound of hammers striking anvils created a constant, rhythmic backdrop, accompanied by the occasional hiss of quenched steel and the metallic ring of finished blades being tested.

Despite the intensity of the work, Thorne's workshop was also a place where camaraderie and shared passion for the craft thrived. Thorne's likable personality and love for blacksmithing puns often lightened the mood, even when he was pushing his apprentices to their limits. It was this balance of stern discipline and genuine care for his students that made Thorne Ironhart one of the most respected blacksmiths in the village, and a master that many aspired to learn from.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

One day, as Thorne was carefully polishing a newly forged sword, a haughty hero strode into his workshop. This man stood tall and imposing, with broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw that seemed to accentuate his air of superiority. His armor gleamed in the dim light, each plate expertly crafted and adorned with intricate designs that told of great battles and victories. A long, flowing cape billowed behind him as he moved, and his golden hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, emphasizing the steely blue eyes that seemed to scrutinize everything they fell upon.

"This is it?" the hero sneered, picking up a beautifully crafted longsword and inspecting it with a dismissive expression. "This is the work of the great Thorne? I've seen better craftsmanship from the village tinkerer."

Thorne clenched his jaw but maintained his composure. He approached the hero, his eyes locked on the sword in the man's hand. "That weapon you're holding, sir, has been crafted with the finest steel and utmost precision. It will not fail you in battle."

The hero laughed mockingly, clearly unimpressed. "If you say so." He tossed the sword carelessly onto the counter, narrowly missing a delicate set of daggers Thorne had finished earlier that morning. "But I'll need something better than this if I'm to survive the wildlands with my arse intact.”

Thorne's eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin. He decided to teach the arrogant hero a lesson. "Very well, then. Observe."

He grabbed the sword from the counter and led the hero outside to a nearby tree stump that had been felled two weeks earlier. Without any hesitation, Thorne swung the sword with incredible force, cleanly slicing through the thick trunk. His visitor stared in disbelief.

Thorne handed the sword back to the hero, its blade still gleaming and perfectly intact. "As I said, this weapon will not fail you. It is my honor to craft such tools for those who protect our kingdom, but it is up to you to wield them with respect."

The hero was left speechless, his previous arrogance replaced with newfound respect for Thorne's craftsmanship. He nodded at the blacksmith, mumbling his thanks, before leaving the workshop with the sword in hand.

After the hero left the workshop, Thorne turned to Percy, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes. The boy looked up at his master, waiting for his reaction to the hero's rude behavior.

Thorne put a reassuring hand on Percy's shoulder, his expression serious but kind. "You see, lad, there will always be people who do not appreciate our work or understand the value of our craftsmanship. It is our responsibility to remain dedicated to our craft and to stand up for ourselves when necessary."

Percy nodded, absorbing his master's words. "But, Master Ironhart, you told him how good the sword was. Why would he still doubt your skill?"

Thorne let out a deep sigh. "Some people are just too caught up in their own importance, Percy. They forget that everyone has a role to play, and even the strongest hero is only as good as the weapon they wield."

Percy thought for a moment before speaking up. "So, we must keep doing our best, even if others don't always appreciate it?"

Thorne smiled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Exactly, Percy. And always remember, no matter how heated things get in the forge or with difficult customers, we must 'steel' ourselves and stay 'tempered'." He winked at the boy, unable to resist making another blacksmith pun.

Percy couldn't help but laugh, his spirits lifted by his master's humor. "I'll remember that, Master Ironhart. Thank you."

As Thorne worked into the late afternoon, the door to his workshop creaked open, allowing the scent of freshly baked bread and the sounds of the lively village market to drift inside. A tall, burly man clad in shining armor stepped in, his eyes scanning the workshop before settling on Thorne.

"Thorne Ironhart, I presume?" the man barked, his voice carrying an air of arrogance that seemed to fill the small workshop. His armor was adorned with intricate engravings, and the crest of the Royal Guard was emblazoned upon his chest.

Thorne set his hammer down and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "That's me," he replied, attempting to suppress the annoyance that bubbled up inside him. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"I've heard you're the best blacksmith in the village," the armored man said, his eyes roaming over Thorne's display of weapons, taking in the exceptional craftsmanship of each piece. "I need a sword. Something that'll cleave through the hide of a dragon."

Thorne couldn't help but grin at the opportunity to craft such a weapon, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "A dragon-slaying blade? Now that's a challenge I can sink my teeth into."

"Can you do it or not?" the man snapped, his impatience clear.

Thorne's grin faded, replaced by a steely determination. "I can, and I will," he replied, his voice firm. "I'll forge you a sword worthy of a true hero."

The armored man grunted in approval, his rough hand extending a hefty pouch of gold coins as payment. "I expect nothing less, blacksmith. Have it ready in a week."

Thorne nodded, accepting the pouch and mentally calculating the materials and time he would need. As the man turned to leave, Thorne called out, "Sir, may I have your name? I'd like to engrave it onto the sword as a finishing touch."

The man paused, his gaze lingering on Thorne for a moment before he replied, "Sir Marley. And make sure the engraving is as flawless as the blade itself."

As Thorne set to work on Sir Marley’s request, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change.

Unbeknownst to him, a mysterious sorcerer, clad in dark robes and hidden from view, had been watching the exchange from the shadows. The sorcerer's eyes glinted with malice as he whispered an incantation under his breath, weaving a dark curse that would alter the course of Thorne's life forever and set him on a path he never could have imagined.