By the time the sun called it quits and tucked itself behind the sturdy outline of Ironreach, nightfall had already swaddled the village in a thick, inky cloak. Ironreach was never going to win 'most bustling city of the year,' but there was a certain kind of life to it when the evening bell sounded. Thorne's workshop, in particular, was all hustle and clatter with the rhythmic beat of hammers and the comforting snap-crackle-pop of the forge's fire.

That night, his job was to craft a sword for Sir Marley, a blade meant to bring down dragons. The sword wasn't exactly playing nice, though. Sir Marley had requested some serious power—dragon-slaying sort of stuff, but the new weapon was acting stubborn and difficult.

“You’re a little like your future owner, in that regard,” Thorne told it.

The metal was refusing to cooperate, bucking against his hammer like a wild stallion. It was enough to make him consider calling it quits. It had been a long day, and his aching back was in sore need of a soak in a tub.

Nope, he told himself. Never leave work undone.

Thorne hadn’t earned the reputation as the best blacksmith in Ironreach for nothing. He stoked the forge, letting it burn hot enough to make even the bravest of men nervous. With a couple of well-placed whacks and the assistance of his trusty tongs, he coaxed the unruly metal into submission.

Soon enough, the blade was taking shape, looking more like a dragon slayer than a heap of stubborn iron.

It was then Thorne noticed that though the other apprentices had gone home, Percy was still there too, eyes as wide as the moon overhead as he watched Thorne work. Thorne allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Almost every other crafter in Ironreach had rejected Percy for an apprenticeship on account of his family history, but Thorne had seen something in him, and that something was begging to spread its roots. That said, the lad was a decent apprentice, but still green as spring grass. He would get there eventually.

***

Beneath the velvet mantle of night, a figure stirred in the cozy alleyway shadows of Ironreach. Oblivious to this, Thorne and Percy were in the workshop, the hammer's rhythm and the forge's fire their only company. The figure was a sorcerer, his heart as black as the coal that fueled his malice, lurking patiently in the shadows.

In the gloom, the sorcerer began chanting an incantation, the words seeping into the night air like a thick fog.

"Prancaris of lorenta... dolna on nirota," he whispered.

But before he could finish the spell, a rustling sound echoed from the rafters, distracting him.

There, in the moonlight, was the notorious squirrel of Ironreach, wrestling with an acorn that it just couldn't seem to get a grip on. With a swift chitter and flick of its tail, the acorn plummeted directly onto the sorcerer's head, interrupting his incantation.

"Damn it, you little bastard," he muttered, his concentration broken like an egg stepped on by an elephant.

Regaining his composure, the sorcerer once again started his spell, only to be interrupted again by the same pesky squirrel. This time it was gnawing on a nut directly above him, showering him with tiny fragments.

“Why do you always do this?” asked the sorcerer.

The squirrel made no reply except to shower him with yet more nut shavings.

In a fit of annoyance, he launched a minor hex at the creature, but with an acrobatic leap and chitter of defiance, it easily dodged the spell.

Sighing heavily, the sorcerer rummaged through his cloak and pulled out a squashed sandwich. With a resigned look, he tossed it a few feet away. The squirrel immediately abandoned its acorn assault and scampered after the unexpected feast.

“I hope you get so fat you fall off a branch,” he said.

Free from the squirrel's disruptions at last, he his incantation. His voice, low and resonant, echoed through the alleyway as he completed his spell, the magic sinking into the earth as his words trailed off.

"He won't know what hit him," the sorcerer murmured with a wicked grin, picturing Thorne, the blacksmith of Ironreach, unwittingly submitting to his magical fate.

The interruptions, albeit humorous, were now over, and the plan was back on track.

***

Back in the workshop, Thorne felt a sudden, searing pain in his chest, as if his heart was being ripped from his body. He gasped, dropping his hammer and clutching at his chest, his eyes wide with shock and fear.

“Master!” cried Percy. “Are you having a heart attack?”

Thorne couldn’t answer, couldn’t even think.

“I’ll get the healer.”

He could only watch as Percy sprinted toward the workshop door, only to collide with some kind of unseen barrier. He felt back onto his arse, before getting up and trying again, only for the same result.

A split second of lucid thought returned to Thorne, just enough for him to think, is the lad right? Is this a heart attack?

Thorne's logical mind abandoned him as a pain unlike anything he had ever experienced seized his body. The hammer slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the cold stone floor of the workshop. This agony was so intense it felt as though his very soul was on fire. And in the midst of it all, a dread-filled realization crashed upon him; his body was changing.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

The flesh that had served him so well throughout his life was altering, dissolving into something... inhuman. His arms that had lifted countless hammers and tongs, that had forged iron and steel into masterpieces, started to shimmer.

“What in all hells?”

“Master…your arms!” said Percy.

Before his very eyes, they transformed into a pulsating, crystalline substance. His once sturdy, dependable hands, the hands of a blacksmith, of a craftsman, were now shards of gleaming crystal, catching the light of the forge's dying embers.

Horror clawed at the edges of his mind. He was a man of iron and fire, not crystal and light. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat in the silence of his workshop.

He reached out with his new form, fingers that were no longer fingers scraping against the handle of his hammer.

But it was no use. He couldn't grip it. Couldn't forge.

His life's purpose seemed suddenly out of reach.

Desperation crashed over him, a roaring wave that threatened to drag him under. His breath hitched, turning into uneven gasps as he tried to stem the tide of panic. His chest constricted, the crystals creeping over his skin catching the moonlight and casting spectral shadows around the room.

A silent scream formed on his crystalline lips. He was being robbed of his identity, forced to watch as everything he was slipped away. There was a peculiar kind of terror in seeing oneself, yet not recognizing the reflection.

So many questions swam in the lakes of his mind, but only one was strong enough to surface.

“Why?” he asked the gods. “Why did you do this, you arseholes?”

Yet in the midst of the fear and the confusion, a spark of defiance ignited within him. This was not his end, he resolved. He was Thorne, the master blacksmith of Ironreach. And he would find a way to hammer himself back, piece by piece, no matter what it took.

Percy's eyes widened as he witnessed the transformation of his master. He was just a lad, not yet a man, but even if he’d possessed the life experience of the oldest man in Ironreach, it wouldn’t have prepared him for this. His usually boisterous demeanor drained away, replaced by a tangible fear.

"By the gods... Master Thorne!"

He stood frozen, his gaze fixed on Thorne's crystalline arms. But then, amidst the shock and horror, Percy seemed to his resolve. He had always admired Thorne for his strength and grit, and now, it seemed, it was his turn to be strong.

Stepping closer, he forced a wobbly smile onto his face, "Master Thorne, this... this isn't so bad," he stammered. "I mean, it’s not every day you get to sparkle like a lady's fancy necklace."

Thorne almost found himself laughing. Not quite, but almost.

Percy pressed on. "This... this sort of thing happens all the time. You remember my uncle Cedric, right? The one with the funny hat and the squinty eye?"

Thorne laughed at the memory of Cedric. It was a hollow sound that echoed off the workshop walls, nothing like his normal, booming laugh. The change stoked new depression in him.

Noticing this, Percy carried on, "One day Uncle Cedric woke up and his nose had turned into a carrot! A carrot, of all things! The whole village had a good laugh, but do you know what? It was reversible. Next week he was right as rain. His nose was back to normal, and he even got to enjoy a hearty carrot stew."

Thorne didn’t remember any such incident, though it was said that there were sorcerers out there with such abilities. Was that what had happened to him? Had he spurned some rogue mage in the past? Or was this the work of the gods?

Oh, what did it matter why it had happened? He had never wondered why iron was strong; he just accepted that it was. In the same way, he had to accept this situation. He might be made out of crystal, but he was still Thorne, and he needed to be strong, if only for his apprentice.

"It will be alright, Master Thorne," Percy whispered, his voice barely audible over the forge's dying fire. "We will figure this out, I promise." He looked up at Thorne, his eyes glinting with a fierce determination that belied his tender age.

Thorne looked at Percy, his heart warmed by the boy's unwavering loyalty and bravery. He knew the tale about Uncle Cedric was likely a bunch of crap, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

“Thank you, Percy. Now, let’s think practically, shall we?”

A delighted smile crossed Percy’s face, recognizing that he had his master back. “Certainly!”

“Alright. So, where are we?”

He took a moment now to really study his changed surroundings. His beloved workshop, the beating heart of Ironreach, was gone and in its place was a dark tapestry woven with threads of the unknown.

Gone were the comforting smells of hot iron and burning wood; replaced by an unfamiliar dampness, the kind of scent you'd associate with places untouched by sunlight. The air was heavy, a tang of mildew tugging at the edges of his senses, while the earthy aroma of ancient stone filled the space.

The rhythmic hammering, the hissing of cooling steel, and the crackling of the forge's flames that he loved so much had been swallowed by an oppressive silence, punctuated only by their echoes bouncing off cold, hard walls. The haunting whisper of the wind through unseen corridors replaced the familiar melody of the bustling workshop.

Instead of the comforting warmth of the forge, a chill hung in the air. It seeped through the cracks in the stones beneath his feet, seeping into the core of his new form. It was an all-encompassing cold, the sort that nestled in your bones and refused to let go.

"Master Thorne," Percy's voice sliced through the chilling silence, as his eyes took in the otherworldly surroundings. "We're...we're not in the workshop anymore."

"No, Percy," Thorne replied, his voice echoing in the vast space. His words sounded alien, a crystalline timbre to them that sent shivers down Percy's spine. "It appears we have other matters to attend to." M

Shadows danced upon the cold stone walls, playing tricks on their eyes. The air seemed to shimmer, as if alive with unseen energy.

"Corridors and hidden chambers," Thorne mused, his crystalline gaze fixed on the ominous passage before them. His eyes reflected the eerie luminescence that seemed to be the only source of light in this new world.

Percy swallowed hard, standing beside Thorne, peering into the darkness with a mixture of fear and curiosity. "What do we do now, Master Thorne?" He asked, his voice a mere whisper.

Before Thorne could answer, a figure emerged from the shrouding darkness, stepping into the flickering luminescence of the labyrinth. This wasn't any ordinary man. His presence seemed to command the shadows around him, bending them to his whim. The specter of a grin sliced through the gloom on his face, revealing a cruel amusement at the blacksmith's plight.

Accompanying him was a companion as uncanny as himself. A squirrel, its fur a shocking white against the sorcerer's dark attire, perched upon his shoulder. Its small, beady eyes studied the room, darting between Thorne and Percy. Every now and then, it would chitter softly, breaking the heavy silence that enveloped the labyrinth.

"Your master has been cursed, boy," the man said, his voice dripping with contempt. "He has been transformed into a dungeon core, a being whose very existence is now tied to the creation and protection of this dungeon."

Percy's eyes filled with tears as he stared at the crystal core that was once his beloved master. "But... why?" he choked out, unable to understand the reason behind such a terrible curse.

The sorcerer scoffed, his gaze locked on Thorne's new form. "Would it help you to know the reasons, lad? Would that solve your plight?”

“No, but…”

The man addressed Thorne now. “Are you ready now, blacksmith? Do you think you can face up to your fate?”

“I don’t discuss such matters as my fate with strangers who don’t give their names.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. How rude of me. I am Platlock.”

With this he bowed, though not in a sarcastic way. He seemed completely sincere and perhaps even appalled at his own lack of manners.

“Well, Platlock,” said Thorne, “I’ve never been a man to think too much beyond my next sword, my next piece of armor. But I’ll make an exception for you. You ask me if I’m ready to face up to my fate? Well, my friend, I’ve already decided on it.”

“Excellent.”

“Yes, I’m glad you like it, because here it is: I vow to you now, Platlock, that whether I can change myself back or not, even if I have to do it in my new form, I’ll cleave your stupid head from your stupid shoulders.”