In the ancient and storied land of Tuzmad, where legends were as plentiful as the stars in the night sky, stood the Giant Mountains, formidable and majestic. These were the largest mountains in all the realm, stretching towards the heavens as if they were the earth's attempt to touch the sky. Their snow-capped peaks glistened under the sun, resembling the crowns of ancient kings, wise and unyielding. Indeed, the Giant Mountains were not just natural wonders but were also symbols of strength and endurance, reflecting the character of the land they overshadowed.

Beneath these towering sentinels of stone and ice, lay a vast plain, a stark contrast to the rugged grandeur above. This plain was a marvel in its own right, with fields that stretched as far as the eye could see, adorned with a myriad of flowers. It was a tapestry of colors, woven by nature's own hand - purples, yellows, and reds swayed gently in the breeze, blending with the vibrant greens of the dense grass. Here, time seemed to pause, allowing one to savor the beauty and tranquility that was as refreshing to the spirit as a cool drink is to a parched throat.

And ruling over this land was a king, as mighty and just as the mountains were tall and steadfast. He was a ruler worthy of his crown, his lineage as old as the mountains themselves. His rule was one of wisdom and fairness, his voice carrying the weight of the mountains and the gentleness of the plains. In his reign, the people of Tuzmad knew peace and prosperity, their hearts filled with the same love for their land as their king bore in his noble heart.

The Giant Mountains, thus, were more than just a range of peaks; they were the guardians of a legacy, watching over a land where nature and humanity lived in a harmonious balance, their fates intertwined like the roots of the ancient trees that dotted the landscape. In the shadow of these mountains, stories and songs were born, echoing through the valleys and over the plains, carried on the wind as a testament to the enduring spirit of Tuzmad.

At the base of the Giant Mountains, there was also a small house where a 54-year-old blacksmith lived with his 14-year-old nephew. The blacksmith's name was Falo Ortogon, and his nephew was Edgar Argyle, the only help Falo had, who was very skilled in his craft. The boy's parents had passed away about thirteen years ago. He was saved by a stranger and brought to his uncle, who had taken care of the young boy ever since.

Edgar was a boy with black hair, big blue eyes, and of medium stature. His uncle, the blacksmith Falo, had short chestnut hair, was tall and thin, with eyes as black as the darkest night, and when you met his gaze, it sent shivers down your spine. Despite his appearance, Falo was not as he seemed, as his kind soul made him a truly wonderful person.

Many said that the village where the boy and his family lived had been attacked by thieves, others that they were attacked by barbarians, and still others believed they were attacked by demons. Of course, those who believed the latter were either crazy or considered the barbarians to be as merciless as demons.

The blacksmith Falo had built that wooden house with a roof made of hay and planks. He retreated here because he wanted his nephew to feel safe. Falo taught him how to forge swords, telling him that iron, if used correctly, could be the most precious metal. The swords they crafted were sent to King Ludrol, for the supply of his army.

Under the watchful eye of the world's turning sun, young Edgar, found himself an apprentice to the ancient and noble art of the sword. His uncle, Falo, a hunter of renown in the twilight of his youth, held the belief that the craft of forging a blade was but half the mastery. "For what worth is a sword," he would often say, "if one knows not the dance of its steel?"

Thus, under the broad canopy of the sky, amidst the whispers of the wind and the age-old trees, Edgar learned to wield the sword. His lessons were not merely in the art of striking and parrying, but in understanding the blade as an extension of his very soul. Falo, with a wisdom born of many years and many battles, imparted his knowledge unto his nephew. He taught Edgar the language of steel, the rhythm of combat, and the honor of the warrior.

As the sun would climb its daily arc, casting its golden light upon the land, the two figures could often be seen in a clearing, the ring of steel upon steel echoing through the air. Edgar, with each passing day, grew more adept, his movements becoming fluid as a mountain stream, his strikes as swift as the falcon's descent.

On the morning in question, the sun had already begun its journey across the dome of the sky, painting the world in hues of amber and gold. Yet within their humble abode, time seemed to stand still, the usual bustle of the day not yet begun. It was only when an hour and a half had passed that Edgar, as if roused by some unseen force, sprang from his bed. The abruptness of his awakening was as if he had been touched by the flame of an unseen fire. His eyes, alight with the vigor of youth, looked upon the new day with a readiness born of his training and the wisdom imparted by his uncle, Falo. For in Edgar, the spirit of the hunter and the heart of the warrior had found a harmonious union, ready to face whatever trials lay ahead.

In the realm of the world, where time flows like a meandering river and stories unfold like the petals of an ancient bloom, there lay a day of great significance in the life of young Edgar. This day, marked by the changing of the sun from one horizon to the other, was the day he was destined to leave his solitary abode and journey to a new home. His destination was the village of Dornaran, a place of communal harmony, where houses clustered together like a flock of birds and the streets buzzed with the lively hum of its many inhabitants.

For thirteen long years, Edgar had dwelt in a solitary house, nestled in the embrace of the wilderness. It was a place both comforting and isolating, a sanctuary from the world, yet a barrier to its wonders. His parents, whom he scarcely remembered, had departed from the mortal coil when he was but a babe, leaving him in the care of his uncle, a man of wisdom and fortitude. It was in this secluded haven that Edgar grew from a child into a youth, his company being the rustling leaves and the whispering winds.

His uncle, a man as enigmatic as the forests that surrounded them, had been Edgar's mentor and guide. Under his tutelage, Edgar had mastered the art of letters, his fingers dancing over parchments as his mind wove tales and chronicled the lore of old. With a sword, he had become as adept as any knight of legend, his blade singing through the air in a dance of steel. And in the forge, amidst the roar of fire and the clang of hammer on anvil, he had learned the alchemy of iron, shaping it as one would shape clay.

These years in isolation had been a time of learning and introspection for Edgar. The wilderness had been both his cradle and his crucible, shaping his character as the rivers shape the stones. In the solitude of the wild, he had found a strength and resilience that few possessed. He had grown up with the tales of the world beyond, tales of bustling markets, grand castles, and distant lands filled with wonders and perils. And now, as he stood on the threshold of a new chapter in his life, his heart fluttered with anticipation and yearning.

Yet, within him, there was no regret for the years spent in the embrace of nature. The skills and knowledge imparted by his uncle were treasures more valuable than gold, shaping Edgar into a person ready to face the world. As he prepared to leave his childhood home, he felt a pang of nostalgia, a tender farewell to the memories etched into every tree and stone.

Today, Edgar was to step into a world vastly different from his secluded home. Dornaran awaited him, with its myriad of faces and stories. It was a place where new friendships would be forged and new adventures would begin. With a heart full of hope and a spirit tempered by the wilderness, Edgar stepped forth, ready to embrace his destiny. The world beyond his forest home was vast, and Edgar, with the wisdom of the wild in his soul, was ready to meet it head-on.

Now, however, Edgar was eager to meet other people, perhaps to make friends. He knew from his uncle that friends are those people you can trust and whose presence makes you feel good.

He had barely woken up when Edgar started shouting at his uncle, waking him from his well-deserved sleep.

"Wake up, uncle! Don't you know that sleep is for the lazy?" asked Edgar, who had run out of patience.

"What's the hurry, boy? The sun has just risen, we have all the time in the world to get to Dornaran."

Because Edgar was very impatient, Uncle Falo couldn't come to an understanding with him. They prepared some food, then proceeded to load their belongings into the cart and set off.

Soon, all their things were packed and loaded, and Edgar and Uncle Falo left, leaving their old house behind. They were moving to the house where Edgar's parents had lived thirteen years ago, before they were attacked.

As the journey to Dornaran stretched before him like a path through time uncharted, young Edgar, turned to the solace of ancient lore. Within his hands, he cradled a tome of old, its pages worn by the touch of time, bearing the title "True Legends and Myths." It was a book that spoke of ages past, of heroes and deeds woven into the very fabric of the world.

As their path wound through the realms of nature, they came upon a place dear to Edgar's heart, a glade where the earth itself seemed to rejoice. Here, amidst a riot of flowers, each petal a different hue, the air was thick with fragrance, as if the very essence of the flowers sought to weave itself into his soul. It was here, in this haven of nature's beauty, that Edgar would often come to practice the art of the sword, each stroke and parry an ode to the tales of old.

In these moments of solitude amidst the flowers, Edgar's heart was filled with dreams grand and bold. He aspired to the mantle of knighthood, to become a knight surpassing all others in valor and honor. Yet the path to such a destiny was narrow and steep, reserved for those of noble blood or for souls whose deeds resounded through the kingdoms like the peals of a great bell. In his heart, Edgar knew the challenge that lay before him, yet he also knew the strength of his resolve, forged in the fires of his uncle's teachings and honed in the quiet of the glade. With each day, his dream burned brighter, a beacon guiding him on the long road to Dornaran and beyond.

They had been on the road for several hours, and the sun had fully risen in the sky, becoming increasingly scorching. Young Edgar, the apprentice of the blacksmith Falo, was eager to meet other people, especially other youths his age.

Eventually, they reached their destination. This house was much more beautiful than the one they were used to. Built entirely of brick, with a roof of planks and tiles, it offered the young Edgar more security. Admittedly, the house looked very neglected, but considering that it had been uninhabited for thirteen years, it was understandable. Shortly after unloading their luggage, the two began to work, slowly restoring the house to its former glory.

The new house looked better with each passing day. Uncle Falo hammered a nail or replaced a plank where needed. This house had four rooms, much more spacious than the old cottage where they had lived, which had only two.

At his request, Edgar received his parents' room, believing that this way, they would be closer to his thoughts. The kitchen was quickly renovated, Uncle Falo's room rearranged, and another room converted into the blacksmith's workshop.

One morning, Edgar took courage and set out to explore the village he had just settled in. Dornaran seemed like a quiet village, with hardworking and honest people, but it wasn't as big as it had seemed to the boy at first glance. All the houses were large, like his, and the people were good farmers, raising animals and working the land with pleasure.

Edgar spotted some youths his age in the distance, so he headed towards them to introduce himself. As he got closer, he noticed that they were arguing and it wasn't long until it would escalate into a fight.

There were five against two youths. The two were brothers and seemed to have upset someone they shouldn't have. Edgar approached them, hoping to stop the conflict.

"Listen, cheaters! If you don't give me the money you took from me, you'll get a beating that you'll remember for the rest of your life."

"Damn it, Dalyl! You know very well that I didn't cheat, I won this money fair and square."

The five had swords with them, while the two brothers, Turalon and Tenzim, didn't even have a stick to defend themselves. Extremely angry, the leader of the five, Dalyl, drew his sword and pointed it at Turalon, the elder of the two brothers accused of cheating in a card game.

"Come on, coward, fight me!" Dalyl taunted Turalon mockingly.

Having reached them, Edgar stepped in front of Dalyl's sword. He showed great courage by doing this, or perhaps just foolishness, but it didn't matter much anymore, given the situation he had entered.

"As I see it, you are the coward," Edgar said, smiling indifferently at the consequences of his statement. "You must feel very strong, especially when threatening someone who is unarmed."

"Who are you, you arrogant fool?" Dalyl asked. "Do you know these wretches you're intervening for, or do you just want to get beaten up and don't know how?"

"Give me a sword, then we'll see who beats whom," Edgar said with the same smile.

The five began to laugh heartily at Edgar's foolishness. A child challenging the best sword fighter in the village? No one had the courage to fight him. Dalyl, at eighteen, was the best when it came to a fight.

No one had challenged Dalyl for some time, as no one wanted to be humiliated again. Edgar's courage seemed like sheer foolishness in front of the five.

"Give the fool a sword!" Dalyl said, smiling at the thought of humiliating someone.

Around this scene, a few people had already gathered, as they were about to see Dalyl fight. They enjoyed watching the young man's talent. Uncle Falo also appeared, wanting to see how his nephew managed to make new friends. Of course, he had no intention of intervening.

"If I win, you and your friends will leave us alone!"

"If you win..." Dalyl laughed maliciously.

Edgar received his sword, and the fight began in an instant. The sound of the swords could be heard throughout Dornaran. The air was split asunder by the song of their swords, a melody of steel that echoed through the streets and alleys of Dornaran. Dalyl, a warrior of repute and skill, found himself matched against a force untamed. Young Edgar, with the swiftness of a striking falcon, assailed his opponent with a relentless barrage. His sword danced like silver lightning, each strike a thunderous ode to his burgeoning mastery.

Driven by a force unseen, Edgar pressed his advantage, each thrust and parry a testament to his growing might. It was true that Dalyl was a good fighter, but young Edgar was dominating him. He attacked relentlessly, pressuring Dalyl with his attacks, forcing him to retreat little by little.

In the climax of their duel, with a stroke mighty as the breaking of waves upon the shore, Edgar shattered Dalyl's guard. The latter's sword clattered to the ground, a vanquished serpent. With his blade at Dalyl's throat, Edgar stood triumphant, the victor unforeseen. No one expected the newcomer to defeat the best fighter in the village of Dornaran so easily.

Falo watched the fight from the crowd, knowing his nephew would win, as he had trained him since he was eight years old. Edgar trained for about three hours a day, and when he was taught to forge a sword with his own hands, his training time increased by another two hours.

As he forged a new sword, Edgar practiced up to six hours a day. His dream was to become the best swordsman in these lands, and Dalyl was not a worthy opponent for him. The fight with Dalyl was just another routine training session for young Edgar.

He dropped his sword to the ground, then headed home with his uncle. They had a lot of work to do, as the King of Tuzmad required at least thirty swords per week, so they couldn't afford to waste time. Following Edgar were the two brothers, wanting to thank him for his help.

"Thank you! I am Turalon, and this is my younger brother, Tenzim."

Turalon was a sixteen-year-old boy with brunette hair and green eyes, slightly taller than Edgar. He was a slim boy and a good swordsman, but not too keen on fighting.

His brother, Tenzim, was the same age as Edgar. Like his brother, he had short brunette hair, and his large brown eyes sized up Edgar from head to toe. His personality was completely different from his brother's, being more talkative, loving trouble, but not keen on fighting against five people.

"You fought amazingly, I think you're as good as my brother," Tenzim said. "Despite what's rumored, Turalon is the best swordsman around here, not that fool Dalyl. Although my brother is a goofball, he's still the best, even if he doesn't like to fight."

"My brother always exaggerates. Congratulations! Now you're the best fighter around here."

"I was just lucky. By the way, I'm Edgar, nice to meet you, Turalon and Tenzim."

"We're also glad to meet you," said Tenzim. "By the way, there's a party tonight at the Ogre's Inn, would you like to come, please?"

"I'd be happy to," Edgar responded.

He said goodbye to his new friends, then went with his uncle to the forge to finish making the thirty swords for the King of Tuzmad.

Edgar was eagerly awaiting the evening to meet his new friends, but the hours passed very slowly, and he had a lot of work to do. Forging a sword was not an easy task.

The forging of the sword was a task of patience and precision, a labor that Edgar undertook under the watchful guidance of his Uncle Falo. The iron, molten and fiery, was to be transmuted into steel of great resilience, a process demanding both time and unwavering attention.

Once the steel, glowing like the heart of a star, was poured into its mold, it took shape, cooling from its celestial heat into a form both raw and promising. Then came the hammering, rhythmic and unyielding, each strike a step closer to perfection, straightening and strengthening the nascent blade.

But the art of the forge was fickle; a misjudgment in the heating could render the blade brittle, a mere shadow of its intended glory. The blade, thus shaped and formed, was to be quenched in water or oil, tempering its spirit and honing its edge.

The sharpening was a meticulous affair, each side of the blade crafted with a keenness that could slice the very air it cleaved. And at last, the hilt was wrought and affixed, completing the sword in both form and function.

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Edgar, taught by Falo's seasoned wisdom, knew well the final test of the sword's making lay in its use. Only through wielding it in the dance of battle could he discern its true quality and mettle, and if need be, return it to the forge's embrace for further refinement

While Edgar worked on a single sword, his uncle worked on three at the same time, and after finishing them, he handed them to Edgar to try them out and give his opinion on them.

Finally, evening arrived, and the boy headed to the Ogre's Inn, a tavern located in the middle of the village, where all the drunkards hung out, as well as the two brothers, who considered this inn a real gold mine. The two brothers stole money from those who were dead drunk, deceived them, or cheated at cards.

The inn, a sprawling edifice of aged wood and creaking timbers, stood as a testament to countless tales and weary travelers. The entrance, marked by a door hanging precariously on its hinges, spared Edgar any effort of announcing his arrival. As he stepped inside, the interior unfurled before him like a scene from an ancient tale.

Veiled in the thick, heady smoke that curled lazily from the patrons' pipes, the inn's atmosphere was one of obscured visibility and mysterious allure. The air was thick with the scent of burning tobacco, mingling with the lingering aroma of ale and roasted meat. The smoke hung so densely in the air that one could easily be led to believe that a fire smoldered somewhere unseen.

Dimly lit by flickering candles and the occasional hearth fire, the inn's interior was a labyrinth of shadowy corners and wooden beams. Raucous laughter and boisterous conversation echoed off the walls, adding to the inn's lively, albeit murky ambiance. Here, travelers from distant lands and local regulars alike gathered, their stories and songs weaving together in the smoky air, creating an atmosphere of camaraderie and timeless adventure. For Edgar, stepping into the inn was like entering a different realm, one where the outside world's troubles melted away in the warmth of shared tales and hearty drinks.

Eventually, the boy spotted the two brothers. They were playing cards with the individuals who almost killed them today, Dalyl and his friends. Edgar couldn't believe how brazen the two brothers were.

When Dalyl noticed Edgar, he slammed his fist on the table as hard as he could. He couldn't believe Edgar had the courage to show his face after what he had done.

"Take a seat, Edgar," Tenzim invited. "Do you want to play too?"

"Sorry, but I don't know how to play. Besides, I don't have any money with me."

"What happened? Didn't you earn enough money shoeing horses, blacksmith?" Dalyl asked mockingly.

"That's right. That's why I was thinking of opening a school, to offer sword-handling lessons to people like you," Edgar replied in the same tone.

Edgar managed to terribly annoy Dalyl. Until this insolent newcomer appeared, no one had ever insulted him in public. Tenzim quickly intervened, not wanting another duel to occur.

They began to explain the rules of the game to Edgar. Each player was dealt six cards, and the one with the highest cards won. If an ace came up, it was an undeniable win, regardless of the other cards. Tenzim told Edgar not to worry about money, as they would play with Turalon's money.

There were four players in the game: Turalon, Tenzim, Dalyl, and the newcomer, Edgar. Each drew six cards after Turalon shuffled the deck. Tenzim was the first to show his cards. He had a five, a ten, a seven, two kings, and a jack. He was very pleased with his cards, as he didn't always have such good ones.

Turalon also showed his cards. He had an eight, two tens, two threes, and an ace, and with this ace, he became the winner of this game, unless any of the remaining players also had an ace.

Dalyl smiled, then laid his cards on the table. He had two kings, three jacks, and an ace. With these cards, he was convinced he was the winner. The last to go, Edgar, began to lay his cards on the table one by one. The first card he threw down was a two, then two fours, a seven, and the penultimate card he threw down was an ace.

Edgar held the last card in his hand. With the cards he had shown so far, he was losing, but he kept everyone in suspense, because if he had another ace, he would be the winner. The boy smiled, then let the card fall to the table. No one saw what card it was, as it fell face down.

Turalon was the one who turned over the card and was also the one nearly shocked, as the last card was indeed an ace. Edgar had the two aces, thus winning all the money on the table.

"I don't want your money," he said, giving the money back to them. "Thank you for teaching me how to play."

"Take the money, Edgar!" Dalyl advised him. "After all, you won it fair and square, unlike others..."

"What makes you think I won it fairly?" Edgar smiled, getting up from the table and leaving the money there.

The boy stepped outside for a bit, as he was almost suffocating from the tobacco smoke. Turalon came out after him, greatly puzzled. How did Edgar get that ace?

Turalon was the one who had dealt the cards, and when the others were not paying attention, he slipped the ace Edgar had into his pocket. He planned to swap it with one of his cards at another moment of inattention from his fellow players.

And that's exactly what he did. He replaced the card with the one from his pocket, but instead of the ace he had slipped in, there was an eight. How did Edgar see it? He was one of the quickest.

"You cheater!" he said to him, smiling. "How did you manage to take my card without me seeing or feeling it?"

"Quite easily! You weren't paying attention at all. You were so focused on hiding the card quickly, then you got distracted by the game."

Edgar spent almost until midnight in the company of the two brothers. Both were amusing and very nice. The only one he didn't find amusing was Dalyl, because every time he looked at him, he gave him a disdainful glance. Edgar was lucky that a mere look couldn't kill, because if it could, he would have been dead by now, or very seriously injured, at best.

Finally, he and the two brothers set off for home. The brothers' house was right next to Edgar's, so there was no need to go in different directions.

During their walk, the boys talked about all sorts of things. They discussed everything happening in the village and its bullies, Dalyl and his friends.

"In two weeks, the tournament of the ten knights will be held," Tenzim remembered. "Will you come too, Edgar?"

"What is the tournament of the ten knights?"

Tenzim began to explain the tournament to him, saying that the best ten knights from these lands would come to Tuzmad Castle, where they would duel until only one winner remained.

"I wonder who will be the knight representing Tuzmad this year," Tenzim pondered.

"I don't know, but rumors say that King Ludrol wants to find a knight who will bring him victory," Turalon said.

"I heard that Prince Lockdar will also compete. I bet he will win, he is the best knight, having won the tournament three years in a row," added Tenzim.

"Who is Prince Lockdar? Is he King Ludrol's son?" Edgar asked.

"What world do you live in? Lockdar is the son of King Menums, the king of the Duraedol lands, ruler over the Kingdom of the Sun, the most beautiful lands on earth."

Finally, the young men arrived at their homes, and the two brothers said goodbye to Edgar. Entering the house, Edgar listened at his uncle's door. He was certainly sleeping, judging by his snoring.

Edgar changed out of his tobacco smoke-smelling clothes, replacing them with thin pajamas, then he turned off the lamp and tried to fall asleep. It had been a very interesting day. He had met new people, moved to a new house, learned to play cards, and even learned how to cheat.

He was overjoyed, having lived for thirteen years in a small house in the midst of the wilderness, where no one ever passed by. He couldn't explain why, but his parents' house gave him a feeling of safety. He wondered what his parents looked like, how they would have treated him, or what kind of people they were.

As the world around him succumbed to the embrace of night, Edgar's consciousness drifted into the realm of dreams. These were not ordinary dreams, for Edgar's nights were often filled with visions both vivid and disturbing. He dreamt of epic battles, of strife and despair, where humanity clashed with foes of unimaginable terror. That night, as he succumbed to slumber, the familiar yet haunting dream unfurled once more.

In his dream, Edgar found himself on an expansive grassy plain, stretched under a brooding sky. Two armies, poised on the brink of conflict, faced each other with grim determination. Edgar stood solitary between them, an unseen specter in the looming chaos. As the battle erupted, he wandered through the melee untouched, unseen, like a ghost adrift amidst the storm of war.

The dream's clarity was unnerving. Edgar could discern each terrifying detail of the demonic adversaries: their grotesque forms, their fierce, malevolent eyes, and their weapons, wreathed in shadow and flame. Everywhere he looked, the ground was littered with the fallen, and the human army was crumbling under the relentless onslaught of the demonic horde.

Amidst this vision of apocalypse, Edgar stood alone, surrounded by the echoes of death and defeat. The weight of such devastation pressed heavily upon his dream-self, filling him with a sense of impending doom. This was no mere battle; it was a pivotal moment in the fate of humanity, a struggle for survival against a darkness overwhelming.

Then, in the midst of the desolation, a figure appeared beside him. An old man, his hair as white as snow and his beard cascading down to his waist, stood solemnly. His eyes, wise and deep, bore into Edgar's soul. In a voice both gentle and commanding, the old man whispered to Edgar, breaking the silence of the dream. "It is time to wake up," he said, his words resonating with a gravity that transcended the boundary of dreams. With those words, the dream world began to dissolve, and Edgar was gently ushered back to the waking world, left to ponder the profound and mysterious message of his nocturnal vision.

He jumped out of bed as if burned. He hated these dreams he had had since childhood, but he didn't take them seriously. Since he learned to read, Edgar had read all sorts of stories about wars fought by people for the expansion of territories. Most likely, his mind invented all these dreams due to the stories he had read over time.

As morning broke, he dressed quickly and went to see what his uncle was doing. Falo had just started forging new swords. Edgar sat down next to him, ready to lend a hand.

"Good morning, uncle! How many swords do we still have to make for King Ludrol?"

"Morning, Edgar! We have twenty more swords to forge by the end of the week. We'll finish them. How did you sleep?"

"Good, really well! I absolutely love our new house. Much bigger."

"Did you have any more nightmares?" the blacksmith asked, knowing about his nephew's nightmares.

"I haven't had a nightmare in a long time," Edgar lied, not wanting to worry his uncle anymore.

The boy began to sharpen a sword that his uncle had just forged. Falo's swords were so well-crafted that one might believe there was no blacksmith as skilled as him. Edgar, to his uncle's surprise, was also making very good swords, light, well-balanced, and easy to maneuver.

Since he was nine, Edgar had learned this craft from his uncle. He first made hunting knives, then, with his uncle's help, began to make his first swords. It was an amazing feeling for the young man to craft something like this with his own hands.

Even though Edgar was a very good sword maker, he still didn't have his own sword. He planned that the first sword he made for himself would also be the last. He hoped to forge a sword so good that it would be unbeatable.

After finishing sharpening the sword, he began to train with it. It was light and easy to maneuver. Soon after he got bored of swinging the sword in the air, he wanted to see how resilient it was. With a large stone nearby, he used it to test the sword's durability. He struck the stone forcefully, which was meant to test the swords' resilience. To his surprise, the sword broke in two. Edgar couldn't believe it. How could this happen? His uncle's swords were the best.

"Incredible!"

"I'm sorry, uncle! I didn't mean to destroy the sword."

"It's nothing. Either my swords are not as good as they used to be, or you are starting to become a real man," Uncle Falo smiled.

The two continued with the swords that were to be sent to King Ludrol. Uncle Falo left for a short time and left the young man alone. Edgar thought that his uncle might be a bit upset with him because of the broken sword.

He was wrong. Falo returned cheerfully, carrying something covered with a blanket. It seemed to be quite heavy. Falo placed it on the table and then removed the blanket.

It appeared to be some kind of metal. It wasn't iron, but it closely resembled it. Edgar approached this unknown metal and touched it. He noticed it was very hard and then wondered what kind of sword could be made from such a metal.

"What is this?"

"Your father, Damyen, had a sword made of this kind of metal. It was a magnificent sword; even King Ludrol himself desired such a sword, but your father kept the last of the material he had hidden."

"The king knew my father?"

"There are some things I haven't told you about your family, Edgar. Your father was King Ludrol's favorite knight. Along with Knight Kondar and Prince Lockdar, they were the best friends, forming an unbeatable team."

"My father was a knight? And he was friends with Prince Lockdar?"

"Yes. Together they found this metal while exploring a cave in the Ice Mountains. He kept it hidden for years until he gave it to me. Now I think it's time for you to have your own sword."

Edgar abandoned all his other tasks and took the material his father had kept hidden for so many years, putting it in the furnace to melt. He planned to make a sword like his father's, and his desire to become a knight was now even stronger.

He couldn't believe that Uncle Falo had kept these things hidden until now. However, he had no time to ask for more details. This metal melted very slowly, requiring up to three times longer than a regular sword.

Uncle Falo returned, bringing something new: a different mold to pour the metal into. This one was not the usual shape they used for making swords.

Under the cloak of night, Edgar toiled tirelessly over the forge. His uncle's words echoed in his mind, imbuing his task with a sense of sacred purpose. "A sword of such caliber," his uncle had said, "must be born from the hands of its destined wielder." With a resolve steeled by these words, Edgar poured the molten metal, its fiery glow lighting up his determined features, into the carefully prepared mold. He watched, with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation, as the liquid metal began to solidify, taking the first shape of his future blade.

As the sword began to cool, Edgar carefully transferred the mold to a basin of water, the steam hissing up like the spirits of ancient blacksmiths approving of his work. Once cooled, he extracted the blade, now in its crude form, and began the meticulous process of hammering it into perfection. Each strike was a testament to his skill and dedication, each echo in the night a step closer to realizing his dream.

The task of sharpening the blade was a formidable one. It required patience, precision, and a keen eye, all of which Edgar possessed in abundance. The hours slipped by unnoticed as he worked, the moon tracing its path across the sky. Gradually, the blade began to take on a keen edge, one worthy of the mightiest of knights.

Finally, Edgar attached a handle to the blade, choosing a long, sleek, black piece that complemented the sword's elegant lethality. It was a handle that whispered of battles yet to be fought, of destinies yet to be fulfilled. The sword was no longer just a piece of metal; it had become an extension of Edgar's will, a physical manifestation of his aspirations and skills.

Holding the completed sword in his hands, Edgar felt a surge of pride and accomplishment. It was light, yet strong, perfectly balanced for his grip, a true masterpiece of craftsmanship. He could hardly believe that he, a young blacksmith, had forged such a magnificent weapon. It was the first sword he had made for himself, a tangible symbol of his journey from a mere apprentice to a master of the forge.

In a moment of reverence and tribute, Edgar closed his eyes and raised the sword. He could feel its power, its potential, coursing through him. With a swift, fluid motion, he struck a stone, the very spot where his uncle's sword had once shattered. The sound of metal meeting stone rang out clear and true, a declaration to the world and to himself: Edgar, the blacksmith, the warrior, had arrived.

A loud noise was heard, and Edgar dared not open his eyes. He feared that his work had been in vain, as he felt something shatter into pieces.

He mustered the courage and opened his eyes. The large stone had shattered into dozens of pieces, while his sword was unscathed. Hearing the noise, Falo came and saw the wonder. His nephew had forged an extraordinary sword.

Uncle Falo also held the sword in his hand. It was perfect. Light, despite its size, and incredibly resistant. Falo couldn't take his eyes off this shining sword, as he had never seen such a sword in his life. It was clear that the material was priceless.

"Edgar, you have forged the best sword I have ever seen. Your father even gave a name to his sword. I think you should do the same."

Edgar thought for a moment, gripped the handle of the sword tightly, and told his uncle that this sword would be named Phoenix. He had read about these legendary birds that rise from their own ashes. His sword, being created from an ancient ore, melted in the strongest fire, was compared by Edgar to the majestic bird.

"Phoenix? That's a very good name," said Uncle Falo, amazed. "By the way, I have some news."

"What news?" Edgar asked.

"I've been called by King Ludrol to Tuzmad, to forge weapons and armor for the knights participating in the tournament of the ten, and I can't manage it alone. I need you to accompany me. I know how dear this house is to you, but a good helper is hard to find."

"Of course! I really want to visit Tuzmad. When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow, early in the morning."

Edgar was thrilled at the prospect of seeing real knights, having never seen one in his life, only read about them. However, a question came to his mind. He thought for a moment, then asked his uncle what was bothering him. How did it happen that the king sent word to his uncle?

"Uncle, do you know King Ludrol?"

"Of course! Everyone knows King Ludrol. He's a very good king."

"No, I mean do you know him personally?"

What his uncle then told him left him astonished. King Ludrol and Uncle Falo were very good friends. They had grown up together since they were children.

When the two were about seventeen years old, they set off towards the Giant Mountains with the intention of climbing to the highest peak. Being young, and their desire for adventure stronger than ever, misfortune led to Prince Ludrol losing his balance, putting him in danger of falling from a height of about three hundred meters. Ludrol was barely holding onto the branch of a fir tree, and when it broke, Falo managed to catch him at the last moment. Since then, the two kept in touch, and Falo remained his best friend.

"You saved the king's life? That man owes you more than just an invitation to a tournament," Edgar joked.

"When you do a favor for a friend, you don’t expect it to be returned, because then it can no longer be called friendship."

Edgar told his uncle that he would also stop by to greet the two brothers before gathering some things and heading to the magnificent castle, Tuzmad.

The boy left the house and headed towards the brothers' home, knocking forcefully on their door. Tenzim came out annoyed, but his face brightened a bit when he saw Edgar.

"What happened to you? You look like an entire cavalry has run over you."

"My brother was enough. We had a little dispute. He always picks on me, even when I haven’t done anything wrong."

At that moment, Turalon came out as well. He had a look in his eyes ready to throw flames.

Edgar didn't notice Turalon's presence and was startled when Turalon angrily lunged at his brother, unable to restrain himself any longer.

"From this moment, I forget that we are brothers, you traitor! How could you sell my dagger to Dalyl?"

Edgar almost burst out laughing when he heard the reason for their quarrel. They were amusing even when they were upset. He wanted to suggest they become jesters, but he didn't want to offend them further.

"Ahem," Edgar intervened. "I just wanted to stop by and say hello, but if you’re busy, I can come back later."

When Turalon saw Edgar, he nearly hugged his brother, wanting to show Edgar how well they got along. They were surprised, not expecting to have a visitor, so the two invited him in, but Edgar said he couldn't stay long.

"I have to leave for Tuzmad tomorrow," Edgar said. "I thought I’d stop by to say goodbye."

"Hmm... and the day after tomorrow is Prince Sormain's birthday," Turalon said, glancing at Tenzim and smiling.

"Ha, ha, there will be a party. I love parties. There has to be a party!" Tenzim laughed enthusiastically.

When the two brothers noticed Edgar's confusion, they explained that Prince Sormain is King Ludrol's son. He was turning sixteen, and the king, as every year, would organize a party in honor of the prince, to which everyone in Tuzmad was invited.

"We'll be there too," the two brothers said.

Edgar said his goodbyes to them and headed back to his uncle, who had already started packing. They were set to leave for Tuzmad early the next morning, where they were going to meet King Ludrol.

Together with Uncle Falo, Edgar packed the necessary items and then prepared for bed. He needed to go to sleep early to wake up early. He was eager to see the castle of Tuzmad, having never seen a real castle before.

Early in the morning, Edgar was woken up by Uncle Falo to start their journey. They loaded their belongings into the cart and set off towards the castle.

The journey to Tuzmad was a path less traveled, a winding route that followed the meandering Dul'zare River. Edgar, ever the seeker of knowledge, had prepared for the lengthy travel by bringing along a trove of books, his companions in solitude. These volumes, ranging from ancient myths to treatises on swordsmanship, were a source of endless fascination to him, their pages filled with tales and wisdom that transported him beyond the confines of the carriage.

As they advanced, the landscape unfurled before them like a tapestry of nature's making. The Dul'zare River, a silver ribbon winding through the land, guided their path, its waters whispering secrets of the places it had touched. Alongside the river, meadows burst into life, a riot of colors as wildflowers nodded their heads in the gentle breeze. Edgar found himself lost in the beauty of the scene, his anticipation for new encounters growing with each mile traversed.

Their carriage rattled and creaked as it approached the Calipto Bridge. This rustic structure, an assemblage of aged planks and weathered logs, stood as a testament to the ingenuity and resilience of those who had built it generations ago. As they made their way across, the bridge groaned under their weight, each creak a reminder of its age and the countless stories it must hold. Edgar watched with bated breath, half expecting the timeworn bridge to give way. But it held firm, its sturdiness belying its fragile appearance.

Upon reaching the other side, a sense of relief washed over Edgar. He marveled at the bridge's endurance, just as he marveled at the journey's ability to reveal the hidden beauty and strength of the world around him. The experience heightened his eagerness for what lay ahead in Tuzmad. New faces, new stories, and new adventures awaited him, and he could hardly wait to immerse himself in this uncharted chapter of his life.