The early morning light filtered through the small, grimy windows of the blacksmith's workshop, casting a dull glow on the rows of tools and half-finished projects. Caelan hammered away at a horseshoe, his arms moving rhythmically, each strike ringing out in the enclosed space. Despite the physical exertion, his mind was elsewhere, consumed by the same thoughts that had haunted him for months.

The third son of Master Blacksmith Alaric, Caelan had spent his life in the shadow of his father and older brothers. They were the ones who crafted weapons and armors for the nobles, the ones who basked in the respect and admiration of the city. Caelan, on the other hand, was relegated to the menial tasks—shaping horseshoes, repairing tools, and cleaning up after the real work was done.

He had talent, more than his father or brothers would ever admit. In the quiet moments when the forge was his alone, he would dream up designs, intricate and unique, creations that his father would dismiss as frivolous or impractical. His hidden workshop—a deserted, old blacksmith's forge on the outskirts of the city—was where he gave life to these dreams, away from prying eyes and derisive comments.

"Caelan!" His father's booming voice cut through his thoughts, jolting him back to the present. Alaric stood at the doorway, his broad frame casting a shadow over the forge. "Stop dawdling and finish those horseshoes. The stable master will be here soon to collect them."

"Yes, Father," Caelan replied, his voice devoid of emotion. He knew better than to argue or express his frustration. Arguing with Alaric was like shouting into the wind—pointless and exhausting.

As his father left, Caelan continued with his task, each strike of the hammer a release of his pent-up frustration. He longed for more than this, to prove his worth not just to his family, but to himself. But every time he brought up the idea of crafting something more challenging, more artistic, he was met with laughter or scorn.

"Dreams don't feed a family," his father would say. "Stick to what's practical, boy."

Around noon, as the sun reached its peak and the workshop grew stiflingly hot, Caelan wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped outside for a brief respite. He leaned against the outer wall, gazing toward the market square. Just as he was about to head back inside, he noticed a figure approaching—Anwen, the merchant's daughter.

She walked with a determined stride, her eyes set on the blacksmith shop. Caelan watched her curiously, wondering what business she had here. As she drew closer, he straightened up and went back inside, preparing himself for whatever request she might bring. His father and brothers were not in the main workshop at the moment, which meant that he would have to deal with this client alone.

Anwen entered the shop, her gaze sweeping over the room before settling on Caelan. "Good afternoon," she greeted, her tone polite but firm.

"Afternoon," Caelan replied, setting down his tools. "What can I do for you, Miss Anwen?"

Anwen hesitated for a brief moment, then squared her shoulders. "I have a request," she said. "A custom sword."

Caelan raised an eyebrow. "A custom sword?" he repeated, a hint of skepticism in his voice. "If you need a sword, my father or brothers would be the ones to talk to. I'm sure—"

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

"No," Anwen interrupted, her voice steady. "I want you to make it."

Caelan stared at her, taken aback. "Me?" He let out a dry chuckle. "Why would you want me to make it? I'm just the helper around here. My father or brothers are the ones who—"

"I know exactly who they are," Anwen said sharply, her eyes flashing with a fierce determination. "But they won't understand what I need. They'd laugh at me, tell me it's not proper, and send me on my way. I need someone who can see beyond tradition and expectations."

Caelan fell silent, her words hitting closer to home than he would have liked to admit. He felt a flicker of something—hope, maybe?—stir within him, but he quickly squashed it. "What exactly are you asking for?" he asked, his tone cautious.

Anwen took a deep breath. "This sword is for someone who needs it to be light yet strong, balanced to fit their specific strength," she explained. "It's for a girl, someone who is not built like the typical warriors you usually craft for. It needs to be precise, agile, and uniquely tailored."

Caelan's heart skipped a beat. A sword not made for the typical brute strength but for skill and finesse. He could already see the design forming in his mind, the elegant curves, the balance of weight. But still, he hesitated. "Why me?" he asked again. "Why not go to someone else—someone more experienced?"

Anwen stepped closer, her eyes locking onto his. "Because I’ve seen how you look at the forge when no one's watching," she said softly. "I've seen the designs you draw on the edges of your workbench when you think no one is looking. You have talent, Caelan, and you're wasted here doing mundane tasks. I'm giving you a chance to show what you can truly do."

Caelan opened his mouth to argue, to tell her to go ask his father or brothers, but the words caught in his throat. For the first time, someone had seen him—not as the third son, not as the helper, but as a craftsman with his own potential.

He shook his head. "If I take this order," he said slowly, "and my father or brothers find out, they'll have my head. They'll laugh you out of this shop."

Anwen smirked, crossing her arms. "Then we won't tell them," she replied. "This will be our secret. You can work on it in your spare time, wherever you go to escape this place. And when it's done, you'll be paid handsomely for your efforts."

Caelan studied her, the wheels in his mind turning. The sensible part of him screamed that this was madness, that he should refuse and go back to his mundane tasks. But another part of him, the part that longed to prove himself, was already seeing this as the opportunity he had been waiting for.

Anwen watched him carefully, noting the conflict in his eyes. "Think about it," she said quietly. "This is your chance, Caelan. Show them what you're capable of. Show them what they've been ignoring all these years."

With that, she turned and walked out of the workshop, leaving him standing there, staring at the empty doorway.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze. Caelan went through the motions of his usual tasks, but his mind was elsewhere, replaying Anwen's words over and over. As evening approached and the workshop finally grew quiet, he slipped away, making his way through the winding streets to the outskirts of the city.

His hidden workshop lay nestled among a cluster of trees, an old, abandoned blacksmith's forge that had long been forgotten. It was here that Caelan came when he needed to escape, to create without the limitations imposed by his family.

He entered the small, secluded forge, closing the door behind him. In the fading light, he looked around at the scattered tools, the half-finished projects, the worn sketches pinned to the walls. This was his sanctuary, the one place where he could be the craftsman he longed to be.

Anwen's request echoed in his mind as he moved toward the forge. A sword for a girl, light and balanced, tailored to fit her strength. It was an unusual order, one that most blacksmiths would dismiss as a fool's errand. But not him. He could see it, the shape and form of it, the challenge it presented.

Caelan's hands shook slightly as he lit the forge, the flames roaring to life. He took a deep breath, feeling the familiar rush of excitement that always came with the start of a new creation. This was it. This was his chance to prove himself, to create something that was uniquely his.

He picked up a piece of steel, running his fingers over its cool surface. Slowly, he began to work, shaping it with careful, deliberate strikes. The forge hissed and crackled, the heat enveloping him like a comforting embrace. Hours passed, but Caelan paid no mind to the time. He was lost in the rhythm of his craft, in the delicate dance of metal and fire.

By the time he finally stepped back, his muscles ached, and his clothes were drenched with sweat. But there, on the anvil, lay the beginnings of the sword—sleek, elegant, and unlike anything he had ever crafted before.

Caelan stared at it, a sense of pride and fear welling up inside him. This was a risk, a rebellion against everything he had been taught to accept. But it was also his chance to break free from the shadows that had kept him hidden for so long.

"Anwen," he muttered under his breath, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Let's see if this was worth it."

With renewed determination, he turned back to the forge, ready to bring this weapon to life. For the first time in his life, Caelan was not just crafting a tool—he was forging a dream.