Forge of Fate

Kalem's exile was a strange thing—a burden that weighed on him and yet, in some ways, set him free. For the first time in his life, there were no orders to obey, no shifts to clock in for, and no walls to keep him contained. The horizon stretched endlessly before him, as unfamiliar as it was unkind. He wandered for days, the ache in his body dulling to a constant throb, a reminder of battles both won and lost.

The outskirts of the city were a gray, forgotten land—abandoned farms, overgrown roads, and crumbling shacks. Kalem set up a small camp near the edge of the wilderness, scavenging what little food he could. Sleep remained elusive, as it always did. The roar of the Garon echoed in his dreams, followed by the screams of miners and the snap of bones breaking. But more than that, the weight of his exile gnawed at him like an itch he couldn't scratch.

On the fourth day, a familiar voice broke the silence.

"You look like something a troll spat out and left to bake in the sun."

Kalem turned sharply, spear in hand, only to find Tharic standing at the edge of his camp. The dwarf smirked, a pack slung across his back and a sturdy hammer hanging from his belt.

"Tharic," Kalem said, relief softening his posture. "How'd you find me?"

"Wasn't hard," Tharic replied, stepping closer. "You've been dragging your boots all over the place like a lost pup. Figured you'd be around here somewhere."

Kalem dropped his spear and slumped onto a rock, exhausted. "What do you want?"

Tharic snorted and set his pack down with a thud. "What do I want? You're the one who needs help, lad. Sitting out here all alone like the world owes you something." He lowered his voice, his tone turning serious. "I heard what they did to you. Exiled you after you saved their worthless hides."

Kalem looked away. "Doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?" Tharic dropped onto a log opposite him, pulling a waterskin from his belt and taking a swig before tossing it to Kalem. "You're not done yet, boy. You think killing one beast means your work's over? There's a world out there that'll chew you up and spit you out if you let it."

Kalem took a drink, the cool water soothing his parched throat. "And where would I even go, Tharic?"

The dwarf grinned, leaning forward. "The Mountain of Burning Ashes."

Kalem frowned. "Sounds like something out of a story."

"Oh, it's real. A miserable place—volcanic ridges, jagged rocks sharp enough to split a man in two, and creatures that'll gut you for looking at them wrong." Tharic's eyes glimmered with excitement. "But it's also home to the richest veins of ore you'll ever find. Volatile stuff, dangerous to work with, but if you master it? You'll forge weapons the likes of which this world's never seen. And the smiths there… gods, they're brilliant. Brutal, but brilliant."

Kalem's interest flickered, though he tried to mask it. "Why are you telling me this?"

Tharic shrugged. "Because you've got potential, lad. I saw what you did with that spear and shield of yours—rough, but impressive. You saved yourself, killed a beast no one else could, and still had the guts to drag its carcass back for everyone to see." He paused, his expression turning earnest. "You're not a miner anymore, Kalem. You're something else now. So stop sitting here feeling sorry for yourself and do something about it."

Kalem stared at the dwarf, the words sinking in.

Kalem didn't leave immediately. The Mountain of Burning Ashes loomed in the distance, a dark promise of challenges yet to come. Before he could journey there, he needed to prepare.

The Garon's remains—trophies of his triumph—became his focus. Kalem dragged what pieces he could salvage to a makeshift workspace near the wilderness edge, using an abandoned shack as his forge. The beast's hide was tough, thicker than any armor he had ever seen. Its claws, curved and sharp, gleamed faintly as though they still held some of the Garon's ferocity. Even its bones had a strange, unyielding quality.

For weeks, Kalem studied the remains. He experimented relentlessly, burning his hands and singeing his clothes as he worked. He stripped the Garon's hide into layers, testing its limits under heat and pressure. When he discovered its resistance to cutting and piercing, he began integrating small plates into reinforced shield designs.

The shield he crafted was larger than before, lined with grooves and edges sharp enough to snag and lock a beast's claws in place. He forged the grip with a counterweight that allowed for quick maneuvers, even against heavier strikes.

But the real challenge was the spear. The weapon that had saved his life was still crude—a prototype born from desperation. Kalem envisioned something more refined, more deadly. He ground the Garon's claws down to fine tips, embedding fragments of volatile minerals into the shaft. At first, the minerals reacted unpredictably, causing small explosions that blew apart his forge and singed his eyebrows. Tharic—who visited occasionally—laughed himself breathless at Kalem's curses.

Over time, Kalem learned to stabilize the reactions. By embedding the minerals into grooves along the spear's jagged blade, he created a weapon that could release controlled bursts of force on impact. It was dangerous and unstable, but devastatingly effective.

As weeks turned to months, Kalem's workspace evolved. The abandoned shack became a crude smithy, cluttered with broken weapons, scattered tools, and mineral dust that glimmered in the torchlight. His body grew stronger too, hardened by hours spent refining his techniques and testing his weapons.

Tharic watched the transformation with satisfaction. "I knew you had it in you, lad," he said one day, examining Kalem's latest spear. "You've got a mind for this craft—and a stubbornness that'll take you far."

Kalem didn't respond immediately. He stood at the edge of the shack's doorway, gazing toward the distant silhouette of the Mountain of Burning Ashes. Its peaks glowed faintly, plumes of smoke curling into the sky like the breath of some sleeping giant.

"I'm ready," he said finally, his voice steady.

Tharic nodded, clapping him on the back. "Then let's get moving. The mountain waits for no one."

Kalem gathered his tools, his weapons, and the lessons he had carved from blood and fire. For the first time since his exile, a sense of purpose burned in his chest. The city was behind him, a place of betrayal and false promises. Ahead lay something greater—new challenges, new dangers, and a chance to master the craft that had saved his life.

With Tharic by his side, Kalem turned toward the Mountain of Burning Ashes, ready to face whatever awaited him.