Forge of Fate

The Glimmerfang Ore lay on the worktable like a prize from another world. Its shimmering surface caught the light, glowing faintly in hues of blue and silver, as though it pulsed with a life of its own. Kalem stood before it, battered and bruised but determined. This was no longer just a trial—it was his chance to prove that he belonged in this forge, among the greatest smiths.

Vornar approached, his iron staff thudding against the stone floor with each step. His piercing gaze swept over Kalem, lingering on the bloodstains and scorch marks on his clothes.

"You survived the hunt," Vornar said, his voice even. "Now, let's see if you can survive the fire."

Kalem's jaw tightened. "I didn't come this far to fail."

Vornar smirked faintly. "Good. Because this next trial is as much about patience as it is skill. The Glimmerfang is no ordinary metal. It's temperamental, volatile. If you don't forge it properly, it will shatter—or worse, explode. You'll follow my lead. Deviate, and you'll die with nothing to show for it."

Kalem nodded, stepping up to the forge. The roaring flames seemed to greet him, their heat wrapping around his face like a suffocating veil. He set his jaw, refusing to flinch.

"Heat it slow," Vornar commanded, tossing Kalem a pair of thick gloves. "Too fast, and the ore will crack."

Kalem slid the first piece of Glimmerfang Ore into the forge with trembling hands. The flames licked at the metal, causing it to shimmer even brighter. He adjusted the bellows, fanning the fire with measured precision, beads of sweat forming on his brow despite the protective gear.

Minutes stretched into hours as he worked under Vornar's sharp gaze. Every step required precision: heating, hammering, cooling, and repeating. The Glimmerfang didn't behave like ordinary metal. Each strike of the hammer sent vibrations up Kalem's arms, the sound ringing out like a discordant melody. The ore seemed to resist him, almost as if it had a will of its own.

"Focus!" Vornar barked when Kalem's grip wavered. "The metal doesn't care about your fatigue. Command it. Show it who's in charge."

Kalem gritted his teeth, channeling his frustration into each strike. Slowly, the ore began to yield, its surface smoothing under the relentless rhythm of his hammer. Sparks flew in bursts, lighting up the dim forge like fireworks.

"Now comes the hard part," Vornar said, gesturing toward the molten blade-shaped fragment Kalem had crafted. "Glimmerfang weapons need to be quenched in a special way. Too fast, and the blade will shatter. Too slow, and it'll lose its edge. You have one shot at this."

Kalem wiped his brow, his heart pounding. Vornar handed him a basin filled with a shimmering, viscous liquid—quenching oil infused with rare minerals. It smelled acrid, its surface bubbling faintly from the heat.

"Lower it in slowly," Vornar instructed. "Not too slow. Find the balance."

Kalem nodded, gripping the glowing blade with his tongs. He brought it over the basin, the heat radiating from the metal making his arms tremble. Slowly, he began to submerge it.

The liquid hissed and spat violently, sending up plumes of steam that stung his eyes. Kalem's arms burned from the strain of holding the blade steady, but he didn't falter. Inch by inch, the blade disappeared into the basin, the hissing growing louder until, finally, it stopped.

The room fell silent.

Kalem pulled the blade from the liquid, its surface gleaming like polished obsidian. He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable crack or shatter. But none came. The blade was intact, its edges sharp enough to catch the faintest light.

"Well done," Vornar said gruffly. "But don't celebrate yet. A blade's beauty means nothing if it can't cut."

Vornar led Kalem to a stone platform in the forge's testing room. On it sat a block of tempered steel, the kind used to craft armor for the city's elite guards. Beside it lay a length of thick iron chain.

"This is your final test," Vornar said. "Strike the steel. Then cut the chain. If the blade holds, you've passed."

Kalem hefted the newly forged weapon, feeling its balance in his hands. It was lighter than he expected, the edge humming faintly as it sliced through the air. He adjusted his grip, planting his feet firmly on the ground. With a deep breath, he swung the blade down onto the block of steel.

The impact rang out like a bell, the sound reverberating through the forge. Kalem stepped back, examining the steel block. A clean cut ran through it, smooth and precise.

Tharic let out a low whistle. "Not bad, miner."

Kalem turned to the iron chain, his confidence growing. He raised the blade again and brought it down in a swift arc. The chain split effortlessly, the severed links clattering to the ground.

He looked to Vornar, who nodded approvingly. "You've proven yourself," the forge master said. "But don't let it go to your head. This was just the beginning. There's more to learn, and more trials to come. The Mountain demands perfection."

That night, Kalem sat by the forge, staring at the blade he had forged. It was more than just a weapon—it was a symbol of how far he had come. But he knew Vornar was right. This was only the start. The Mountain had more to teach him, and he had more to prove.

For the first time in a long while, Kalem felt a flicker of pride. He was no longer just a miner, no longer just a survivor. He was a smith in the making, a warrior on the rise. And the Mountain of Burning Ashes was his proving ground.