Forge of Fate

Kalem stood in the center of the forge, the heat rolling off the flames in waves that seemed to pulse with life. Before him lay a chunk of raw iron, unrefined and unshaped, like a challenge waiting to be conquered. Vornar loomed nearby, his expression unreadable, a length of thick cloth in his hand.

"This trial isn't about strength," Vornar began, his voice low but commanding. "It's not about precision or even the tools in your hand. It's about listening—to the forge, to the metal, to yourself. A true smith can hear the song of the forge and follow its rhythm."

Kalem nodded, his jaw tight. He had passed the first two trials through sheer grit and ingenuity, but this one felt different—stranger, more abstract. "And the blindfold?" he asked, gesturing toward the cloth.

"To forge without sight is to trust your instincts," Vornar said, stepping forward and tying the blindfold around Kalem's head. "The metal will tell you what it needs if you listen. Rely on your senses. If you can't, you'll fail."

The world plunged into darkness as the cloth tightened over his eyes. For a moment, Kalem stood frozen, his heart pounding in his ears. The familiar clatter of the forge's tools and the hiss of the flames suddenly felt distant, like whispers in an unfamiliar language.

"Begin," Vornar commanded.

Kalem reached out hesitantly, his gloved hands brushing against the cold iron. He gripped it firmly and moved toward the forge, guided by the heat radiating from its mouth. He slid the metal into the flames, adjusting the bellows by feel, and waited.

The silence pressed down on him. Deprived of sight, every sound felt amplified—the roar of the fire, the creak of the bellows, the faint hum of the molten metal. He pulled the iron out, its heat radiating through his gloves, and placed it on the anvil.

The first strike rang out sharply, the vibrations jolting up his arms. He struck again, harder this time, but the rhythm was off. The metal protested with an uneven clang, bending awkwardly beneath the hammer's weight.

"You're rushing!" Vornar barked. "Listen to it. You're forcing your will instead of working with it."

Kalem gritted his teeth, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He struck again, then again, but each blow felt wrong, the metal twisting under his inexperience. The forge seemed to mock him, its song a dissonant cacophony that he couldn't grasp.

Kalem paused, the hammer heavy in his hand. Sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes beneath the blindfold. Doubt crept in, insidious and sharp. How could he possibly forge something worthwhile like this? He wasn't a smith, not really. He was just a miner—a scavenger who had survived by luck and stubbornness.

The forge grew quiet as Kalem faltered. Even the murmurs of the other smiths fell silent, their unspoken judgment pressing down on him.

And then, in the stillness, a memory surfaced.

When Kalem had first descended into the mines, he had been terrified of the dark. The lamps often flickered out, leaving him and the other miners in near-total blackness. But the older miners had taught him a trick: to listen to the echoes of his pickaxe and the subtle shifts in the air. The sound of rock splintering, the way the vibrations traveled—it had been enough to guide him.

"Close your eyes," they had said. "The dark's not your enemy. It's just another way to see."

Kalem straightened, his grip tightening on the hammer. The forge wasn't mocking him—it was speaking. He just needed to quiet his mind and listen.

He took a deep breath and placed the warped iron back into the flames, focusing on the way the heat softened it. When he retrieved it, he let his hands guide him, feeling for the imperfections along its surface. The first strike came lighter this time, the sound sharper and clearer.

Clang.

He paused, listening to the echo. Another strike, adjusting his angle slightly.

Clang.

The rhythm began to emerge—a steady, almost musical cadence. Kalem followed it, the hammer rising and falling in time with the forge's song. He lost himself in the process, the world narrowing to the feel of the metal beneath his hands and the sound of each perfectly placed blow.

Minutes blurred into hours. Kalem worked tirelessly, heating, hammering, cooling, and repeating. His doubts faded, replaced by an almost meditative focus.

At last, Vornar's voice broke through the haze. "Enough."

Kalem stepped back, his arms aching and his breath coming in short gasps. Vornar untied the blindfold, and Kalem blinked against the sudden light. On the anvil before him lay a dagger—simple in design but flawless in execution. Its edges were clean, its balance perfect.

Vornar picked up the dagger, turning it over in his hands. He tested its weight, its edge, and finally ran a finger along the blade with an approving grunt.

"You've done well," he said, his tone grudgingly impressed. "It's not the finest blade I've seen, but it sings true. You've earned your place in this forge… for now."

A ripple of murmurs spread among the watching smiths. Even Tharic, leaning against a nearby wall, gave Kalem a rare nod of approval.

Kalem let out a shaky breath, a small smile tugging at his lips. For the first time, he felt like he belonged—not just in the forge, but in the craft itself. The song of the forge had become his own.