Chapter 7 - A Forge Reignited

The forge used to be my world. Steel beneath my hammer, flames beneath my breath. I forged blades that ended wars, armour that protected the peace.

Then Alna passed.

My heart, my anchor.

She was the one who kept me grounded. She knew when to cool my temper, when to push me to do better, and when to simply sit by the fire and let the world be quiet.

Before she left, she made me promise:

“Don’t let the grief turn your hands to stone,” she said. “Find something new, even if it’s small.”

I tried. By the stone, I tried.

I stopped forging weapons.

Too many ghosts. Too many memories of the men and women I’d outfitted who never came back. I turned to simpler things—horseshoes, hinges, nails. The quiet sort of work that doesn’t ask for passion.

No soul.

It’s easier that way. Quicker to ignite a side-forge.

Keep the furnace cold, tucked away like my misery.

But alas, I’m getting tired of this life. Maybe with another year’s worth of gold, I’d settle out of this blasted town. With Alna’s memories the only thing I take with me.

And let these calloused dwarven hands rest for good.

Then that boy came around.

“Excuse me, Sir Dorrim Steelbrand?”

His cloak was travel-worn, streaked with dirt, but his eyes were bright with purpose—though visibly baggy from exhaustion.

“Aye,” I muttered. “What’s it to you?”

“Mayor Bramble told me you’re the best smith in town, know your way around armour.”

Damn Bramble. Never could keep his nose out of my business. The less I speak to these folks, the better.

“That was a lifetime ago, boy. Take your business elsewhere.”

Before I could finish, the lad reached into his satchel and pulled out a battered shoulder guard.

Dented. Looked like more of a hazard than protection.

“I was hoping you could fix this up for me. Knock it back to shape?”

Knock it back, he said. Thing needs more than knocking back—how about throwing it out and getting a new one?

I should’ve sent him off. Truly.

But something in me paused. Maybe it was the way he held the piece—like it still mattered.

“Three silver, five copper. Pay upfront and come back three days.”

No pleasantries. No welcome. Though the boy’s eyes lit up in relief. Paid in exact change, too.

“Thank you, Sir Dorrim. I’ll see you in three days.”

“Drop the ‘Sir’...” I grumbled. But I doubt he heard me.

====

Arlen Bright was his name.

Heard he was a mage—though I never saw a hat or a staff when he came around. Young folk love to play pretend, dressing in cloaks and calling themselves things they ain't earned.

Word around town was that he’d set up an Adventurers’ Guild. Of all places, he chose the crumbling old inn near the square. Thought it was haunted when a guest accidentally tipped his mother's ashes all over the stairway.

He turned it into something worse—now it's noisy. Especially since that giantess of a barmaid, Mira built a tavern there.

Pahh! Adventurers…

The Known World needs better lords and nobles than children picking up swords to do petty chores.

Still, the lad came back.

Right on the hour, three days after I’d hammered that sorry shoulder plate into something passable.

Held it like it was a gift from the gods and smiled. “Thank you again, Sir Dorrim.”

“Just Dorrim,” I muttered. “Don’t make a thing of it.”

Thought that’d be the end of it. One job. One payment—But the boy came back.

Again. And again.

Gauntlets, greaves, chainmail, daggers.

Every time, he handed me the coin—exact count, not a copper short. And every time, that same sheepish smile.

Yet somehow, appearing more tired and older with each visit.

He never stayed long. Never lingered. Just nodded, thanked me, and disappeared back down the road toward that half-built guild of his.

It started to get on my nerves.

The gear coming out from that guild. They weren’t being worn—they were being mistreated. Hinges un-oiled. Mail left to rust. Leather straps brittle and cracking.

They didn’t deserve gear, no matter how poorly made.

They didn’t earn it.

====

“What the blazes is this monstrosity?!”

The Guildmaster had the gall to offer me that sorry excuse of a sword.

A mangled bar of regret, doused in inexperience. The grip poorly wrapped in twine; a child could have made a better job. The pommel loose, ready to let loose with one fell swoop.

And the steel… By the stone, the steel.

Unbalanced, poorly tempered, chipped from use that should’ve never made it past the training yard. The edge was warped like it was used to saw through stone.

“It’s from one of the newer guild members,” the stubborn boy said with his head hung low. “I know it’s a mess, but… do what you can.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“That thing’s not worth the firewood you’d burn to melt it down.”

He didn’t flinch. Just looked me straight in the eyes. No anger, no shame.

Just quiet, unrelenting resolve.

“It’s what we’ve got. How much?”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t trying to be dramatic.

I just couldn’t.

That thing had no business near a battlefield, and I’d be cursed before letting it carry my name. But still… I didn’t look away either.

The boy wouldn’t budge. Stubborn fool.

And my damn hands moved. Without thought. Without permission. Reaching out. Holding that broken weapon like it was a crying child left in the rain.

“Five days,” these words were not my own. They escaped me by some witchcraft.

“How much, Sir Dorrim?”

I could not muster another word, my hand flapping foolishly to shoo him off.

What had I done?

Even the Grandmaster Forgers would spit on this sword and walk away. The is the kind of job meant for young smiths trying to prove a point—not for old fools trying to forget one.

I wrapped it back up in the linen cloth it came in. I’d give it back in a week—no charge—maybe that’ll scare him off for good.

But then something happened.

The most bizarre hum flooded my ears, like a siren in the sea calling out to sorry sailors.

My eyes drifted across the room.

The furnace. Cold for months, years, maybe.

But the air around it felt warmer now, like the memory of fire still lived within it. The tools hanging from the wall—the tongs, the hammer, the oilstone—seemed to lean in, whispering to me.

And the iron ingots… just sitting there on the shelf.

Patient.

Waiting.

Before I realized it, I was hauling coal. My fingers remembered the rhythm even if my heart still fought it. The furnace roared to life, flames curling like the breath of a dragon. The heat wrapped around me like an old cloak I hadn’t worn in years.

I chose the ingots myself—pure, proud metal. Folded, hammered, folded again.

Heat and strike.

Heat and strike.

Quench in oil, test the ring. Hours passed.

Time melted like slag. Was it noon? Was it dusk?

The clang of hammer on steel echoed through Breezevale. I heard it rebound from the hills, felt it in my bones.

Villagers paused, tilted their heads. Some smiled. Some wondered.

The forge—my forge—was singing again.

I didn’t repair that weapon.

I buried it.

And in its place, I birthed a new blade.

And for the first time in a long, long while… I didn’t feel tired.

I felt alive.

====

“Sir Dorrim, this... this isn’t the sword I gave you. This is new,” the boy came not a day sooner.

Not fancy. Not gilded.

But true.

Balanced. Strong. Forged to endure and protect.

A blade worthy of being called steel.

I crossed my arms, gave him a short grunt. “Couldn’t stand the sight of that scrap heap.”

His grin spread like he couldn’t hold it back, wide and foolish. He ran a finger gently along the flat of the blade, awed.

“It’s beautiful.”

He meant it. Poor fool looked like a boy seeing magic for the first time. His hand drifted down to his coin purse, ever the honest type.

I stopped him with a glare sharp enough to cut.

“All I ask,” I said, fixing my eyes on his, “is your promise.”

He blinked. I leaned in a little.

“That whichever village bumpkin ends up with this blade—treats it with respect. I’ll not have a piece of my work swinging around like a plaything.”

“Thank you, Sir Dorrim,” he said, bowing like a proper knight.

I groaned. “For the last time, drop the sir.”

But he was already turning, the sword strapped to his side like it had always belonged there. He vanished down the path, back toward that damned guild of his.

Yet the moment lingered.

Felt like I stood there longer than I ought to have, staring at the trail he walked.

The forge behind me still hummed low, still warm from the fire, but my hands had gone still.

The blade was gone.

And with it, something that had been burning quietly in me since the day I took hammer to the first steel he brought.

I wiped my palms on my soot-streaked apron, shoved the door open, and left the forge behind.

Let the stablemaster wait for his horseshoes. The hinges could sit in their buckets for another day.

I needed to see it for myself.

====

Up ahead sat the old inn. No longer empty.

Beacon Hall, Adventurers’ Guild.

The damned fool had actually done it.

Looked like someone had slapped a coat of hope over a pile of half-finished dreams. Still, it had bones, and I’d seen worse built from less.

It was cleaner than I expected, though far from polished.

Scuff marks trailed the floorboards, and the wooden beams bore the weight of rushed repairs. The place had spirit, no doubt. But spirit didn’t keep blades sharp or shields intact.

No one greeted me as I approached, not that I wanted it.

A few heads turned—mostly younger folk, new blood by the look of them. One boy nearly dropped the wood he was carrying. First time seeing a dwarf proper, I reckon.

And then I saw it.

At the open grounds behind—a sorry excuse of a training yard.

Six of them, maybe more—young adventurers sprawled out.

Some sparring with wooden blades, others fumbling with gear. A girl was threading a leather strap through her armour—with the chest plate turned the wrong way around.

A lanky boy stood braced against a wall, grinding his sword edge down with a brick like he was polishing shoes.

“STOP!”

Everything froze. I heard the clang of blades dropping. Another girl turned red trying to quietly slide her helmet off—wrong size, of course.

They stared at me like I was some mountain troll come to gobble them whole.

“Who taught ye to treat weapons like toys?” I couldn’t contain it.

“Who in their right mind sharpens steel on brick?” Like I’ve been holding my breath for too long.

“This—this is steel! This is battle. You don’t respect it, you die. Or worse—someone next to you does!”

They stammered.

They shuffled.

Eyes wide, mouths shut. All stood still.

The sword-grinder nudged his weapon behind his leg, as if to hide it.

Bootsteps approached from behind. I didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“I figured you’d come,” Arlen said, his voice even. At least my freshly forged sword was still with him.

“And a good thing too!” I growled. “If I hadn’t come, one of ‘em would’ve put their own eye out by week's end. You’re sending them into the wilds with bent blades and broken buckles.”

“I know,” he replied simply.

“They’ve no sense of craft. No respect for the tools they carry! Bent blades. Rusted buckles. Who taught ‘em?”

“No one,” the boy said, stepping closer. “That’s the problem.”

I snorted. “Then what in the nine hells are you doing, sending them out like this?”

“Doing what I can with what I have,” Arlen said. “Buying what Breezevale’s merchants have, but most of its bottom-shelf stock at top-shelf prices. I patch what I can, stretch what I have. I’ve been the quartermaster, and mentor all at once.”

He gestured toward the recruits—still frozen, still listening. “But I can’t teach them to honour the blade.”

I was still seething. His words did little to calm me. Perhaps he noticed.

“Care for a walk, Sir Dorrim?”

====

The boy slowed his step as we reached the hill that overlooked Beacon Hall.

The old inn still had the bones I remembered—weathered beams, crooked shingles —but there was life in it now. A fresh coat of paint. Lanterns hung from new posts. People moved in and out, laughing, working, living.

He stood beside me, quiet. Just taking it in.

“Why did you stop working the forge?” he asked. Simple words. No ceremony. But the weight behind them nearly buckled me.

It was the most genuine question I’d heard in years.

No flattery. No pity. Just… wanting to understand.

I almost didn’t answer.

“Alna…” I murmured, the name barely leaving my lips.

He turned to me, softer now. “Your wife?”

I nodded once. “Aye.”

“My heart—my soul. When I got too proud, she brought me down. When I lost sight of the work, she reminded me why it mattered.”

I drew in a breath, felt the burn in my chest. The kind that never quite goes away.

“She passed many winters ago. Illness came fast. Took her before I could even say goodbye proper.”

“I’m sorry,” Arlen said.

And for once, it didn’t feel like a phrase people say when they don’t know what else to offer.

He meant it.

“She made me promise something,” I continued, watching a young boy chase a chicken across the far courtyard. “Said not to let grief turn my hands to stone. Told me to find something new. Even if it was small.”

“And did you?”

I looked down at my hands, then to the guild. The forge still called to me in dreams, but for years, I silenced it. Turned to simple things—nails, hinges, wagon wheels.

Work that didn’t matter. Work without a soul.

“I tried,” I said, finally. “But you know… the heart knows when it’s lying.”

Arlen didn’t say anything for a time. He just stood beside me, hands in his cloak, wind tugging at its hem.

He gave me a small, lopsided smile. The kind that belonged to someone half-sure he was making a fool of himself.

“I’d like you to join us, Sir Dorrim,” he said, voice steady. “Not as an adventurer, of course.”

“The guild needs its own smithy—someone who can outfit our members, keep their gear sharp, their armour strong. An armourer who knows the craft. Someone we can trust.”

He said it plain, no flattery, no sweet talk.

Just truth.

And for the first time, I saw the boy—no, the man—beside me in a different light.

Not just a Guildmaster or a dreamer playing pretend, but someone who carried weight on his shoulders and still chose to stand tall.

If Alna and I had been blessed with a son like him… aye, we’d be mighty proud.

“Under one condition,” I said. I didn’t need to think hard for the answer. My heart had already spoken for me the moment the forge lit again.

He blinked, straightened. “Name it.”

“Stop calling me ‘sir,’” I grumbled. “I ain’t some noble knight galloping off to save a maiden from a tower. I’m a smith, boy. Nothing more.”

He chuckled under his breath, a real one this time. “Alright then… Dorrim.”

I gave a grunt of approval but couldn’t quite hide the twitch at the corner of my mouth. The wind must’ve tricked me into it.

A smile?

Maybe.

Looks like these hands aren’t turning to stone just yet, my dear Alna.