Ruvan woke before dawn, his body aching from sleeping on the forge floor. Ash stained his tunic, and his hair smelled of burnt wood and iron dust. But he didn't care. He liked waking here, close to the tools and steel. It felt right, as if the forge itself breathed life into him each morning.
He stretched, joints popping, and stood to relight the banked coals. Outside, the sky was still dark blue with streaks of pale orange along the horizon. Birds were silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
"Boy," Master Ferric's deep voice rumbled from outside. "We've got iron bars to deliver to Garren's mill before midday. Load them on the cart."
Ruvan nodded quickly, already pulling on his thick leather gloves. The iron bars lay stacked near the entrance, still cool from yesterday's casting. He heaved them onto the cart one by one, feeling each muscle burn with effort. Sweat trickled down his back despite the morning chill.
As he worked, he noticed it.
A thin grey pillar rising in the distance, smudging the pale dawn sky. At first he thought it was a morning cookfire from the village past the fields. But as he shifted another bar, he paused. More smoke joined it – thicker, blacker, roiling up in dark billows like angry ghosts.
His stomach tightened.
"Master Ferric…" he called, but Ferric was already hitching the mule to the cart. His broad shoulders strained against the harness straps.
"What is it, boy?"
"Look." Ruvan pointed.
Ferric turned, squinting against the growing light. He frowned. Deep lines carved themselves into his soot-blackened face.
"That's no cookfire," he muttered. "It's too far west for any village fire. And too much smoke."
He didn't say what Ruvan was thinking.
War. Raiders. The Silent King's priests.
Rumours had spread over the past months of burned towns and vanished farms. Travelers spoke of bone-armoured soldiers moving under cover of darkness. People laughed it off over ale and dice, but Ruvan never laughed. He saw the fear flicker behind their jokes.
"Load the rest. Quickly," Ferric ordered, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Ruvan obeyed, heart pounding as he hefted another iron bar. His mind spun with the old legends Marrick always told – burning swords, black-armoured kings, blades that could cut through shadows themselves.
"Master…" he said again, hesitant. "If it is war… if they come here… what will we do?"
Ferric didn't answer at first. He checked the cart's harness, tugged each strap hard, then finally met Ruvan's eyes.
"We'll do what we've always done," he said. "We'll work. We'll survive."
But his eyes were dark with something Ruvan had never seen before. Not anger. Not fear. Resignation.
"Come on," Ferric grunted, climbing onto the cart's bench. "No sense worrying until there's something to worry about. Garren pays in copper upfront, and we need the metal for the militia blades."
Ruvan climbed up beside him, clutching his cloak tighter around his shoulders. As the mule plodded down the dirt track, he kept his gaze locked on that rising smoke.
The road twisted through dry fields of barley stubble. Dust rose behind the cart wheels. The further they travelled, the clearer the smoke became. It billowed high, carried eastward by the morning breeze. The sun rose behind them, casting long shadows ahead.
"Don't stare at it," Ferric said gruffly. "You'll only scare yourself."
"Do you think… it's them?" Ruvan asked softly.
Ferric sighed, rubbing his beard. "Could be bandits burning farmsteads. Could be a smithy fire gone out of control. Could be… worse."
Ruvan swallowed hard.
They rode in silence. Birds finally began to sing as the sun cleared the hills, but their songs sounded hollow in the tense morning. When they reached Garren's mill, Ferric hopped down and began unloading the bars with quick, efficient movements.
"Go fetch our pay," he told Ruvan.
Ruvan nodded, running across the yard towards the counting house. Garren, a bald man with tiny eyes and a sharp nose, was hunched over his ledger.
"You're late," he snapped without looking up.
"We're early," Ruvan corrected quietly. "Ferric said you'd need the bars before noon."
Garren grunted, scrawled something in the ledger, and tossed a small leather pouch across the table. Ruvan caught it and felt the familiar weight of copper coins inside.
"Tell Ferric we need another shipment next week. Double bars. The militia's ordered scythe blades for harvest, but they're also reforging them into polearms."
Ruvan's chest tightened again. "The militia's arming farmers?"
"Looks like," Garren said, still writing. "Now get out, boy."
Ruvan hurried back outside. Ferric had finished loading empty crates onto the cart for their return trip. When he saw Ruvan's pale face, he frowned.
"What is it?"
"The militia's reforging scythes into polearms," Ruvan whispered. "They're… they're preparing for a fight."
Ferric's lips pressed into a thin line. He said nothing as he climbed onto the cart.
They rode back towards Saerholm in silence. Ruvan's gaze drifted to the western horizon again. The smoke was thicker now, rising in a massive black pillar that spread across the sky like a stain. He imagined he could smell it already – burning wood, burning flesh.
"Master…" he whispered. "If war comes here… will the forge stand?"
Ferric closed his eyes briefly.
"No forge stands forever, boy. But while it stands, so do we. Remember that."
They reached Saerholm by midday. The streets were busier than usual. Farmers from nearby hamlets crowded the market square, bartering for salt and oats. A group of militia men marched by, spears slung over their shoulders, faces grim.
Ferric steered the cart towards the forge. "Unload the crates and stack them by the coal shed. I'll see if the militia wants more iron."
Ruvan obeyed, though his hands trembled. As he stacked the crates, his gaze kept drifting westward. Over the rooftops, beyond the barley fields, the smoke rose high into the pale blue sky. It looked wrong. Like a wound in the world.
He tried to focus on his work, but Marrick's words from the tavern burned in his mind.
The Silent King fears Solrend. Because it's the only blade that can cut him down.
Ruvan clenched his fists. Heat flared in his chest – anger, fear, something deeper he couldn't name.
If war was coming, he didn't want to hide behind walls, hoping the soldiers won. He wanted to fight back. To stand between the darkness and everything he loved.
He glanced at the forge entrance.
One day, he promised silently, I will forge a blade that even gods fear.
But as he turned to fetch another crate, something caught his eye.
A flicker of movement among the western hills. Tiny black shapes against the smoking sky.
Marching.
Coming closer.
The world felt suddenly small, and his dreams felt too big for his chest. But he held them anyway. Because they were all he had.
And because soon… dreams might be the only weapon left.