“Enough!” shouted Haldar.

  “But master-” the boy protested.

  “I promised your parents that I’d look after you,” he spat, rummaging desperately through the cupboard in the corner, “and I shall keep my promise ‘till the day I die.” The old man turned back to the wounded boy, and asked, his voice wet and hoarse and his fingers sprawling on the shelves like spiders, “Now, I know you didn’t let them steal me rum too.”

  “Master,” Larkin said drunkenly, scratching his head, “you’ve got to believe-”

  “Enough!” Haldar staggered side to side at his workstation like a sailor in a storm. His face was almost as long and as leathery as the apron hanging from his neck. It was also as coppery.

  “But-”

  “Where’s my drink, boy?” he asked, louder and more threatening than before. His rusty eyes were hidden beneath white bushy brows. “I leave you for one minute in charge of the shop and-”

  “This isn’t my fault!” he cried.

  “Then whose fault is it?” asked Haldar. He hobbled forward, wagging a sausage of a finger, and said exasperatedly, “You’ve gone too far this time, Larkin Forgeheart! I come home from the market to find me workshop in a right bloody state. You’ve done me in for good you good for nothin’ brat.”

  Larkin jumped to his feet and rushed to his anvil exhaustedly. He looked mortified. “It was the wizard…” he muttered, looking around the workshop helplessly. Mira had gone. The weapons and tools he had crafted since starting his apprenticeship had vanished from the walls without a trace. Even his straw mattress had disappeared; only glass shards remained.

  “And you insult me intelligence!” erupted Haldar from across the room. His callused hands were on his own anvil; his eyes were also searching. “You think because you can craft nails that you can craft bloody anything,” he said, stooping over the iron workstation on his tiptoes, peering into the shelves beneath, “but instead of a sword I see a shop that’s been cursed with a stupid boy deluded by his own grandiosity.” The old man suddenly broke into a sweat, and he muttered a few curses of his own.

  “I am not deluded,” replied the boy solemnly. “I swear it, master, by the gods! I am more than just a low-level blacksmith.” He stared deep into Haldar’s eyes, “I’ll prove to you that I’m more than whatever you think that I am.”

  “And what is that?”

  “My parents are out there,” Larkin said, jabbing his finger in the air, “and I intend to find them.” He hesitated, before adding, “Not only that, but I’ll make them proud.”

  The blacksmith wiped his brow and sighed. “Your ambition will kill us all,” he said gravely. “But you won’t listen to an old man whose been your age once-”

  “’And suffered for it’” interrupted Larkin, his youthful face deepening into a scowl. He pondered what the wizard had said. “The Eternal Forge is real. That means that the Hammer is real as well. All those stories you told me were true, weren’t they?”

  Haldar matched his grimace, though the deep lines around his eyes pronounced their resolve to convince his apprentice to give in. Yet with age comes regret, and Larkin could see that the old man’s vision was clouded. He held his breath, waiting for his master to realise that his hammer was missing from his safe. But Haldar instead produced from a hidden crevice underneath the anvil a folded piece of paper. He pocketed it quickly, pushing his large belly off the anvil with a huge sigh. There was a pause between them which seemed to last an eternity.

  “This wizard-”

  “Stop calling him a wizard!”

  “He was seeking the Eternal Forge.”

  “Good for him,” said the old man. “You’ll be seeking a new career if you carry on.”

  “You’re joking!” cried Larkin. “Someone with the Hammer of the Eternal Forge wouldn’t need the subsidises from the High Council anymore,” he added excitedly. “They could sell their crafts at their true value instead of…this.” Larkin gestured to the decrepit workshop. “No more restrictions… No more Backwater…No more living in the dark.”

  Haldar frowned confusedly. “You’ve never talked like this before,” he noted suspiciously.

  “Because I didn’t think the forge actually existed,” Larkin exclaimed.

  “That bloody forge destroyed-”, the master choked, pausing to collect his thoughts, “I’ll be damned if I let the same thing happen to you.” Haldar shook his head and continued searching his workbench. “Enough of this talk. Forget the Forge. For your own good, forget it. The last time someone went after it they... disappeared,” Haldar added grimly, his voice growing quieter. “You go after the forge, and you can consider yourself dead to Backwater.”

  “Good,” laughed Larkin.

  “The High Council will be out for your arrest!” yelled the old man. “Hell, they’d hang you for even talking about it!”

  “They won't touch me,” replied Larkin, cheekily. “The town’s master blacksmith must have some sway in the crafting community.”

  “Nonsense!” Larkin sneered. “Haldar,” he added, addressing his master by his first name, “you’ve no need to protect me.” Larkin let his eyes wander over the workshop, and continued, “I’ll do whatever it takes to get the recognition I deserve… Even if that means seeking the Eternal Forge.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” asked Haldar, slamming the anvil in frustration. His eyes finally fell upon the shards on Larkin’s bed, which tinged blue. “When I agreed to your apprenticeship, I made you promise to drop all this talk about the Forge,” he said. “But instead, I’ve only given you the means to your downfall. I’m sorry, Larkin, but you’ve given me no choice.” He sighed and looked at the boy with pity, before adding, “If I don’t stop you, you’ll end up like me – broken and bitter.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Larkin, blinking rapidly.

  “You're no longer welcome here,” Haldar said abruptly, his voice shaky and weak.

  “No,” answered Larkin without missing a beat. “I haven’t found my parents yet.”

  “You never will,” said Haldar gravely. He pointed to the door. “Get out,” he snapped.

  When the boy did not move, the old man hobbled over and grabbed him around the collar like he would a crazy dog. Larkin screamed and struggled against the old man’s iron grip, but he was no match for his superior strength, and soon he was halfway out the door. Both were gasping the hot, stale air of the workshop, and both were crying; yet neither would admit that to anyone.

  Nevertheless, the boy held on to the doorframe with both hands, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Get off me! I didn’t do it! I didn’t steal your tools!”

  “Please, Larkin,” said Haldar, prying the boy’s fingertips from the splintering frame, “just listen for once.” Without thinking, he shoved the boy’s chest, sending him flying backwards onto the dirt road. He watched Larkin through the tiny gap between the door and the frame.

  “Haldar,” the tear-stricken youth pleaded, “I’ve nowhere else to go…”

  “They chop the hands off thieves. Consider yourself lucky,” the old man spat. He then sighed, “Go to the market. Somebody will take you on. But blacksmith you are no more.”

  “Haldar,” Larkin shouted, scrambling to the door. His feet kicked up enough dust to cloud them both. “You know that I am supposed to be a blacksmith. You know how much this means to me.”

  “Goodbye, Larkin,” said Haldar.

  “No, wait! You were like a father to me…”

  The door clicked shut. Instantly, Larkin’s knees gave out. He collapsed to the ground and wept. Soon, he began to pound on the door relentlessly. “Come out, Haldar,” he chanted through gritted teeth. “If the Eternal Forge is the only way to craft the legendary weapons I need… then I’ll prove you wrong. Just you wait.” Larkin waited there awhile, but there was no response. He pounded the dirt until his fists bled.

  As he walked sluggishly down the hill, the moonlight exposed his dirty, bumpy skin. “Who would want me?” he thought. “My parents sure didn’t. And now not even Haldar,” he sniffled. “I couldn’t even protect Mira. What good am I?”

  He gazed longingly at the moon, which sat perched on the market town below as though it was level with him. It was enormous and bright. “Mother,” he said weakly, his face contorted with misery, “I’ve disappointed you twice already. But I won’t give up. I won’t. I’ll earn everyone’s respect. I’ll find the Hammer. I will, I promise.”

  The street at the bottom of the hill was deserted. Endless rows of shacks stared back at him in the fuzzy darkness. As he wandered through the still quiet, his forehead creased with rumination. He tried to remember what his mother looked like, but no images surfaced. His mind was like an opaque swamp, tiny bubbles surfacing the only indication that something was alive in there. It was frustrating. He vaguely recalled his time in the orphanage, how he had overheard the caretaker refer to his parents as ‘wealthy’ and his grandfather as ‘legendary blacksmiths’. Larkin frowned. “Is that all I have to go on?” he asked himself. “What if Haldar is right? What if I’m wrong about wanting to be a blacksmith?”

  The back of the boy’s neck prickled as though an insect crawled up it. An innate feeling told him that someone was watching him from one of the shadows looming on the right. He squinted, seeing nothing, but nevertheless fearful that someone would attempt to kidnap him. Untethered boys were a commodity in Backwater: there were many uses for an orphan, especially if he was desperate. Larkin quickened his pace towards the centre, keeping inside the spotlight of the moon. It was safer in the village square because there was a giant firepit kept eternally lit to commemorate the Eternal Forge. And besides, the Iron Guild was located there.

  However, the shadows stemming from the shanties loomed over him likes jagged edges of a valley, or like knives in a mugging. Someone was following him. Larken broke into a cold sweat as he raced forward. With only the raggy clothes on his back, he could not afford the temperature to drop any further. Even though Backwater was in a desert, the nights were known to be icy. Forget kidnapping, the loitering would kill him.

  Just as he was about to break into a sprint, a twig snapped behind him. He whirled around, pale to the bones in his face. “Please don’t hurt me,” he stammered, shivering in terror.

  “Larkin,” breathed a girl’s voice.

  It was too dark to see clearly, but Larkin could still pick out the girl’s dainty form.

  “Mira?” Larkin gulped. “Are you alright?”

  “You won’t find what you’re looking for in the Iron Guild,” she replied, ignoring his question. “I know where the hammer is, and I can help you find it.”

  “You can?” blinked Larkin.

  “But you’ll owe me, blacksmith. Follow me.”

  Before the boy could respond, Mira seized his bare arm and yanked him the other way, back where he had come. Larkin was too weak to resist. He looked up at the stars cautiously, searching for signs of a storm. There were none that he could see. Nevertheless, Larkin wondered if he could trust a thief. This fear, however, dissipated along with his consciousness. For the next thirty or so minutes, he slipped in and out of a lucid state. All he could perceive, however, was it grew colder.

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  “Wait a minute,” he garbled, struggling against Mira’s grip. Every limb burned both hot and cold: his skin was frigid, yet his nerves were fiery.

  “We have to be quick before the sun rises,” she said, hauling him forward through a curtain of vines. Suddenly, the nightly air was disturbed by the buzzing of sneaky insects.

  Larkin’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Someone robbed Haldar’s shop,” he said. “Was it you?”

  “No,” Mira replied. “Now come on. It should be around here somewhere…” The young brunette searched the jungle clearing frantically.

  “But you’re a thief!”

  “I wouldn’t do such a thing!” snapped the young girl. “Forget about Haldar.”

  “No!” Larkin cried, pulling his arm back. “Let go!”

  “Listen to me, Larkin,” pleaded Mira. “The hammer is here!”

  Only slivers of moonlight made it through the dense, netted canopy. Fear had tightened around his neck like a coiled snake. He could not breathe. Larkin pried her hand off his wrist and made a run for it. He had lost his apprenticeship because of her, and now she wanted his life! His imagination was alive and haunting, pursuing him like a ravenous tiger; every rustling of leaves and vine made him shiver in terror, every patch of darkness like a sinkhole ready to steal his soul. And yet, the further he ran the more in his gut he felt it: the indefinable urge, the hunger.

  “Where are you going?” Mira called after him, her tone panicked.

  Larkin waded through the oversized foliage tirelessly. He realised quickly that separating from the one who had brought him here was a bad idea. His aimless wanderings eventually took him deeper into the jungle and away from both the girl and the entrance, though Larkin was not to know that. Suddenly, the crumbling remains of a pyramidic temple captured his attention.

  Its entrance was captivating. The darkness of the ancient doorway was unlike anything he had seen before. Within the fuzzy blackness, there was a stillness which felt alien to the boy. It was as though it had not been broken since the temple was built. Larkin leaned forward and peered into it cautiously, the lull of intense concentration blinding him.

  “Larkin!” shrieked Mira, stepping out of the foliage. When the young girl saw him, she breathed a sigh of relief. She clasped his shoulder, and said, “Don’t ask me how I know about this place.”

  With a scowl, he shrugged the brunette’s hand off and faced the entryway. He had to go in. Instinctively, he lurched forward and ran into the stoney space. It was colder than the nightly air as though the walls were made of large blocks of ice. Larkin shuddered, his heart thumping in his throat.

  “Wow,” exclaimed Mira suddenly from behind him, “you really are something.”

  Startled, Larkin looked behind his shoulder and saw the outline of the girl’s form. He frowned, and said, “I only meant a look.”

  “There could have been booby traps,” she said.

  “But there wasn’t.”

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “You didn’t have to follow me,” Larkin groaned.

  “Who else will?” she said. Each step was carefully considered, delicately placed as though she was well practiced to cautious walking. After a pause, she added, “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said with furrowed brows, shaking his head, “If you’re right and the hammer is here, then I’ll be able to restore Haldar’s workshop.”

  “You don’t even know where you are,” exclaimed Mira, “and yet you’re so confident… It’s infuriating, you know that?”

  “I don’t care,” answered Larkin, clenching his fists. “As long as I find the hammer nothing else matters.”

  “It’s here,” she said.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I…I just know,” Mira said with a shiver.

  The air was thick and stale, heavy with the immensity of ancient power which had been locked away for more than a millennium. Mira’s eyes flickered from wall to wall, unable to penetrate the thick curtains of darkness concealing the icons etched in its primordial stone. She did not dare to break that opaque barrier, however; instead, she kept her hands to her side, or clutched at her breast as though her heart could be stolen at any moment by forgotten spiritual forces.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Larkin. Sweat rolled off his cheek.

  Mira saw that he was jumpy, and she asked, “What’s got you so nervous?”

  “Nervous?”, he replied with a twitch, “Who’s nervous? Just an ordinary day, you know, entering a mysterious, crumbling ruin in search of long-lost treasure… all the while a thief at your back and gods knows what at the end.”

  A smirk came to her lips. “You’ll be able to craft anything you want,” she added, “and sell them for a killing…”

  “Yes,” mumbled Larkin.

  Suddenly, a tiny cut of gold appeared up ahead, interrupting the seamless darkness. Larkin’s eyes widened along with his chapped lips. He quickened his pace, suppressing the fear that swirled in his gut. The passage curved slightly to the left, and as he descended further into the temple the golden tear grew larger until it consumed the whole space. Soon, they walked basked in light as though before a sunset. And before long, the passageway opened into a vast chamber. In the centre stood a huge stone anvil, and upon it the source of the blinding light.

  “That’s the-”

  “The Hammer of the Eternal Forge,” whispered Larkin in awe, his eyes glittering with curiosity. His mind swirled with imagination of all the things he could craft with it.

  The Hammer was enormous; the handle was easily the size of his arm, and the head his own. Although Larkin had never been the tallest or the biggest among his peers, he had never been made conscious of his size until now. Like a siren song its aura drew him in. He stepped forward, embracing the call with widened eyes. The mossy limestone floor creaked as though they were about to give way at any moment. The Hammer head pulsed with dark mana, as though it synced in time with his heartbeat.

  Mira stopped abruptly at the entrance; she saw the hunger in the boy’s face and a primordial premonition buried her own desire for riches, and she tried to call out to him to stop, but the words got stuck in her throat. Quickly, she realised the little power she had over the boy now vanished like smoke. It was up to Larkin now to fulfil his destiny; the same destiny that inspired hers. But even so, doubt filled her. She wanted out of Backwater too.

  “This isn’t any ordinary hammer, Larkin. It’s dangerous,” she said, her voice cracking.

  Larkin advanced like a man under a spell. Even if he wanted to resist, he could not for very long. Nevertheless, the weight of Mira’s warning kept his hands at his waist. “Why is she cautioning me now? This is it. This is the key to everything. I can become the greatest blacksmith the Realm has ever seen. I’ll craft weapons that will reshape empires. I’ll forge tools that will create dynasties which will endure forever. Everyone will be forced to acknowledge me. Power beyond my wildest dreams… but,” he paused mid-thought suddenly, his hand hovering over the Hammer, “I-I-”

  Mira was under similar constraints. She saw Larkin’s hesitation, and the conviction for the Hammer fell away instantly. Her face grew pale. “Listen, Larkin,” she stammered, “let’s turn back.”

  “Who’s nervous now,” he said.

  “Larkin! I’m serious,” she said worriedly. “We could die…”

  “So be it,” Larkin muttered, his eyes clouded with the sweat from his brow.

  “Wait,” Mira said, racking her brain. A sudden gust of wind pushed her back as though the chamber wanted to silence her. “We know where it is now. We could sell the location to that wizard who wrecked your shop,” she added, the words pouring out of her like vomit. “I’m sure we’d make enough between the both of us.”

  The boy tore his eyes away and glared at the girl. “You’re supposed to be a thief,” he sneered.

  Before she could respond, a violent wind pushed her back. Larkin felt an insatiable urge to pick up the hammer. “Is this really the Hammer of the Eternal Forge?” he thought. The fire in his heart grew wild, and he clasped the handle. Immediately, a surge of indescribable power surged throughout his body. The Hammer vibrated like a drill, and it took all his strength to keep it from falling out of his hand. The longer he struggled to retain it, the easier it became until eventually it stopped all together fighting his grip. It was as if it was alive, and his conviction tamed it.

  Mira approached the boy slowly, and, without uttering a word, reached out to grab his shoulder; she saw the Hammer in his hand, and felt a crushing sensation in the pit of her stomach. The girl’s first feeling was despair at Larkin’s decision – even though she had led him to it; but she breathed a sigh of relief, for he seemed unharmed despite the legendary power in his grip. Her hand stopped in midair over Larkin’s shoulder blades. The relief fell quickly away, however, as she neared the Hammer. She shuddered.

  “I feel like I felt in the workshop,” she said meekly.

  “What do you mean?” asked Larkin.

  “That Twilight blade I asked you to craft… It feels like that… like a creepy, crawling sensation enveloping me.”

  As the power began to settle and calm within his body, he felt the easy warmth of childhood replace it. It was the kind of warmth which comforted one, which told him that the future was secure. He stood tall, wielding the Hammer as though he was born with it. The chamber echoed with every pulse of its dark mana. Everything he had ever wanted was now within reach. Larkin’s lips curled into a smile.

  Mira stared at him with an expression which seemed to indicate an indecisiveness: curiosity and foreboding waged war with each other inside. She examined Larkin carefully. He appeared to have grown in height. But what was on her lips surprised them both:

  “I have a blueprint.”

  Larken was taken aback. “You have what?”

  Mira reached into her trouser pocket and pulled out a blue piece of paper. She unfolded it nervously and held it up to eye level. Larkin examined it with his piercingly blue eyes.

  “How did you get that?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she stuttered, holding the blueprint shakily. “Can you craft it?”

  “Not without a forge,” he replied.

  Mira shifted her eyes to something behind him and Larkin followed her gaze. There was a giant furnace behind the anvil. It was similarly made of limestone. Larkin walked over to it, peering into it and saw that it was still stocked with firewood.

  “How long has this been here for?” he wondered.

  Mira took his arm. “Here,” she said, handing him her pocketknife. She also brought out of her satchel a grey, scaly stone and a patch of dry grass. Then she hesitated, and said with a gasp, “Oh, I almost forgot.”

  Larkin watched her walk over to the anvil and pull out from her satchel a small steel bar. “I’m confused,” he said, frowning. “You planned all this?”

  Mira did not stop cluttering the anvil, though her face was pale and shimmering with sweat. After she had emptied her satchel, she looked at him and said, “I want a new knife. But perhaps it was a mistake...”

  “No. Let’s see what it can do,” said Larkin, examining the Hammer in his hand. “Although, how can something so beautiful be a mistake?” he wondered silently.

  After lighting the metal bar in the fire, Larkin placed it on the anvil. He swung the Hammer over his shoulder, before hurling it down towards the anvil. Mira held her breath, watching with terror. The air around the head whistled earsplittingly.

  Instantly, the big Hammer slammed into the bar’s edge, flattening it into a molten pancake. The chamber screamed in a series of haunting echoes, as though a ghostly, ancient audience was entertained by the heroic swing of the blacksmith. Both children sweated profusely.

  “It only took one hit!” Larkin exclaimed with wide eyes. “That should be impossible.”

  “Maybe we should go,” whispered Mira anxiously. “This place is alive. It feels like we’re being watched.”

  “You told me to craft it,” said Larkin, readying for another swing. He glanced at her and saw that she was afraid. “There’s no turning back. I must finish what I’ve started.” Larkin slid the bar upwards. Once again, the Hammer came down like lightning, crushing the bar with a thunderous clap. The entire chamber reverberated.

  “Even if it kills you?” asked Mira, watching from the corner with a look of concern.

  The young blacksmith did not glance at the thief until he was finished with the craft. With every swing of the Hammer, Larkin felt his life force siphon away. Nevertheless, he carried on with a determination that would have frightened even Haldar. After he had forged a tang of the steel bar, his breath became hoarser, his muscles weaker.

  “Take a rest, Larkin,” Mira said.

  “No rest for the wicked,” Larkin replied grimly, heating the steel again.

  To the boy’s surprise, he had found a grinding wheel hidden in the corner of the chamber which he used to sharpen the knife's edges. The power of the Hammer still lingered within him all throughout the craft, imbuing him with a crafting instinct he had always associated with Haldar; the knife, therefore, came out the sharpest of all the knives he had ever crafted. It was impossibly sharp.

  He held it up to the girl with the tongues and examined it with wonder. All in all, it took him only an hour – something which should have taken him twenty. The only reason he had managed the Eclipseris in six was because of the abundance of mana potions, something which he could not afford to repeat without becoming addicted. Nothing, however, prepared him for the quality of the craft. It was a small dagger. Its hilt was leathered in thick oxblood, etched with forgotten runes. The char black blade swam in the golden light of the Hammer, reflecting it like a mirror at night, casting a series of shockingly white, spiralling lines.

  “The Soulrend...,” said Mira in astonishment, walking over to get a closer look. “It’s said to be able to pierce even the strongest of armours.” She pointed to the ghostly spirals, “You know why they shift?”

  Larkin shook his head.

  “They say the Soulrend isn’t fully bound to the material world,” she said. “Those lines are mirrors into the outside world. A place beyond ours. It’s fascinating, isn’t it?... When it strikes, it tears not just flesh but the very essence of a person, causing an agony far exceeding that of this existence-” she broke off, running to the side wall. She traced her hand over its shadowy contents with a delirious smile. Engravings carved thousands of years ago seemed to melt underneath her fingertips. “My father was an anthropologist...I think. That’s what they told me, anyway.” Although the light from the Hammer illuminated the chamber, the limestone engravings were hidden as though the temple itself did not want to reveal all its ancient secrets.

  “Who’s they?”

  Suddenly, the chamber shook violently. The dagger slipped out of the tongue, falling to the flood with a clang. He stumbled back, the air escaping out of his lungs, and fell to the floor. Mira ran to him, pale with guilt.

  “I should have never brought you here,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?” he gasped. “I have the Hammer!” he smiled emphatically.

  “But at what cost?” exclaimed the girl. Without thinking, she grasped the Soulrend. The muscles in her palm immediately clamped and seized. “Ouch!” she cried, tears instantly mounting her cheeks. The dagger was still blisteringly hot. “I told you,” she whined, “I told you that it was a bad idea. Damn you, Larkin!”

  The boy still held onto the Hammer. “If you don’t like it, then leave,” he said bitingly. “But I’m going to keep crafting, even if it kills me,” he grunted, his face contorting into a horrifying wince.

  Mira gazed at him hesitatingly, and replied, “If you can craft mythical weapons like the Soulrend, then I’d be a fool to leave you alone... You’ll need someone to have your back.” she smiled, adding, “and I’m that fool.”

  Larkin saw the glint in the thief’s eyes and frowned. “What is she really after?” he wondered. Over her shoulder, the forge flickered and crackled. It called to him. A similar fire roared in his chest, wanting to join with the forge. But this forge was not the Eternal Forge. His hand, which gripped tightly the Hammer, trembled with excitement.

  “At what cost?” Mira’s words rang faint in his mind, drowned out by the hissing crackle of the consuming forge.