The forge chamber hummed with an oppressive, ancient power. Molten, simmering rock closed in, sweltering the children; the golden light of the Hammer failing to penetrate the mysterious shadows curtaining the walls. Mira leaned against the jamb of the entrance, her hand brushing the dagger at her hip. It was still hot, though, but she told herself that burnt hands were better than being dead. Her eyes drifted to the forge, the thought making her smile: she would sooner throw her hands in the fire than let anyone else in Backwater get ahold of the Hammer or find the forge guarding it. Even so, she valued her life more than anything and wouldn’t risk it by being party to the robbery of a cursed artifact. Not that a person could die in the Realm; but as every lawbreaker came to know, a life could be made unlivable very easily.

  The cries of the fire were distracting. As Mira stared deeply into the forge, the jagged scar across her lip tinged with fire. She raised her fingertip and touched it lightly: a knife fight gone wrong. A long time ago, she had tried to locate her parents, who had given her up to the orphanage just like Larkin, by finding and holding up every adult connected to the ‘Veil’ to the blade for information. Although Backwater was a mere trading post on the outskirts of the empire, it was the centre of criminal activity. It was rife with illicit trade, particularly that of the human variety; and the Veil was the centre of it all. Even thinking of it years later made Mira’s blood boil with rage; how close she had gotten to finding out the truth. But she was forced to learn that adults only listened to coin. Even so, no amount of coin was worth living life as a thief. She would make one final score and get out. Larkin was her get-out-of-jail free card.

  “You’re really going to kill us, aren’t you?” she said bitterly, her eyes flickering uneasily across all four shadowy corners of the chamber before settling back on Larkin. She was unwilling to let him out of sight.

  “Leave it to the only other orphan in Backwater who isn’t afraid to be seen with me to tell me to stop trying to escape his destiny,” Larkin groaned. He stood at the forge.

  Mira rolled her eyes, and scoffed, “I’m not trying to hold you back from your destiny; but I do want to stop you from making a terrible mistake. And besides, you’re all alone thinking that.”

  “Thinking what?”

  “Thinking that I’m not afraid to be seen with you...” she smirked, adding, “I mean, hello? Not once have we hung out in public. Always in the outskirts of town.” She started tapping her foot impatiently. “Come on, Larkin, we have to go.”

  “Why are you rushing me all of a sudden?” asked Larkin, peering into the forge.

  “You’ve been staring into that forge for the past hour; I’m afraid you’re going to fall in and get burned.”

  “Ha. Ha,” replied Larkin sarcastically.

  “I’m serious,” continued Mira, “the hunger for power can’t be good for your immortal flesh.”

  “That stuff is just there to discourage orphans from Backwater from bettering themselves,” said Larkin.

  “Even so...” Mira let her head drop, “I know what it’s like to chase it. It doesn’t end well.”

  “You feel the same temptation?” Larkin asked with a grin.

  Larkin’s body was frail, drained of all his mana. He refused to let go of the Hammer, however. Instead, he dragged it across the floor, the head scraping against the stoney floor in a chill-sending screech, which did all but amuse the sour-faced brunette. As he passed the ancient anvil, showing no signs of returning the Hammer to its resting place, Larkin saw the anvil shift slightly. He blinked in astonishment.

  “Please tell me you saw that too,” Mira said, suddenly pale with fear. “I think it wants you to put it back.”

  “Over my dead body,” grunted Larkin, continuing away from the forge. His forehead was filled with perspiration, although he was hesitant to wipe it away. He followed Mira’s inquisitive eyes to the stone files and wondered with her what lay simmering underneath their feet.

  “Supposedly, this chamber sits atop a river of flowing fire,” said Mira.

  Larkin ignored her, too oppressed by his ruminations. “Without the Hammer I’ll become a nobody again,” he thought, haunted by Haldar’s past criticisms. Although Mira shared the same opinion, the fact that his master, who he saw as a surrogate father, discouraged his ambition crushed him greatly. The word, ‘inadequate’ echoed in his mind. “Do I even have what it takes to wield the Hammer? Maybe Mira is right... maybe an orphan from Backwater doesn’t have what it takes.”

  Mira glanced at the dark passageway over her shoulder, watching for any sign of untoward disturbance of its opaque blackness. She gulped. As soon as she turned back, however, the fire in the forge was snuffed out; and so was the Hammer. The chamber was thrown into chaotic darkness. Instantly, her heart and mind went into overdrive.

  “Larkin!” she cried, her eyes scrambling for any sign of movement.

  “I’m still here,” he replied exhaustedly.

  “Leave it, Larkin! We have to get out of here,” returned Mira, offering her hand to the boy in the darkness.

  “No way. We’ve come too far to abandon it now,” he said.

  Suddenly, the forge was relit; light returned to the chamber, albeit in a dimmer, melancholic form. Instead of gold, the vast chamber was an autumn amber. Behind the anvil stood a tall, large old man, draped head to foot in shadow as though he was a statue chiseled from obsidian; his eyes, though hidden from view, were nonetheless felt by everybody in the room. The back of Larkin’s neck crawled instantly like grotesque, exploratory fingers. And like fingers uninvited, the old man’s gaze lingered on the boy far too long. It weighed heavily on him.

  “Let go of the Hammer,” whispered Mira desperately. Her hand hovered over the Soulrend while her other beckoned the boy into the passage.

  Larkin turned around, still clasping the Hammer fervently, and returned the stare. The air between them thickened with the stifling heat radiating from every corner of the chamber. His knees buckled and then collapsed under him. The blacksmith, who had always been sensitive to the heat, ragged at his sweat-drenched collar. As he knelt on the floor, he was instantly taken back to his time as an apprentice under Haldar. The stranger’s gaze reminded him of the old man’s harsh judgements. Yet he did not let go of the handle.

  The forge keeper's voice boomed, “Are you prepared to pay the price for what you seek?”

  Every object in the chamber, from the anvil to the spinning wheel in the corner, seemed to shake violently at his words. The boy’s hands tightened around the Hammer, his eyes flickering with the amber firelight of the forge. All the memories of his past failures in Haldar’s workshop flooded his mind. The walls echoed with Haldar’s biting taunts. Like a ticking clock, the words, “you’re not enough’ reverberated in his head. Hesitatingly, he let go of the handle, lowering his head.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Mira stepped forward, holding fast against the keeper’s fierce gaze. It pushed against her with judgement like a strong wind. “Larkin...” she said, her voice soft yet firm, “let it go. We can still walk away from this.”

  “The Forge grants power at a cost. Are you prepared to pay it?” the keeper asked again.

  “Neither Mira nor Haldar know how much the Hammer means to me,” Larking thought, “it represents strength, transformation, and revenge... I can’t bear to live a life of quiet desperation any longer! I will find my parents; even if it kills me.”

  Mira saw the boy raise his head defiantly and grabbed him by the shoulders. She started to shake him. “Do you truly believe that the Hammer will fix everything for you?” she snapped in despair. “Is it worth losing everything? Look at you, after one use you’re a shriveled mess.”

  “I have nothing else to lose,” Larkin replied weakly. “Mira... this is my chance to do something with my life. To make it mean something. To become something great.”

  The thief hissed, gripping her dagger tightly. She spun around and faced the keeper, snarling. “Who are you!” she demanded. “You can keep your damn hammer!”

  The forge keeper seemed amused, for it smiled. “You brought him here, did you not?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “- to find the Hammer of the Eternal Forge...”

  “Yes, but...” she said, her shoulders slump and her forehead drenched with nerves, “...but I only wanted him to craft the Soulrend.”

  “What?” Larkin blinked. “No,” he said, furrowing his brows, “I’m keeping the Hammer.”

  Mira glanced at him with guilt, and said, “but this Soulrend will net us a fortune. Why risk everything?”

  Before Larkin could object, the forge keeper answered: “The Hammer seeks not those dogged by the desire for riches.”

  “Then who does it seek?” asked Mira with a face clouded in desperation. She turned to Larkin, and said, “Come on, let’s go. We can split the profits fifty-fifty. What do you say?” The tone of her voice was one of desperate bargaining. Her own master at the Thief’s guild would have whipped her for the shameful display.

  “Mira,” Larkin said, tugging at her cloak weakly. “I need this.”

  “This isn’t right,” she said worriedly. “You don’t know what that Hammer will cost you. What’s worth losing yourself for?”

  Larkin’s amber eyes narrowed. His fingers coiled around the handle of the Hammer. Immediately, the head burst again with pulsing gold, illuminating the chamber once again magnificently. Upon the anvil sparks started to dance like fiery puppets in front of the forge. Distant voices, soft and insidious, began to call out his name from behind the walls.

  Mira readied herself. She pulled the Soulrend out of her hoist and held it in a reverse grip, her eyes darting from side to side. As a thief, she was more than capable of defending herself. However, it was another matter when it came to another person, and she shuddered imagining all the possibilities of an attack in a cursed temple. “This better be worth the coin,” she muttered. Her eyes fell upon Larkin. She saw regret flicker briefly in his eyes.

  “The Hammer knows longing. It answers to those who share its burden,” the Keeper announced.

  The whispers grew louder, and Larkin could not differentiate between his own thoughts and those of the ancients. All he knew was that he wanted to be the greatest blacksmith the Realm had ever seen. He rose to his feet, wielding the Hammer. Instantaneously, the fire behind the keeper roared, screaming his name a thousand times.

  Mira, unwilling to face the forge, felt her scar burn anew. She watched helplessly as Larkin, raising the Hammer out in front of him, said the words that she dreaded:

  “I, Larkin Forgeheart, claim the Hammer of the Eternal Forge!”

  Immediately, his weakened body was instantly aswarm with flickering electric-blue sparks. His palm burned blisteringly white, as though the handle seared deeply his flesh. Mira’s eyes were opened to their fullest extent, witnessing the boy struggle to let go of the Hammer; but it seemed as if he was the one being gripped. She let out a gasp, anything else refusing to leave her heart-clogged throat. Her protestations were useless, now. Even so, and despite her illicit profession, she stepped forward, clutching the Soulrend.

  “You aren’t ready for this power,” Mira said, flatly, “you’ll lose yourself.”

  The forge keeper advanced, intercepting the thief, and placed his hand on Larkin’s shoulder. “You are chosen. The Hammer and the Forge are now a part of you. Your fate is sealed,” he said.

  Larkin gazed into the molten forge behind the keeper. In the fire, he saw the flames slowly reflect back a warped face. At that point, he realised that he had ceased to be the boy that he once was, replaced by something else. Mira’s words echoed in his mind, resonating with him deeply. He had lost himself. Suddenly, the fire died, and Larkin was brought to one knee by the sheer weight of the Hammer. He tried to resist, but his knee was nailed to the stone slab.

  He saw the dagger quickly vanish from the girl’s white hand and into the silhouetted body of the looming keeper. Yet, when Mira let go of the Soulrend, it dropped to the floor instantly like a pebble. The keeper, however, remained standing. As for the thief, she faltered, exchanging a look of horror with Larkin.

  Not a word was spoken.

  Mira retreated to the jamb, her foot lingering on the edge. Her eyes were fixed on the young blacksmith, unable to tear themselves away from the spectral chain emerging from the handle. It bound the boy’s wrist like a golden handcuff. Larkin rose to his feet slowly, the Hammer’s weight dispersing across his body. The stone underneath his bare feet cracked. His muscles, as hard and as dense as the stone walls which loomed over him, pulsed in time with the fading light of the Hammer. It was now a part of his being. With every beat of his heart, Larkin’s skin shimmered faintly. His eyes, too, burst with molten gold.

  “It is only the beginning,” the forge keeper declared, unphased by Mira’s attack. “The path before you now is inevitable.”

  “Don’t think I’ll save you if this goes wrong,” Mira said. She felt attacked on every side by mysterious shadows now that the forge had gone out; however, it perturbed her that they were not visible. “No one can change their fate in Backwater,” she added.

  “I didn’t ask to be saved,” Larkin responded coolly, a faint, hallow smile appearing on his lips.

  Mira held her gaze, pondering the change in Larkin for a few moments. "There’s nothing that I can do to change your mind?” she asked. Mira then sighed, seeing the boy’s resolve written on his face. “I might not be able to save you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still be there by your side.”

  Larkin strode towards the exit, his mind driven with purpose. “With this Hammer,” he thought, “I have the power to reunite with my parents, to avenge the humiliation of my master, and to stand up to the wizard should he threaten me or my friends again.”

  At once the forge spluttered into life again, illuminating the shadowy figures skulking the walls. Shadows stretched behind the young blacksmith like cultists following their leader blindly. With every step the orange spears of the forge rose to new heights, casting an even greater silhouette of the boy with the Hammer. Struggling to differentiate Larkin from his shadows was bad enough, but Mira’s small mouth hung open in surprise as the flames stretched with yearning towards their new master like a crowd of screaming fans, seemingly joining with the crafter’s chiseled flesh. The fire warped into a portrait of a strange man.

  “What happens if he loses himself to the Hammer’s power?” Mira asked the forge keeper.

  The keeper smiled, and said, “Then the Forge will choose again.”

  “Larkin, you don’t have to prove yourself,” Mira said half-heartedly.

  The blacksmith ignored her, pressing onto his destination. Despite her fear, the thief glanced at the forge. “I won’t let you get me too,” she said.

  In an instant, the young girl raised her hand to her chest. She stared fixedly at the looming old man, rubbing the wrist that was pressed against her heart furiously. As if the keeper commanded it, the fire lashed violently, exposing the tattoo beneath Mira’s thumb: it was of a storm cloud.

  “Your fates are intertwined,” the keeper said.

  Larkin stood at the exit. Mira stepped aside, her eyes lingering on the boy who had just miraculously grown several inches. Before they had entered the chamber, she was the same height as him. Now, she had to raise her chin in conversation. As soon as his broad shoulder brushed past her chest, her cheeks crimsoned. Although she had always found Larkin not quite the ugliest of Backwater’s boys, the growth spurt made her think differently about him all of a sudden. Mira could not take her eyes off him, with or without the Hammer, as he walked unflinchingly into the dark passageway alone. Rubbing the storm cloud one last time, Mira ran after him.