Haldar’s eyes opened, casting a scrutinising glance over everything in the workshop. The air inside the crackling forge thrummed faintly with power, something which only he seemed to notice. It was not the heat of the forge, for that was always terrible. Nor was it the size of the flames, for they usually loomed large when they had just been fed. No, it was the boy, that damn boy. ‘It’s happening again, isn’t it?’ he thought. With each fiery wisp his eyes narrowed with suspicion, something which Larkin would have seen had the front door been open like it was supposed to be in the morning. Since that was not the case, Haldar simply crossed his arms in silence and watched the faint silhouette of his stubborn apprentice as it hammered at the metal on the anvil with fervent pace.

  ‘Foolishness,’ he thought, gripping the ragged edges of his leather apron with his trembling hands, ‘If only he knew the danger...’

  Across from Haldar’s chair, Larkin had his back to the spitting, spluttering forge; restless and never weary, the sparks flew dangerously close to the boy’s feet, and even to Haldar’s. As one arched in the air, Haldar could observe through its brief illumination Larkin’s creased, crimson forehead, filled to the brim with perspiration. There was no doubt that the boy was deeply focused on his craft. The strange hum of the forge only intensified the obsessive, rhythmic clang of metal-on-metal echoing through the room. Haldar had always known this crazed persistence, even going so far as to condemn it whenever he could. But this time it was different. It was difficult to put a finger upon, but it was different, nonetheless. It was the way the boy struck the iron, the way the sparks that flew seemed…different somehow. Again, he could not put a finger on it. And that drove him up the walls. He clenched his fists, fighting his desire to find out why the sparks seemed to linger in the air for a moment longer than they should have, like floating embers…

  A loud clang jolted Haldar from his trance.

  Larkin’s hammer hung in the air momentarily, his scowl frozen in place like a wax figure. His jaw was tightly clenched, and his teeth gritted. Beside him, Mira leaned forward from the bed of straw and smirked.

  “Getting closer,” she taunted, her voice light. “Only bent halfway this time.”

  Without so much as a response, Larkin reached down and picked up the next piece of metal. By now, he had gone through close to a hundred rods of scrap iron. The boy was too focused, too eager. It was as if he thought that the Forge could be bullied into submission. Haldar cringed as he watched the Hammer fall again with a colossal clank.

  ‘He’s just like I was – impatient, blind to what the Forge demands,’ thought the master blacksmith, fighting back the urge to grab Larkin’s arm before it could strike again. ‘He has to learn on his own. I’m not his keeper,’ he told himself, shaking his head. The boy’s hunger reminded him too much of his past self. ‘I can’t let him fall. But I can’t stop him either...’ The guilt swimming in his gut was too much to bear.

  The old man cleared his throat loudly. Mira straightened. Larkin, however, adjusted the iron bar on the anvil and kept hammering.

  “Rushing won’t make the metal listen,” he muttered under his breath.

  Suddenly, the spectral chain on the boy’s wrist pulsed. A warm current of energy surged up his arm, tingling through his veins. For a moment, the thrum of the forge grew louder, and the Hammer glowed electrifyingly blue. Larkin took a deep breath and, without thinking, brought the Hammer down upon the blade. As soon as it made contact with the iron bar, an eerie, blue light flashed across the blade, fading as quickly as it came. Larkin blinked, his eyes wide with confusion. For several seconds he stared in amazement. The bar had flattened perfectly. It was if the Hammer had communicated to the iron. Larkin paused, wondering if his eyes were deceiving him.

  Mira stared in shock. Haldar, however, merely narrowed his eyes. He had seen this once before. It was a rare occurrence for sure, but he had experienced enough strange phenomena in his lifetime to not be spooked by a mere flash of light. He leaned closer, stroking his beard, and peered at the iron. ‘Not bad…’ he thought in amusement, ‘but luck rarely holds. It’s too soon. He’s not ready for this kind of power. But can I trust him with the truth? The last time I trusted...’ Haldar grimaced, turning away from the orphans with clenched fists, ‘I won’t allow him to make the same mistake!’

  “What’s it doing?” asked Mira, also leaning forward from her position on the bed.

  “I-I don’t know,” stammered Larkin. “The blade… it’s glowing!”

  Mira peered at the blade and frowned. “I can’t see anything,” she said. “But your bracelet is glowing.”

  Larkin’s face contorted unpleasantly as he held the Hammer ahigh, trembling with excitement. The blade was glowing blue. He turned to Haldar, and asked, “What just happened?”

  “That chain on your wrist,” the old man replied, “is channelling mana into your Hammer. There’s considerably more power in there now.”

  “It’s from all those horseshoes,” Larkin said. “Every time I crafted a horseshoe it felt like my Hammer was getting stronger.”

  “Careful,” Mira said, “it looks unstable.”

  The boy’s eyes widened with delight, ignoring Mira’s warning. No sooner had he heard this explanation that he became more emboldened. His eyes narrowed on the edges of the glowing blade. The longer he stared, the more the iron seemed to ripple like liquid. Before long, certain sections became still, while others continued to flow aggressively. For the first time since wielding the Hammer, Larkin felt his senses heightened above normal. It was much like he felt when he had consumed all those mana potions.

  “You’re seeing this right?” Larkin said.

  “Seeing what?” Mira asked.

  “It’s… not normal,” he said.

  ‘This is how it starts. The allure, the power. It’s too much,’ thought Haldar, his pulse quickening.

  He swung the Hammer down upon the rippling portions. The strike was more deliberate than the last. Soon, Larkin was lost in the rhythm of hammering. The Hammer rose and fell, each time causing the metal to shiver considerably as though it was alive. Whenever he knew from previous experience that the metal needed heating, something inside of him resisted from throwing it into the forge. Instead, he trusted his gut. At any other time, cold metal would have cracked instantly under the heavy weight of a hammer strike - especially from the brute force Larkin always threw behind his - but this time, for whatever reason, it did not. The imperfections in the blade smoothened. But it was unusual, for the edges warped in ways that Larkin had never seen before. The metal should have resisted; yet it yielded.

  Larkin glanced at his master with furrowed brows. “What’s happening?” he asked, pausing for a moment.

  Suddenly, everything in the forge slowed to a grinding halt. The hum of the forge pulsed in his veins. His senses had become superhuman. The longer he held the Hammer in the air, the hotter his hand became. It soon burned almost as hot as the forge hissing behind him. Still, the boy held on, for he refused to let go of the Hammer. Yet, he hesitated in striking even though his palms were blistered. For a split second his attention was focused on these fluid-filled sacs. Wielding the Hammer had already destroyed his skin. Only a day had passed, but it had already disfigured his skin. And it was not likely that his hand would return to normal, for Larkin had no plans to cease hammering anytime soon.

  The Hammer ripped the air as it came hurtling down. Before it had connected, however, the metal seemed to rise and ripple in the air like a giant molten tsunami. It shimmered, its surface a translucent sheen. As soon as the Hammer struck, the warping metal came crashing down with a huge splash, only for it to rise again when he lifted the tool. Every time he struck, it bent and stretched more and more out of shape. It was as though it was following some sort of strange, ancient rhythm which Larkin could not quite grasp. The blade twisted and solidified rapidly in his hand, into a form that was unrecognisable.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Mira raised her eyebrows. It was unmistakable now: there was a blue glow around the blade. It was an outline. She leaned in, her voice barely audible, and said, “That’s…not normal, right?”

  “It’s…not,” grunted Larkin, holding the Hammer as high he could over the anvil. It began to vibrate tremendously, as if it was channelling mana from the surrounding air. The spectral chain tightened around his wrist. Larkin gritted his teeth, the strength quickly draining out of him.

  “Stop, Larkin!” Mira gasped. Her eyes gazed upon the boy in amazement; she was accustomed to disapproving of Larkin’s obsessive, imprudent nature, yet was surprised to find that this time her protest was born not out of envy, but of a gut-wrenching superstitious feeling.

  “I…will…craft…” Larkin said breathlessly.

  “But the Hammer!” cried Mira.

  “I can do it,” he said with a wince. Sweat mounted his brow, causing his vision to blur. The Hammer now felt as heavy as a brick. He struggled desperately to keep it from falling onto his head.

  “Put it down, Larkin, please,” begged Mira. She turned to Haldar, tears swelling in her eyes, and said, “Aren’t you going to do something?”

  Haldar observed the forge carefully with a calculating expression, all the while continuing to stroke his lengthy beard. Then his eyes jerked to the boy. Although Larkin was a nuisance, he was his nuisance. The old man had a responsibility for the orphan, even if he did not like him all that much. And besides, the boy’s persistence and implausible dreams forced a passage to his heart. The greatsword was not worth the loss of such an apprenticeship.

  “Larkin, that’s enough,” Haldar said finally.

  “It’s never enough,” Larkin replied, staring at the almost finished blade in his hand.

  “No,” Haldar said, standing up from his chair, “that’s an order. You’ll kill yourself if you carry on.”

  A massive grin appeared on Larkin’s face. It was followed by a flash of madness which would make even the gods shudder in their graves. Mira was no longer sure whether Larkin was listening. He seemed too intent on completing what he had started, even if it cost him his life.

  “You’re impossible!” snapped Mira. She placed herself at the door of the workshop and opened it, letting the morning light pour through. The cold blast of air supplanted the staleness of the forge, filling the girl’s lungs. She coughed and stepped outside, letting the door swing shut.

  ‘I can’t lose him. Not like this. What will people say of me, then? That I let my apprentice suffer the same fate?’

  The spectral chain continued to tighten painfully around Larkin’s wrist. His grip weakened. Scarcely had one finger left the handle did he notice the small crack in the bottom of the blade. But when he did the whole metal started cracking like an avalanche of glass. Before he could form a thought, the fire burst into enormous flame, scolding the back of his neck with its whip-like motion. The anvil cracked. Larkin struggled to regain control of the Hammer, but it was too late: the Hammer had slipped out of his hand.

  Larkin screamed.

  “Stupid!” Haldar growled, snatching the Hammer away. “The forge gives, but it takes twice as much back if you aren’t ready,” he said, but the words felt hallow.

  ‘Am I really trying to protect him, or am I just afraid of what I might unleash again?’ Haldar thought, his throat tightening.

  The door burst open. Mira stepped into the forge; her eyes immediately pulled to the boy. He was not the confident blacksmith she had known just a minute ago. Instead, he was barehanded. Haldar’s dark scowl hovered over him.

  “I nearly did it,” Larkin cried in frustration, “I nearly did it.” He fell on the fractured anvil, resting his head in his hands.

  “I knew this would be a mistake,” Haldar said, shaking his head.

  “What? You could have just let the Hammer drop,” growled Larkin.

  “You’re no use to anyone brain damaged!”

  “Are you alright?” Mira asked.

  Without waiting for Larkin to protest, Mira stepped forward and placed her hand on his arm. She inspected the fading blue veins which had pulsed so furiously while he was crafting.

  “What are these?” she asked Haldar.

  “Have a guess,” he replied.

  “Mana?” she raised her eyebrows.

  Haldar slapped the back of the boy’s head. “Good thing she’s got a brain,” he said, “you’re too busy crushing yours.”

  Larkin rubbed the back of his head, and said with a wince, “I don’t know what happened... I thought I was improving things – not breaking them!”

  “You could have lost a hand – or worse,” Mira said exasperatedly.

  Haldar folded his arms, remaining silent and pensive, and stared at the boy fixedly. He hardly knew what to make of his stubborn apprentice, or what to do. The boy’s eyes, however, intrigued him; for there was fire in them.

  ‘Is that how I looked when I first tried to wield it? What if I’m wrong? I don’t want him to suffer like I did. But he has to make his own choices,” thought Haldar.

  “I’m fine,” muttered Larkin with a shrug.

  The old man knelt beside the anvil. He ran his calloused fingers along the break. With a sigh, his eyes flickered to Larkin. “The Eternal Forge doesn’t play favourites,” he said gruffly, laying the Hammer down. “If it responds to you, it means something. But don’t think that makes you special. The forge doesn’t care about you – it only cares about what you’re willing to give it.”

  “Larkin’s too proud to listen,” Mira said.

  “‘Am not,” Larkin growled.

  “Are too,” she chuckled.

  While they were arguing, Haldar walked over to his side of the shop and fetched something from underneath his bed. He brought it over and placed it on the cracked anvil. ‘Will this boy make the same mistake I did?’ he thought.

  “Where’s this come from?” Larkin asked.

  “Bought it from the market earlier,” wheezed Haldar. The short trip had clearly decimated his lungs. “Start again. Slowly this time.”

  Larkin looked at him blankly.

  “Iron is brittle,” Haldar said, annoyed at the boy’s dim-wittedness. “Have you learned nothing these past four years?”

  “Clearly,” sneered Mira.

  Larkin scowled at Mira, before being absorbed by the shiny metal. He passed his hand over it. It was not that he had never seen steel before; in fact, he had watched Haldar craft with it plenty of times in the past. His interest was piqued because steel had never crossed his anvil before.

  “Won’t the Hammer just break the steel as well?” Larkin asked, his voice laden with disbelief.

  “Maybe,” Haldar said, “but you have to learn someday if you’re going to become a blacksmith.”

  “I’m already a blacksmith,” said Larkin with a frown.

  “A proper one I mean,” replied Haldar, “one worth his metal.”

  Larkin could not help but smile as he gazed longingly at the steel rod, imagining the quality of weapons he could craft with the stronger alloy. His eyes, dimmed as they were, then drifted to the Hammer, and his smile slowly faded as quickly as it had come. It was his legs that stopped him more than anything else, for they buckled under him, and he would have collapsed had not the anvil supported him.

  “What’s the advantages of using steel over iron?” Mira asked.

  Before Haldar even opened his mouth, Larkin blurted, “Steel is stronger, obviously.”

  “That’s what Haldar has just said.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s all there is to it!” exclaimed Larkin, his cheeks burning hotly. He picked up the Hammer.

  “Wait,” said Haldar; “Sharp with intent, not impatience."

  With caution, Larkin struck the rod gently. The Hammer flickered blue when it hit the metal. This time, however, Larkin refused to give into his inclination to add more force to his strikes. Instead, he listened to the sound the steel made and responded accordingly. Two hours had elapsed, and in that time his face had sweated and wrinkled considerably. For some reason, it took more strength to restrain his striking than it did when he pounded the metal in fury. His blows remained slow and deliberate.

  ‘He’s got potential. But it’s not just about the craft...’ Haldar thought. ‘Maybe he can in fact avoid the path I walked...’

  As the afternoon dragged on, the heat became unbearable for the girl not accustomed to the lifestyle of a blacksmith. She was in and out of the smithy constantly, unsure whether her pale skin fared better in the midday sun than to the lashing flames of the forge. Regardless of her own state, she was always preoccupied with Larkin’s, for he looked as though he was about to faint every time she stepped into the workshop. Mira could only offer him a towel, however, because Larkin refused to take a break.

  ‘Is this really the right choice?’ Haldar turned away, pensively. The shadows over in his corner of the forge cried out. He opened his mouth to speak, but the sight of the boy’s determination stopped him.

  Slowly but surely, Larkin was able to compress the steel evenly. The edges, likewise, were uniform in appearance. Haldar caught his arm mid-swing, inspecting the shaped steel. There were no cracks to speak of. ‘I can’t shield him from this forever,’ he thought. Haldar grunted approvingly and walked back to the chair in the centre of the workshop.

  The sun was in its decline when Mira stepped into the forge for the final time. She saw that Larkin’s posture was straighter than before. While the thirst for glory still glinted in Larkin's eyes, she noticed that his swings were more measured now. The satisfaction on his face was palpable. Mira threw the sweat-drenched boy a towel.

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” she teased. “Finally, we can put the forge out. I’ve been roasting all day.”

  Larkin returned the grin as he wiped his face. “The forge never goes out,” he said.

  “So... how’d it go?” Mira asked.

  “I’m well chuffed,” Larkin replied, his smile growing wider.

  “He’s got a long way to go,” laughed Haldar, addressing the girl, “But... maybe he’s not hopeless.”

  ‘This isn’t about me anymore. This is about him. He’s got a long way to go. But maybe...just maybe he can make it. And when he does, I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him everything.’

  Larkin was sure that there was an imperceptible smile underneath the old man's beard; after all, his eyes were glinting like never before.