“What does it look like I’m doing?” scoffed Larkin as he threw down the Hammer upon the steel hilt he had started earlier. “If I stop for even a moment, I won’t succeed in becoming anything worthwhile. Swords don’t craft themselves.”

  It was barely an hour after the fight with the Obsidian Watch, and Larkin had already employed Anara to help him with the finishing touches, as though he could not survive without molten metal to bend to his will, nor the energy of the Eternal Forge coursing through his veins. The fire behind them was in uproar once again.

  “But this isn’t normal for a boy your age,” said Anara, shaking her head. Every so often her eyes flickered between the forge, the boy, and the rune. “Being obsessed with becoming a great blacksmith... I’ve never heard anything as ludicrous in my entire life,” she murmured.

  She retracted her hand suddenly, and she stretched her fingers. It took great concentration to maintain her Rune Etching skill for as long as she did. It was hard enough switching from her Basic Infusion skill to this one.

  “What do you know about what’s normal for me?” Larkin snapped. He paused his Hammer and glared at the woman. “You’re from the south of the empire. What do you know about being an orphan?”

  Anara curled her lips. She reminded herself that he was twenty centuries her junior.

  “I’ve read many books and-”

  Larkin belted the handle into shape; the clang echoed against all four walls of the chamber. “Save it. Those who have time to read and write books will never know what’s it like to suffer.”

  “That’s preposterous!” scolded Anara. “Every human suffers something; maybe the degree to which they suffer is different but-”

  “Everyone suffers?” repeated Larkin in alarm, clenching his jaw, “I promise you: an enchanteress doesn’t suffer half of what the rest of us do.”

  Anara gasped. “Enchantment is a legitimate form of magic!” she cried, furrowing her brows. “As young as you are, you sound just like my mother. She struggles to understand that enchantment can just be as powerful as ordinary spellcasting. But how can I expect anything different? She comes from an unbroken line of sorceresses – all serving in the imperial army. My father, on the other hand, was a blacksmith-”

  “He was a blacksmith?” Larkin interrupted excitedly.

  “Yes, he was...”

  “What happened?"

  “My mother – that's what!” cried Anara. “She convinced him to give up the crafting profession altogether... Part of the reason I signed up for this job was to get back behind an anvil again.” Her face softened. “It reminds me of my childhood.”

  “Why not just become a blacksmith, then?” Larkin asked.

  Anara smiled. “Blacksmiths may be able to imbue their weapons with magical properties, but enchanters can take it a step further.”

  “But enchantments aren’t permanent,” Larkin said exasperatedly.

  “Battles aren’t meant to last forever,” Anara said; the hope is that the enchantment helps to end the fighting quickly and decisively. My fusion of enchantment and blacksmithing techniques will hopefully pave a way for a new development in crafting that will get me my family’s respect.”

  Outside the ancient forge, hacking her way through the giant, pulsing palm leaves which shielded the temple from being discovered until the very last moment, Mira emerged from the jungle onto the plain carrying a heavy sack filled with crafting materials. Although her build was small and lean, and her eyes sometimes playful and mischievous, she gave the impression of a firecracker whenever she wielded her Soulrend. Perhaps that was why she volunteered for the assignment. No matter how hard Larkin tried to get her involved, Mira would never become a craftsperson. She was a thief. Afterall, she heard more than enough while she was Stealthing through the market stalls in Backwater to be put off the profession entirely.

  With her Information Gathering skill still activated, she stopped at the entrance of the temple. Relying on circumstance to level one’s Skill was a luxury that an orphan like Mira could not afford. If she was going to get strong enough to get out of Backwater, or to at least get Larkin out, then she had to ensure that she gained enough experience to advance from Novice stage to Adept. There was one problem, however: no one in Backwater, without the blessing of a guild, could do that. No matter how hard she strained her ears, there was no getting around the fact that she had reached the limit set by the guilds. It wasn’t that they could restrict a person’s ability inherently. Backwater was simply a place where nothing exciting ever happened. That was what Mira believed. And she believed it completely until she met Larkin Forgeheart.

  “Your arm is going to fall off!” cried Anara. “It’s simply not possible for a novice blacksmith to etch runes!”

  “Don’t tell me what is possible and not possible!” retorted Larkin. “I refuse to stay as a novice.”

  “You... refuse? Eh?” said Anara, bewildered. “You are not special. The gods are not going to suddenly start listening to you because you don’t feel like following the rules. The guilds have a very good reason to inhibit skill development. Namely, they want what is best for the empire.”

  Mira could not help but smile. Even on the doorsteps of the temple, she could hear Larkin’s ambition infuriate those around him.

  “I’ll protect you, Larkin, against the entire imperial army if I have to,” said Bram exuberantly. He quit sharpening his greatsword and lifted it up suddenly.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “You can’t be serious about defying the emperor,” said Anara.

  “I’ll do anything to protect my Hammer,” interrupted Larkin.

  Not wanting to waste a moment longer, Mira activated her Stealth skill and crept down the dark hallway. She was itching to get back to what she did best: infiltrate and steal. Unfortunately, so far, tagging along with Larkin has prevented her from doing just that. When she came near to Bram, her smile widened with excitement as her feet teetered on the edge of the shadows which hugged the wall. Quickly deactivating her Stealth skill and then activating her Pickpocket skill, she slipped her hand into his satchel and pulled out the first thing her fingers touched. Without looking at the item she had swiped, she pocketed it and retreated into the shadows without a sound, an expression of boredom souring her face.

  “Do you always steal from your allies?” Anara said suddenly, glancing at the spot where Mira stood.

  The thief’s heart jumped in her chest. With a smirk, she stepped out of the shadows. At the sudden sight of the girl, Bram turned pale and leapt from his crate, nearly crashing into the anvil. When he realised that it was Mira, his face reddened and scrunched violently.

  Anara laughed. “The imperial army has their work cut out for them!” she cried spitefully.

  “Shut up!” shouted Bram, clenching his fists.

  “Did you get everything?” Larkin asked.

  Mira threw down the sack. “Got what was there,” she said. “Could have got more if you allowed me to steal from Iron Guild officials.”

  “I don’t want to provoke them into a full-on war... yet,” said Larkin.

  “Perhaps we don’t have a choice,” muttered Mira.

  Larkin put down his Hammer and gazed at the girl. He felt a pang of fear in his heart for the first time, but the Eternal coolant in his veins suppressed it quickly. Perhaps it was the increasing heat of the forge that was getting to him, but he looked upon his friend with narrowed eyes. By degrees, he slowly fell into a state of rumination. Larkin had already been betrayed before, for this was Backwater after all, and one could not trust the next. She was a thief, let’s not forget. But hadn't Larkin lectured her against such ideas the previous day? His eyes, however much he tried to keep them restrained, could not help but dart between all three of the conspirators. From Bram’s hand, which always seemed to rest on the hilt of his greatsword, to the way Anara’s orbit was guarded with a ring of spinning objects, made the blood rush to his heart.

  “There’s talk that the Hammer of the Eternal Forge has been found... and that it’s in Backwater,” Mira continued.

  “Damn Obsidian Watch,” spat Bram accusingly.

  “It’s not just them,” replied Mira. “Larkin’s name’s making the rounds. People are getting jealous of his new crafts.”

  Larkin turned pale; and he became excited. “How do I know that you’re not in cahoots with them? You were always after my crafts,” Larkin stammered, glaring at the thief, “what if you were brought off too?”

  Mira looked intently at him, an expression of hurt flashing in her eyes, and she crossed her arms. “You’ll have to be the one to trust me, Larkin,” she said, her voice soft yet firm. “It’s not a game anymore,” she added solemnly, “you could get seriously hurt. They are afraid of your growing strength.”

  Larkin gritted his teeth and lowered his eyes, and he sunk into a thoughtful silence. He rubbed his temple.

  Bram laughed. “Let them come, I say,” he yawned. He got up from the crate and stretched, looking attentively at the sword resting on the anvil. “Looks great,” he said.

  Larkin tried to pick up his Hammer, but the desire to continue working on his blade suddenly left him, and he stood staring at Bram and Anara with suspiciousness. The Hammer of the Eternal Forge was worth an empire; and now, not only had he invited people with imperial upbringing into his inner circle, he entrusted them with his safety against the authorities who wanted it for themselves.

  Suddenly, he realized his mistake.

  Not wanting to give away his feelings, he waged a silent war against his body, which, like a series of wet knots, began to tighten as he stood at the anvil.

  “They haven’t closed the border yet,” said Mira with a gulp. “Just hide your Hammer and you’ll be fine,” she added.

  Cold sweat dripped down the boy’s brow. Even though none of them appeared to move, he felt their gazes upon him like a flash. But Anara’s Rune Etching remained constant, her hand never wavering; and Bram’s stretch was never interrupted by the desire to change direction or duration, but instead it proceeded its original course like a comet arching in the sky. With a frustrated sigh, the young, imprudent blacksmith, could not resist the sleepiness which had dogged him since he had started the Stormshale, and dragged himself to the doorway, wishing for the first time that the spectral chain could be severed. He fell against the jamb, his eyes forced shut by the demands of sleep. His wiry, pulsating muscles gave off an almost imperceptible steam-like hiss. The thought of walking the whole way back to Haldar’s forge for the night was excruciating and only added several more kilograms to the load he imagined himself carrying.

  “You look shattered mate,” said Bram, “and you didn’t even lift a finger.”

  Larkin was too tired to reply, as irritated as he was; instead, he allowed his legs to fall, sliding down the jamb until he was sitting on the doorstep. His eyes finally closed, and with it the fire of the forge ceased. The chamber became dark. Eventually, his head flopped down; he was drifting into sleep. The Hammer slipped out of his fingers and landed on the floor with a thud. An image of a noisy crowd rose before him. His name was on their tongues. He stood before them on a podium, his Hammer held high. One woman gazed longingly at him, seizing his heart with an intense curiosity possessed only by little children, so much so that he was propensed to step off his platform and cut through the crowd with haste. Immediately, however, the hands which surrounded him inspired such repulsion within his stomach that his patience wore thin, and he began to shout at them to get away. Every tug of his cloak drew away power from his Hammer.

  It was not long before he awoke. His short, ruffled hair was drenched in sweat. He gasped for air and looked about him. He could not see anyone, and this made him feel confused. Tightening his grip around the handle of the Hammer, he got up and stumbled to the other side of the chamber where he assumed the forge lay. The heat that had oppressed him earlier was gone. In fact, there was a draft which swept throughout the chamber like a ghost. Recalling how he had ripped off the sleeves of his tunic earlier seemed to be another mistake on his part, for his arms were covered in goosebumps, with sweat so cold that the droplets resembled icicles. He rubbed his eyes.

  While he was relighting the forge, he stooped into it to reach the coal on the far side, and in doing so almost took his entire face off when the fires proved too big. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The fire lashed out at him like a whip. He yanked away at the last second, preserving his youth, but suffering a cloud of soot, which covered his freckled nose like powder. He staggered back. Something must have been wrong with the forge. Despite the fire, his eyes struggled to adjust after being so long in the dark, and he was only able to make out the black blur of the anvil a couple of steps away. He was not thinking straight. He thought that Anara, with her enchanting ability, debuffed his vision somehow. Had she not told him of her sorceress lineage? He gripped his scalp and winced. His boot struck the foot of the anvil; he cursed and keeled over it, the smoothed edges of limestone cutting into his palms.

  The Stormshale was missing.