The silence was heavy.

  Wyatt lay still, letting the cold seep into his bones. The longhouse was quiet, save for the faint crackling of the hearth and the soft murmur of wind against the walls. The smoke holes let in just enough light to remind him that the world outside was still turning. He could smell the wood burning, the scent of pine and ash hanging in the air.

  Beside him, the war hammer lay where he’d left it, untouched.

  No one had dared to touch it. No one else could.

  The hammer had been forged in the Forge beneath the Lonely Mountain—a place sacred and hidden, where weapons of power were born. Wyatt had always known this. His father had told him the stories of how the hammer came to be, of how Dale had created it with his own hands.

  It wasn’t just a weapon. It was something more.

  Wyatt had heard the legends—how his father was the first person in centuries worthy of entering the Hermit's domain. How Dale had been taken in by the Hermit, the Smith, and had crafted the hammer with divine guidance. It was a privilege few mortals ever received, and the few who did never spoke of it.

  But only a few people and the Dwarves knew the full story—the truth of Dale’s connection to the Hermit. They had seen the changes in him after his return from the Forge, the way the fire of the divine had shaped his hands and mind.

  Wyatt didn’t know everything. He couldn’t.

  What he did know was that the hammer was his, as much a part of him as his own blood. It was a connection he couldn’t explain, one he didn’t fully understand. The weight of it was familiar, a constant reminder of the war, of what had been lost—and what had been created.

  The war had shattered everything. His father had been broken by it, and the hammer had become a symbol of that devastation. But now it was Wyatt’s responsibility, whether he wanted it or not. It was his to carry.

  He reached for it now, the cold steel settling into his palm. There was hidden power to it, etched runes waiting to be awakened. The hammer’s presence was undeniable, and it felt like something older than the war, something that had been forged in a time long before him.

  Wyatt rose slowly, tightening his coat around his shoulders as he moved toward the entrance.

  Outside, the village was waking up. Smoke rose from fireplaces, drifting into the pale morning sky. The Kin moved through the snow, their faces hidden beneath thick furs, the quiet rhythm of their daily life unaffected by the storm.

  Wyatt’s gaze lifted, and his eyes fell on the mountain. The Lonely Mountain.

  It had always been there, looming in the distance. The Forge was beneath it, hidden deep within the rock, where weapons like his father’s hammer were created. Dale had crafted it there, with the Smith’s guidance, and brought it back to the world. Wyatt couldn’t quite grasp the full extent of what that meant—but he knew it was important. He knew it mattered.

  The mountain had always been a backdrop in his life. But now, it felt different. Closer.

  The hammer in his hand felt heavier now, as if its connection to the mountain, to the Smith, was drawing him toward something. He didn’t understand it fully, but he could feel it. The pull.

  And now, as he looked at the towering peak, he realized something: it wasn’t just his father’s legacy that was calling him.

  It was something more.

  Wyatt exhaled, his breath rising in clouds in front of him. The mountain wasn’t just a place. It was a promise. A challenge.

  He had to go there. He had to face whatever waited within it.

  But first—he had to get through the Kin.

  The biting wind whipped through the snow as Wyatt walked across the village, his boots crunching the frozen earth beneath him. The Kin lived in isolation, hidden away in the Northern wilderness. Only a select few, like the Dwarven Kings, knew of their existence. To the outside world, they were little more than a legend, a whisper in the cold.

  But Wyatt had found them—he had found family.

  The village was quiet at this early hour, the Kin going about their work with precision, each movement a reflection of their connection to the harsh, unforgiving land. But though they shared his blood, they did not know him. They did not trust him.

  And Wyatt didn’t expect them to.

  As his eyes scanned the horizon, Wyatt caught sight of her: Sif, his cousin. Her red hair glinted like a flame in the weak sunlight, a stark contrast against the endless white of the snow. Her posture was as rigid and unwavering as the rest of the Kin, and when she saw him, her gaze hardened immediately, taking in every detail of his presence.

  "Wyatt," she said, her voice carrying the weight of a challenge. "The half-blood who carries the war hammer."

  Her words were not hostile, but neither were they welcoming. The Kin had lived in isolation for generations, and their world was harsh and unforgiving. Family meant everything to them, but blood alone wasn’t enough. Wyatt wasn’t just a half-blood in their eyes—he was a stranger, someone who had come from the outside, seeking answers.

  He wasn’t going to get them easily.

  “I’m not just my father’s legacy,” Wyatt replied, his tone calm, but the weight of the words still settled on his shoulders. “I’m here to ask for your help. The help of your people.”

  Sif’s gaze was cool, impassive, but Wyatt could feel the unspoken question hanging in the air—Why should we help you?

  "You think because you carry that weapon, you’ll be accepted?" Sif asked, a small, humorless smile tugging at her lips. "You think the Kin will bow to a half-blood who barely knows his own name?"

  The challenge in her words stung, but Wyatt refused to let it show. He was used to being an outsider. He had spent his life fighting to belong, and if he wanted to find answers here, he had to earn their respect. Not through his father’s legacy, not through the weapon he carried, but through who he was.

  "No," Wyatt replied, meeting her eyes with steady resolve. "I know better than to expect that. But I do know this: I share your blood. My mother’s blood runs through me, the same as it runs through you. I am one of you, whether you believe it or not."

  Sif regarded him silently for a long moment, her expression unreadable. The wind howled around them, but there was only the sound of their breathing, the soft crunch of footsteps in the snow.

  "You carry her blood," Sif said at last. "But blood doesn’t mean much in the Kin. Not unless you can prove it."

  Wyatt nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. The Kin didn’t care about bloodlines or the past—they cared about strength, about proving yourself. The cold, harsh landscape of the North had shaped them into a people who valued actions above words.

  "I’m here to prove it," Wyatt said, his voice unwavering. "And I’ll do whatever it takes."

  Sif’s eyes flicked over to the small gathering of Kin who had begun to assemble, watching the exchange with quiet interest. Among them was a burly man, tall and thick with muscle, his fiery red hair as wild as the land they lived on. This was Eirik, a seasoned warrior, and a man who had seen countless battles.

  “Eirik,” Sif called, her voice sharp. “Let him prove himself.”

  Eirik stepped forward, his broad shoulders blocking out the weak sunlight. His eyes locked on Wyatt with an appraising look.

  “You think you can just walk in here and demand our respect?” Eirik’s voice was deep, a low rumble in his chest. “Half-blood or not, you’ve got to earn it.”

  He cracked his knuckles, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. This wasn’t a friendly gesture—it was a challenge.

  “Barehanded. Prove to us that you belong here.”

  Wyatt’s pulse quickened. It wasn’t the first time he’d been in a fight, but it was the first time his bloodline would be on the line. He didn’t hesitate—he had no choice but to accept. If he wanted the Kin’s help, if he wanted them to accept him, he had to prove himself worthy.

  Without a word, Wyatt shed his cloak, feeling the sting of the cold on his skin as he squared off with Eirik. The Kin watched intently, silent but eager. Every eye in the gathering was on him, waiting to see if he could hold his own.

  Eirik moved first, fast for his size. His fist came crashing toward Wyatt, but he was ready. Wyatt ducked beneath the blow, his muscles coiled with the reflexes of someone used to fighting for survival.

  Eirik was strong, powerful—one of the best fighters Wyatt had seen. But Wyatt was quicker, using his smaller size to his advantage. He slipped around Eirik, landing a sharp punch to the man’s ribs. Eirik grunted, momentarily taken off balance.

  The fight was a blur—dodges, strikes, and counters. Eirik’s strength was unmatched, but Wyatt’s speed kept him in the fight. He danced around the larger man, landing hits where he could, never giving him a chance to fully retaliate.

  Finally, after a few moments, Wyatt ducked under another wild swing and used Eirik’s momentum to drive him backward into the snow. The impact left Eirik stunned, but Wyatt wasn’t finished yet. He pinned the larger man down, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  For a long moment, Eirik didn’t move. The Kin were silent, watching closely.

  Then, slowly, Eirik let out a deep laugh, his chest rising with each breath. “Not bad, half-blood. Not bad at all.”

  Wyatt stood, his body aching from the fight but a sense of pride swelling in his chest. He had earned something here. Not respect yet, but a foothold. A chance.

  Sif stepped forward, her expression more thoughtful than before. “You’ve proven yourself,” she said, her voice steady. “We’ll help you. But remember this—respect is not given easily here. It must be earned, over and over.”

  Wyatt nodded, his resolve firm. This was just the beginning. But it was a start.

  And for the first time in what felt like a long while, he felt like he was no longer walking alone.

  Later that day, after the fight had settled and the Kin had returned to their routines, Chief Torren summoned Wyatt to his private quarters. The air felt heavier now, as if something had shifted—Wyatt wasn’t just a guest anymore. He was kin. And that came with both honor and expectation.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  The chief sat before the fire, the orange glow casting long shadows across his weathered face. His eyes—sharp and steady—studied Wyatt, as if measuring him for something more than his bloodline.

  "Wyatt Blackwood," Torren said, his voice carrying a weight of history. "You’ve done something few can. Earned the respect of the Kin. But there is still much to be learned."

  Wyatt nodded, his chest tight with anticipation. He had been chasing answers his whole life—answers about his father, his legacy, and now his mother. But what Torren said next would give him something he never expected to hear.

  "The Smith... you’ve heard of him, no doubt?" Torren began, his voice reverberating with the gravity of the words.

  Wyatt nodded, though his mind was clouded. He knew the name—the god of creation, the divine forger who crafted the world, and whose powers were said to live in the blood of the Kin. But the words felt distant, as if they belonged to an ancient story.

  “The Smith, in his infinite wisdom, does not walk among mortals,” Torren continued, his tone softening. “But he chose to leave behind a physical form. A manifestation of his power. We call him the Hermit—a man who holds within him the essence of the Smith. The one who forges souls, as much as he forges iron.”

  Torren paused, his gaze piercing as he leaned forward. "Your father, Dale Blackwood, was the first in millennia to earn the Smith’s attention. The Hermit took him in, taught him, and together they forged that hammer—the weapon you carry now. But the hammer is more than a tool of war. It is a symbol of what your father became—a bridge between the mortal and the divine."

  Wyatt felt his pulse quicken at the mention of his father. The hammer, the burden his father had carried, the power that had consumed him… everything was beginning to connect in ways Wyatt couldn’t yet fully comprehend.

  “Dale… was chosen?” Wyatt whispered. It felt impossible to believe, and yet, Torren’s face held a truth too real to deny.

  “Yes,” Torren affirmed, his tone solemn. “The Hermit saw something in your father—something none of us truly understand. He crafted the hammer as a gift, as a test of his worth. And now, that hammer has passed to you.”

  Wyatt’s fingers brushed the worn handle of the hammer, a piece of him that felt strangely alien and familiar at the same time. “But how do I—what am I supposed to do with it?”

  Torren met his gaze, his voice low and serious. “The Smith doesn’t just create weapons, Wyatt. He forges destinies. The hammer is more than it seems. You have only scratched the surface of its power. To truly awaken it, you must prove yourself worthy of the same guidance your father received.”

  Wyatt’s heart beat faster. He wasn’t just carrying a weapon—he was carrying a legacy. “And to do that, I need to find the Hermit.”

  Torren nodded. “Yes. But finding him is no easy task. The Smith does not reveal himself to just anyone, and the Hermit only appears to those who have the strength to bear the weight of his forge. You must first unlock the hammer’s true potential. Only then can you walk the path your father began.”

  Wyatt’s thoughts raced. The hammer was his father’s gift, but it was also a test, a challenge. He needed to unlock it, to awaken its full power. But how? What did that even mean?

  “The Hermit… he’s the key?” Wyatt asked, his voice strained.

  Torren nodded slowly. “Yes. But not just in the way you think. You must understand the hammer’s bond to the Smith. It is a conduit—a tool for those who are ready to create, as much as to destroy.”

  Wyatt was silent for a moment, digesting the enormity of what Torren was saying. This wasn’t just about a weapon—it was about understanding the power that had once consumed his father, and now, understanding how to wield it himself.

  "And what of the battle?" Wyatt asked, his voice steady with a growing sense of purpose. "Primera is under siege. The enemy advances. The Dwarves—they need me."

  Torren looked at him gravely. "The war won’t wait. But the hammer is more than a tool for battle, Wyatt. It is a test of who you are. Only when you’ve unlocked its true power will you be ready to face the true enemy. You must go to the Smith’s Forge—the place where the hammer was created. There, you will unlock what you need. Only then can you return to the fight.”

  Wyatt sat quietly, absorbing the weight of what Torren had revealed. His mother was a part of the Kin, a bloodline forged by the divine Smith, a heritage he'd never known he had. But as the flames crackled between them, Torren’s voice grew more somber, pulling Wyatt back to the present moment.

  “There is more you must know,” Torren began, his voice growing deeper with a quiet authority. “As a child of the Smith, the Kin carry a unique resistance—a gift that has kept us alive and strong for centuries. It's tied to the blood that runs through our veins. The Smith's fire, if you will.”

  Wyatt leaned forward, his brow furrowing in curiosity. “A resistance to what?”

  Torren's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something ancient passing through them. “To the power of Marked weapons.”

  Wyatt’s pulse quickened at the mention of Marked weapons. He knew well the power that ran through his war hammer—he could feel it every time he held it. But now, Torren was suggesting something that both surprised and intrigued him.

  “You see, Wyatt,” Torren continued, “Marked weapons—like the one you carry—are forged with runes, ancient symbols that imbue them with power. These runes can grant incredible abilities, but at a price. The more runes a weapon bears, the more dangerous it becomes. Most Marked weapons are only ever engraved with one rune, as too many causes the wielder to lose control. Insanity, madness, or even death.”

  Wyatt felt a shiver run down his spine. The war hammer his father had crafted was more than just a weapon—it was a potential curse.

  “Your father’s war hammer is special,” Torren said, studying Wyatt closely. “It bears two runes that we know of. One marks you and your father as the only ones who can wield it—an exclusive bond between blood. The second… well, it grants power beyond measure. But that power comes at a price, Wyatt.”

  Wyatt’s hand tightened around the hammer’s handle, the weight of his father’s legacy feeling heavier than ever. “I know that second power. It boosts my strength, but... it’s dangerous. I can feel it.”

  Torren nodded. “Indeed. Over time, the power will consume you. It will strip away your reason, your humanity, until you are little more than a weapon yourself. A machine of destruction.”

  A chill ran through Wyatt. The war hammer was both his greatest asset and his greatest danger.

  “But there is something the Kin have that others do not,” Torren continued, his voice steady. “A resistance. A natural resistance to the overwhelming power of Marked weapons. It is why we do not carry them ourselves. Our blood is forged in the fires of the Smith—and that fire gives us the strength to resist the madness that comes with these weapons.”

  Wyatt’s head spun. “So… you’re saying I can bear this weapon because of what I am? Because of my blood?”

  Torren’s eyes softened. “Yes. The Kin do not carry Marked weapons, but our bloodline is unique. We are descendants of the Smith, and that bond grants us the strength to endure the power that would destroy others. You, as a halfblood, inherit both sides of the equation. The Kin’s resistance and the power of the Smith’s creation.”

  Wyatt took in the words, his mind racing. “So, this is why I’m different. Why I’m not… consumed by the war hammer like others would be.”

  Torren nodded gravely. “Yes. But make no mistake, Wyatt—the balance is delicate. The power inside you is dangerous. It can only be unlocked once you understand what it truly is. And it will not be easy.”

  Wyatt’s heart pounded in his chest, and the weight of his father’s war hammer seemed to grow even heavier in his lap. He had known the hammer was powerful, but now, he understood the true danger it posed. The second rune, the one that gave him strength—it was a double-edged sword. It could give him power beyond his imagination, but it could also consume him.

  “And this resistance,” Wyatt asked, trying to grasp the significance, “it comes from being Kin? From the blood of the Smith?”

  Torren’s gaze met his, steady and sure. “Exactly. The Smith’s fire lives in us. It has shaped us, kept us from losing ourselves to the power of the very weapons we could never wield. But you—being of both worlds, of both the Kin and the South—are unique. The fire that burns inside you may be stronger than you know.”

  Wyatt thought of his father’s hammer again—the two runes, the power, the risk. He had felt it before, that subtle tug at the edge of his mind. The warning. The price of wielding such power.

  Torren leaned forward, his voice lowering to a whisper. “But you must be careful, Wyatt. Even the Kin cannot survive the full brunt of such power. The hammer, its third rune—it is waiting for you to unlock it. If you are not ready, if you do not understand what it truly means…”

  Wyatt clenched his jaw, determination flaring in his chest. He wasn’t ready to let this power control him. Not yet. But he knew that he had no choice but to face it.

  “I’ll unlock it,” he said, his voice steady. “I’ll figure it out. I need to.”

  Torren gave a sharp nod, a flicker of pride in his eyes. “Then your path is clear. But know this, Wyatt—you carry more than just the hammer. You carry the blood of the Kin. And that is a weight not many can bear.”

  Wyatt stood, his hand resting once more on the war hammer. The weight of his heritage was like the weight of the weapon itself—both a gift and a curse. But with the Kin’s blood running in his veins, and the hammer in his hand, he had a chance. He wasn’t just carrying a weapon—he was carrying a legacy. And he would fight to prove he was worthy of it.

  After his conversation with Chief Torren, Wyatt’s mind was still heavy with the weight of what he’d learned. But the fire in the chief’s quarters hadn’t been enough to warm the chill that crept into his bones. As much as Torren had accepted him, the Kin—the ones who lived and breathed this ancient bloodline—were another story entirely.

  Later that night, the Kin gathered in the long hall for their evening meal, their voices low, their faces hard. As Wyatt entered, the room quieted for a moment, eyes flicking toward him with curiosity, skepticism, and—perhaps most cutting of all—indifference.

  Sif was already seated by the fire, her gaze meeting his with an unreadable expression. But there was one figure that stood out among the others—a tall, broad-shouldered man with red hair and a scar that ran from his cheek to his jaw. He wasn’t looking at Wyatt with indifference. He was looking at him with something else: disdain.

  “Wyatt Blackwood,” the man said, his voice thick with mockery. “I thought we were supposed to be kin, but you don’t look like much.”

  Wyatt’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He wasn’t here to prove himself to this man—not yet, anyway. But there was something about the challenge in the man’s voice that gnawed at him.

  “Name’s Keld,” the man said, his grin spreading wider as he took a step closer. “I’d expect you to know how to fight, seeing as you’re carrying that big thing around.” He pointed at the war hammer with a flick of his hand.

  Wyatt glanced down at the weapon, its heavy presence reminding him once again of the power it contained—and the danger it posed.

  “You think just because I’m a Kin, or half of one, I’m supposed to respect you?”

  Keld laughed, but there was no warmth in it. “You’re not one of us. You’re an outsider—an outsider who hasn’t earned the right to even lift that hammer.”

  A murmur rippled through the room, and Wyatt could feel the weight of the Kin's judgmental eyes on him. Sif’s gaze remained steady, but there was no help from her now. The challenge was clear.

  “I don’t need your respect,” Wyatt said, his voice calm but firm. “I’m here to help, not to prove something to you.”

  Keld stepped forward, his expression turning cold. “Maybe you don’t need it, but you’ll have to earn it. We don’t just let anyone walk in and call themselves kin.”

  Wyatt’s hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his hammer, but he held back, his anger simmering beneath the surface. This wasn’t the time for words. It was time for action.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Wyatt said, his voice now quieter, but a promise lingered in it. “If you want to test me, then do it.”

  A few of the other Kin grunted in approval, sensing the tension building. Torren, who had been seated at the head of the room, watched the exchange silently. The firelight flickered off his weathered face, but his gaze was unreadable.

  Keld didn’t need further encouragement. With a sudden movement, he lunged toward Wyatt, his fists swinging in a blur of red hair and raw strength. He was quick, but Wyatt’s instincts kicked in. He sidestepped the first strike and grabbed Keld’s wrist, twisting it with practiced precision.

  Keld growled in frustration, but before he could recover, Wyatt brought his knee up, catching Keld in the stomach with a sharp blow that sent him staggering back. The Kin watching on the sidelines murmured, some in surprise, others in disbelief.

  But Keld wasn’t done yet. He bellowed and charged again, this time swinging a powerful punch. Wyatt ducked low, narrowly avoiding the blow, and with a fluid motion, swept Keld’s legs out from under him.

  The man hit the ground hard, but Wyatt didn’t stop there. He kept his weight low, using his advantage of speed and agility. As Keld tried to get back up, Wyatt placed his boot firmly on Keld’s chest, pinning him down.

  “Enough, Keld,” Torren’s voice rumbled across the room. “Let him go.”

  Keld glared up at Wyatt, his pride clearly wounded. But the fight had gone out of him. Slowly, Wyatt released him, stepping back to allow the other man to rise.

  The room was silent for a long moment, the tension thick in the air. Then, one by one, the Kin nodded in approval, murmurs of respect replacing the earlier whispers of doubt.

  Keld stood, brushing the snow off his clothes, but there was no anger in his eyes now—only a grudging respect.

  “You fought well,” he muttered, not meeting Wyatt’s gaze. “I underestimated you.”

  Wyatt didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

  The room slowly returned to normal, and Sif’s eyes flicked toward him, the corner of her mouth twitching upward ever so slightly.

  “You’ve earned your place for now, halfblood,” Keld said, his voice quieter but no less challenging. “But we’ll see if you can truly handle what comes next.”

  Wyatt didn’t respond immediately, but as he turned to sit at the fire, a weight lifted off his chest. He had earned the respect of at least some of the Kin tonight, but he knew that trust would take time. There were still many more tests ahead of him.

  As the evening wore on, Wyatt remained silent, lost in thought. The war hammer rested beside him, its runes glowing faintly in the dim light. He knew his path was far from clear, but he was beginning to understand something important: the Kin were like the weapon he carried. They had power—but it had to be earned.

  And he was willing to earn it.