*Date: 33,480 Second Quarter - Iron Confederacy, Secluded Valley*
Word spread fast through the little valley. Demir hadn't seen dwarves move that quickly since the last goblin raid, but the moment Durnak barked from his porch that the forge needed stoking, half the drinkers at the inn sobered up in an instant.
"Yer jokin'," one stout fellow whispered as Demir passed. "The elder hasn't touched a hammer since me kid was knee-high."
Another tugged at his beard, eyes wide. "If the old goat's goin' back to the forge, the world must be endin'."
But Durnak silenced them all when he hobbled into the square, cane tapping against the cobblestones. "I'll nae be forgin'!" he thundered, his voice still carrying the weight of command. "Ye lot'll prep the hearth, scrub the anvil clean, bring steel and coal from storage. The lad here..." He jabbed a crooked finger at Demir. "He'll be the one swingin'. I'll just shout when he's makin' an arse of it."
The dwarves muttered, but no one argued. It was rare enough to hear the elder give orders.
By the time the sun dipped behind the valley walls, the forge glowed like a slumbering beast roused from years of sleep. Demir stood before it with sweat already dripping from his brow, though he hadn't yet lifted a hammer. The air was hot, thick with the tang of burning coal. Smoke curled up through the chimney, carrying sparks that danced like fireflies in the gathering dusk.
Durnak eased himself onto a heavy stool nearby, one hand resting on his cane, the other gripping a mug of something stronger than tea. Brovick hovered at his shoulder like a nervous apprentice.
"All right, boy," Durnak growled. "First thing, forget armor. That's for coverin' yer soft human hide. Weapons're different. A sword is nae just steel. It's balance, temper, and soul. Ye get it wrong, it snaps in yer hand. Ye get it right, it sings."
Demir swallowed. "Where do I start?"
"By listenin', not askin' stupid questions. Brovick! Show the lad the small billets!"
Brovick hustled to fetch a stack of rough steel billets. But he fumbled one, and it clattered across the floor with a ringing clang.
"By the Mountain god's hairy arse, Brovick!" Durnak bellowed. "Ye call that carryin'? Ye drop steel like that again an' I'll shave yer beard meself!"
Demir bit back a grin. Brovick turned crimson and muttered under his breath.
"Right, human," Durnak pointed with his cane. "Take a billet. Heat till it's red, nae white. White's for fools who like brittle blades. Watch it careful. Yer gonna make fifty nails. Proper fifty nails."
Demir slid one small billet into the fire. The roar of the forge filled his ears, the heat licking at his face. Slowly, the steel darkened, then bloomed into glowing red, like a sunrise captured in metal.
"Now pull it, hammer it longways. A nail needs shape before sharp."
Demir obeyed, hammer ringing against steel. But he swung too heavy, and the billet warped crooked.
"Ye donkey-fingered clod!" Durnak roared. "What're ye doin', makin' horseshoes? Light taps! Let the steel tell ye where it wants to bend! Give me that." He got up from the comfy chair with effort. "I'll show ye once. Learn faster."
When he swung a gentle yet shaping swing, Demir felt it. [Bzzt!]. The sensation rippled through his arms, a ghost of knowledge settling into his muscles. "Heck yeah," Demir said to himself.
Demir grimaced and tried again, gentler this time. The billet straightened under his strokes. He also started counting swings. He was sure now the game had started to keep score.
"Aye, better," Durnak muttered. "Even a blind goblin learns to swing straight after enough whippin'."
Hours crawled past. Demir reheated, hammered, quenched, then reheated again, every step punctuated by Durnak's insults.
"Too fast! Ye quench like a drunk pissin' in the wind!"
"Too slow! By the time ye strike again, the steel's gone cold!"
"Brooovick! Stop hoverin' like a broody hen an' fetch more coal!"
At one point Brovick muttered, "Yer temper's worse than the forge, old man," only to get a sharp cuff from Durnak's cane.
But through the shouting, Demir began to feel it. That strange connection he'd found once before with armor. The rhythm of hammer and fire seeped into him. Not mastery, not yet, but a hint. The steel under his hands seemed to breathe with him.
By late afternoon, Demir's arms trembled, his shirt soaked through. On the anvil lay something that resembled crude nails. The edges were rough, the lines uneven, but he'd produced fifty nails.
"Pathetic," Durnak declared. "But ye didn't quit, so ye've done better than half the pups I trained."
Demir panted. "What now?"
"Now?" Durnak's eyes glinted. "Now ye've learned that weapons take patience. Tomorrow, ye'll learn real sword forging. A sword's nae just edge. It's weight, grip, flow. Without that, ye may as well swing a club."
Demir nodded, chest swelling despite the elder's insults.
As dusk settled, Brovick slumped against the wall, beard singed from tending the fire. Demir wiped soot from his face, staring at the rough nails in his hand.
"It's not much," he murmured.
Durnak snorted. "It's shite. But it's yer shite. That matters. Ye'll make better. If ye keep yer thick skull in line an' yer hammer steady."
Demir bowed his head slightly. "Thank you, master."
"Don't thank me. Prove ye're worth the coal ye've burned."
He leaned back, eyes half-closed. "Tomorrow we start again. I'll make a weaponsmith of ye yet, or I'll die shoutin' at ye."
Brovick muttered, "Or both."
Durnak swiped at him with his cane, missing by an inch, and Demir chuckled despite his exhaustion.
Later that evening, Demir's shack door knocked. There was one of the younger dwarves, Mirgit, standing with two chickens.
"Elder Durnak sent these."
When Brovick tried to reach for them, saying, "Oh yeah. That old coot has a good side too," Mirgit pulled back the chickens.
"He didn't send it for you. He said, 'Give these to Demir so he offers 'em to Asena. The giant wolf lurkin' near our woods.'"