Commander Thorne's office-room was a place where hope went to die under a mountain of paperwork. It was a cramped, windowless cellar beneath a small, dusty inn located three miles from the Edger estate. The air was thick and unpleasant, smelling of stale, bitter coffee and the sharp, metallic scent of burning ozone. Magical orbs hung from the low ceiling, buzzing with a constant, headache-inducing hum that sounded like a thousand angry bees.
Selena stood in the center of this small room, her back straight and her weight shifted slightly onto one hip. She was wearing her dark, leather scout armor, which felt tight and uncomfortable in the heat. She tried to maintain a look of bored indifference, but the rapid tapping of her boot against the cold stone floor gave her away. She wasn't just annoyed; she was absolutely furious.
Behind a massive, heavy oak desk sat Commander Thorne. He didn't look up when she entered. He was too busy hunched over a stack of reports, his hand moving quickly as he corrected them with a red quill that glowed with a faint, magical light. Thorne was a man who treated war like a giant accounting book. He didn't care about "feelings" or "heroism." To him, every mission was a balance sheet of lives and resources, and at this moment, Selena was a major deficit.
"Half-baked," Thorne murmured, his voice as dry as old parchment. He finally scratched a violent red line through a whole paragraph and looked up. His thin glasses were sliding down his sharp, beak-like nose, and his gray eyes were cold. "That is the most charitable term I can find for this... piece of fiction you have submitted to me, Selena." His voice had mocking voice mixed in them.
He picked up her report using only two fingers, as if he were touching a dirty rag, and let it flutter dismissively onto the desk.
"Sir," Selena said, her voice was tight and controlled. "It is not fiction. It is intelligence gathered from the field."
"It is gossip, Selena," Thorne replied back. His voice was no longer dry this time; it was now dangerously calm, which was much worse. He leaned back in his creaking chair, steepling his long, bony fingers. "I sent you to find a strategic anomaly, a reason why a Duke's army was surrounding a minor noble's house. Instead, you brought me tavern talk. You brought me quotes like 'Private Hal felt scared!' and 'The Captain looked confused?!' Tell me, do we now base the Duke's foreign policy on the emotional state of a few drunk infantrymen?" Thorn raised his voice.
"The Diablo Unit retreated, sir," Selena shot back, her professional mask finally cracking. She stepped forward, her eyes flashing. "Alaric Denares is a man who would burn an entire village just because his morning tea was served cold. He is a predator. He does not just walk away from a noble house without a very good reason. Especially from a house which is under his debt. We all know that. The soldiers I spoke to didn't know why they were leaving. That confusion IS the intelligence, sir! It means the circle of information is tiny. It means whatever is inside that mansion terrified the leadership so much they didn't even have time to explain it to the grunts."
Thorne let out a long, heavy sigh. It was the sound of a schoolmaster who was tired of a failing student. He stood up slowly, and as he did, his magical aura flared. It was cold and gray, spreading out like a fog and sucking all the warmth from the room. Selena felt the pressure against her chest, making it hard to take a full breath.
He pointed a long finger at a map of the Edger estate pinned to the damp wall. "The official investigators swept that house three hours ago. These are men trained in detection, Selena. They used mana-detection artifacts worth more than your life. Do you know what they found? They found dust. No dark magic. No hidden armies. Just a normal noble house."
He leaned over the desk, his face was inches from hers. "You want me to go to His Grace, the Duke, and tell him we should raid a loyal Count's home because you have a 'hunch'? Because you, a Invisible Knight who spent the night pouring ale in a tavern instead of actually infiltrating the house, thinks the air 'smelled wrong'?"
Selena bristled, her fists clenching at her sides. "I didn't infiltrate because I thought getting the information from those soldiers would be more efficient, than going inside a nobles house."
"Excuses," Thorne cut her off sharply. He sat back down and picked up his red quill again, effectively ending the conversation. "I do not pay you for hunches or stories, Selena. I pay you for facts. The investigators have facts. While, You have this fucking creative writing. Now Get out of my sight. Go rewrite this report again, and this time, try to use your brain instead of your imagination."
Selena opened her mouth to scream. She wanted to tell him that his "investigators" couldn't find their own reflections in a mirror, but she forced herself to swallow the words. Arguing with a bureaucrat like Thorne, was like fighting in a pit of mud, you just got dirty, and nobody won.
She saluted with exaggerated, mocking stiffness. "Understood, Commander."
She spun on her heel and marched out of the room. The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind her with a satisfying, echoing thud that shook the frames on the wall.
The hallway outside was cooler, but Selena's blood was still boiling. She leaned against the rough stone wall and let out a low, guttural growl of pure frustration, kicking a loose pebble into the darkness of the corridor.
"Let me guess," a voice drawled from the shadows to her left. "He didn't like the 'Private Hal' section?"
Selena looked up. Sitting on a wooden crate was Lyssa, her partner from the tavern mission. Lyssa was casually peeling a bright red apple with a small dagger that was far too expensive for a common scout. She looked completely unbothered, her dark hair tied back in a messy bun, a contrast to Selena's high-strung energy.
"He called it creative writing," Selena spat, crossing her arms tightly. "He thinks those investigators are gods because they carry fancy mana-sticks. He thinks I'm just some jumpy girl who got spooked by a shadow."
Lyssa took a loud, crunchy bite of her apple. "To be fair, you are jumpy. Remember that cat in Riverrun? You almost burned down an alleyway."
"That cat was possessed, and you know it!" Selena snapped. Then she sighed, her shoulders dropping. She slid down the wall until she was squatting on her heels. "I'm not wrong about this, Lyssa. I know I'm not. The Denares brothers are many things, but they aren't quitters. They don't just disappear. The army doesn't just pack up and leave. It's too clean. It's like someone painted a beautiful picture and hung it over a giant hole in the wall."
Lyssa stopped chewing and looked at her friend. She saw the genuine agitation and fear in Selena's eyes. "So? What are you going to do? Thorne isn't going to listen unless you bring him a head on a platter."
Selena looked up, a wicked, dangerous glint returning to her eyes. "He said I should have infiltrated. He said he wanted 'facts' instead of 'hunch' stories."
Lyssa had a knowing look. But it was also a look of, 'I know what she is about to say, and I dont like it.'
Selena stood up, brushing the cellar dust off her dark leathers. "I'm going back. Tonight."
"Ugh," Lyssa groaned, throwing her head back against the wall. "Selena, we haven't slept in twenty hours. My hair smells like stale beer and fried onions, and my feet hurt."
"Then you'll blend into the night perfectly," Selena smirked, reaching down and pulling Lyssa to her feet. "No disguises this time. No serving drinks to idiots. We go in as Shadows. We bypass the perimeter, we get inside that mansion, and we find out exactly what scared Alaric Denares so badly that he ran away with his tail between his legs."
Lyssa sighed, tossing her apple core into a dark corner. "Fine. But you forgot the part, where you are not a Shadow Knight yet. You cant use Shadow magic, nor can I. If we get caught and executed for trespassing on a noble's estate, I'm going to spend my afterlife haunting you, You know."
The afternoon sun poured through the high windows of the Edger estate, casting long, golden streaks across the dusty floor. Eon stood in the center of the old forge, hands on his hips. He felt refreshed. After his intense smithing session that morning, he had taken a long bath to scrub away the soot and had fallen into a deep, dreamless nap for an hour. Now, his mind was sharp and his body felt light.
He looked around the room. He wasn't alone. Behind him stood fifteen elves, the strongest and most capable of the group he had rescued. They were shuffling their feet, looking at the heavy tools and the roaring fire with a mixture of fear and confusion. Among them were Liam and Kaelen, the master smith.
"Alright, everyone, listen up!" Eon shouted. "Before we make a single blade, we make this place a fortress of industry. This forge hasn't been used in a decade, and it shows. I want it clean enough to eat off of."
"Umm. But what exactly is Industry?" One of the elves asked.
"Never mind that part." Eon just shrugged it off.
For the next two hours, the forge was a storm of activity. Eon didn't just want it tidy; he wanted it perfect. He knew that even a little bit of dust or the wrong kind of dirt could ruin the purity of the metal he planned to make.
"Scrub those walls!" Eon ordered, pointing to the blackened stones. "I don't want old soot falling into our crucibles when we start hammering. Use the lye and the stiff brushes!"
Three elves climbed up on ladders, scrubbing the stones until the original gray color returned. Below them, other elves were busy with the floor. They used pry bars to lift uneven stone tiles, packing them with fresh dirt and sand until the floor was perfectly level.
"If someone trips while carrying a pot of liquid iron, they will die, and my floor will get messy," Eon said with a serious face that made the elves work even faster.
Kaelen and Liam worked on the tools. They set up a station with buckets of sand and oil, dipping the rusted tongs and hammers into the mixture and scrubbing them until they shone like new. Rotted wooden handles were hammered off and replaced with fresh, strong oak. By the time they were finished, the forge looked like a entirely different world. The sunlight now reflected off the clean stone, and the tools were organized in neat, shining rows on the wall.
Eon stood in the center of the room. He looked at the fifteen elves who were now panting from the cleaning. They looked at him like he was a madman.
"Now," Eon said, his voice dropping into a serious tone. "We have a math problem. Making one elven dagger took four hours this morning. We have maybe a few days before more soldiers arrive. We need at least fifty swords, a hundred spears, and fifty shields. If we work the old way, we will be finished in three years for sure, but By then, we will be long dead."
Kaelen, holding his Adamantium hammer, looked skeptical. "Eon, you cannot rush the soul of the steel. You have to talk to it, shape it, and feel the heat. To treat it like... like chopping firewood... otherwise it is an insult to the craft."
"We aren't making art, Kaelen," Eon said firmly, putting a hand on the old smith's shoulder. "We are making survival. We need to stop thinking like artists and start thinking like a machine. In my... where I come from, we didn't build one thing at a time. We built everything at once. It is called an Assembly Line."
He picked up a piece of white chalk and drew a long, straight line down the center of the floor, slashing four marks across it.
"Is it a magic circle?" Liam asked, leaning in to look at the chalk.
"No, Liam, it's better than magic. It's efficiency," Eon replied. "Listen carefully. We are going to divide your labor. You won't each make a sword. You will each make a part of a sword."
He pointed to the five biggest elves, men with thick arms and heavy shoulders.
"Group A," Eon barked. "You are The Lungs. You do not touch a hammer. You do not look at a blade. Your only world is the fire. You will pump those bellows until your muscles scream. You will manage the coal. You will melt the ore in the crucibles. When one pot is ready, you pour it and immediately start the next. The fire must never, ever go out."
The big elves looked at each other and nodded. Being "The Lungs" sounded powerful.
Eon moved to four elves with quick, steady hands. "Group B. You are The Kidneys."
"The... kidneys, sir?" a young elf girl asked, confused.
"You filter the poison," Eon explained. "Kaelen will show you exactly how to spot 'slag', the junk that floats on top of the melted iron. Your job is to skim it off and add the sand and charcoal at exactly the right time. You prepare the perfect metal for us. If you are slow, the iron cools. If you are sloppy, the sword breaks in battle. No pressure."
The girl swallowed hard and gripped her skimmer tightly.
Eon walked to the massive anvil. "And then there is Group C. The Hands. This is just me and Kaelen. We are the only ones with the skill to shape the metal right now. When the others bring us the hot bar of iron, we strike. We fold. We shape. We do not wait for the fire; we do not wait for the pour. The metal comes to us, and we work it until it is a rough blade."
Kaelen's eyes began to glow with understanding. He looked at the line of elves. "So... I never have to stop hammering to fix the bellows? I just... hammer?"
"Exactly," Eon grinned. "The hammer never stops moving."
Kaelen couldnt hold his happiness inside him. He was smiling silently like a creep. Eon just moved on to others, ignoring him.
Finally, he pointed to the last four elves by the grindstones. "Group D. You are The Face. We will hand you a rough, black, ugly piece of metal. Your job is to grind it on the stones until it shines like a mirror. You will wrap the handles in leather. You make it a weapon. You are the last people to touch the blade before it goes to a soldier."
Kaelen stepped forward, "But what about the sharpness of the blade? They are new to this. Wont they mess up?"
"No worries. I have a plan for that." Eon reassured him.
He stepped back and clapped his hands, the sound echoing like a hammer strike. "Does everyone understand? We are not fifteen separate elves anymore. We are one giant, eighteen-armed blacksmith. If one of you is slow, the whole giant trips and falls. Liam, you are The Oil. You run between the groups. If someone needs water, bring it. If a tool breaks, get a new one. Dont let anybody slack off. Keep the machine moving."
"Ya. I can do that!" Liam shouted, feeling the energy in the room.
"Positions!" Eon roared.
The elves scrambled into their spots. The "Lungs" grabbed the bellows handles. The "Kidneys" stood ready by the hearth. The "Face" poured water over the grinding stones.
Kaelen stood at the anvil, hefting his hammer. He looked at Eon, a wild, slightly terrified, but incredibly excited grin on his face. "This is madness, Eon. Absolute, beautiful madness."
"Welcome to the industrial revolution," Eon whispered in English.
Then Liam screamed at the top of his lungs: "Light it up!"
WHOOSH!
The forge fire exploded into life, a pillar of white heat that lit up the entire room. The steady huff-puff, huff-puff of the bellows began, sounding like the heartbeat of a great beast. Eon gripped his hammer, his eyes reflecting the flames. The other world factory of Eon was born.
Author note: What do you think? Is this good enough? If not then wait for the upcoming chapters. I am sure You will like those.
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