The month in AshenVale unfolded like a blade being tempered—slow, intense, with heat and hammer strikes forging raw potential into something lethal and unyielding. The Tenebrae brothers divided the three hundred recruits into squads, rotating them through grueling regimens that began before dawn and ended under starlight. Roland oversaw overall strategy, his voice a constant thunder: "Shields higher! Footwork tighter! The wilds won't wait for you to catch your breath!" Mornings were shield walls and endurance runs along the riverbanks, recruits panting as they held formations against simulated charges—bags of sand swung by ropes mimicking lizardman spears, or recruits in feathered cloaks diving like harpies.
Chris and Tom handled weapons drills, their banter cutting through the exhaustion. "Joren, your spear thrust's got power, but aim lower—scales crack at the joints," Chris would grunt, demonstrating with a fluid strike that splintered a practice dummy. Tom, bow in hand, added, "And Marek, your eyes are sharp, but loosen that elbow—arrows fly truer when you're not fighting the string." The recruits absorbed it hungrily; Lira Blackthorn, sweat-soaked and fierce, rallied her group during a mock ambush: "Hold the line, lads! We're not dying today!" By midday, they broke for sparse meals—stew thickened with foraged herbs—where conversations turned to progress.
"Thorne's adapting fast," Sam noted one afternoon, wiping his brow as they watched Calder lead a flanking maneuver. "He turned that chaotic rush into a pincer yesterday—saved half his squad from 'death.'"
Harold nodded, weaving a ward over a recruit's blistered hands. "And Durin's endurance is inhuman. Ran the full circuit twice without faltering. Silas too—boy's got grit. Charged a 'harpy' dummy like it owed him coin."
Jeffrey chuckled softly. "Garrick's picking up wards quicker than I expected. Yesterday he stabilized a shield crack mid-drill—raw talent there."
Matthew, ever the youngest, piped up with enthusiasm. "Elias is the brainy one. He spotted a flaw in our river patrol route—said it leaves the flank open to dives. Smart as Roselda with her spells."
Evenings brought patrols—real ones, scouting dens and clashing with stragglers. In one twilight skirmish, a dozen lizardmen ambushed near the cliffs. "Form up—spears front!" Roland commanded. The recruits held, Joren and Marek leading the thrust that felled the first wave. Harvesting followed: scales peeled meticulously, cores glowing like captive stars as Jeffrey explained, "These power enchantments—feel the hum? That's raw magic, waiting to be shaped."
Back in camp, around crackling fires, the brothers reflected. "They're hardening," Roland said one night, staring into the flames. "Another month, and they'll stand without us."
Chris leaned back, sharpening his blade. "Aye, but gods, I miss home. Clarice's wedding—Tyrell's probably forged her a ring that wards off bad weather."
Tom laughed. "And Mother's enchanting the dress to change colors with her mood. Father'll walk her down the aisle grumbling about 'too much magic in weddings.'"
Sam smirked. "The twins'll prank the cake—turn it into frogs mid-bite."
The laughter eased the ache of separation, but the work pressed on.
Meanwhile, in Eldermere, Byrt Tenebrae's days blurred into a cycle of secrecy and sweat. The mithrilite vein pulsed deeper, its blue glow illuminating hidden shafts where he and his trusted few mined in shifts. Mornings began with family breakfasts—oat porridge laced with Cindy's warming spells, the girls chattering about lessons in sewing and herb-lore. Belfin and Ophelia scampered about, their mischief contained to harmless pranks like enchanted spoons that stirred themselves.
But the vein weighed heavy. One evening, as lanterns flickered in the house, Byrt sat with Cindy at the table, the sample ore between them.
"It's richer than I thought," he confided, voice low so the children wouldn't overhear. "We've stockpiled enough for a dozen blades already—glowing blue, humming with power. Stanley says it'll take enchantments like nothing else."
Cindy traced the veins, her magic making them flare briefly. "It's beautiful, Byrt… but eerie. Like it's alive. The girls sense something—they ask why you're so quiet lately."
He sighed, covering her hand with his. "The wedding's keeping them distracted, thank the gods. Clarice can't stop talking about her dress—wants one with embroidered wards for luck."
Cindy smiled faintly. "She and Roselda spent all afternoon sketching patterns. Eden suggested adding harpy feathers for 'exotic flair'—said the boys would bring some home as trophies."
Byrt chuckled. "Our lads, fighting beasts while we dig magic from the earth. I worry for them, Cindy. No word since the last missive."
She squeezed his hand. "They're strong—like you. And this ore… it could protect them. But promise me—no risks. The vein's a gift, but gifts like this come with shadows."
"I promise," he murmured, pulling her close. "We mine careful, vault it deep. For them. For all of us."
The girls' excitement built as the wedding neared. Clarice, flushed with anticipation, gathered her sisters in the sewing room one sunny afternoon. "Tyrell sent word—he's forging the rings himself, with runes for eternal bond," she gushed, holding up a sketch of a flowing gown.
Roselda beamed, threading a needle with enchanted silk. "It needs wards—subtle ones, for protection and joy. What about lace from the capital weave? Or feathers—the boys joked about harpy plumes in their letters."
Eden giggled, pinning fabric. "Harpies? That'd make it fierce! Imagine walking down the aisle like a warrior bride."
Landina nodded eagerly. "And colors—blue for loyalty, like Mother's eyes. Elizabeth, what about flowers? Enchanted ones that bloom forever?"
Elizabeth, the youngest of the trio, clapped. "Yes! Roses that change with the moon—black at night, red by day. Clarice, you'll be the most beautiful bride in Fatum!"
Clarice laughed, hugging them. "With you all helping, how could I not? I just wish the boys were here to see it."
Ophelia, peeking in with Belfin, added mischievously, "We'll prank Tyrell—make his hammer dance!"
The house rang with joy, a counterpoint to the mine's secrets.
A month ground by, the AshenVale militia emerging battle-hardened—formations crisp, eyes sharp, fear forged into resolve. Goodbyes came at dawn, the three hundred assembled in the square, shields polished, new sergeants like Joren and Lira at the fore.
Roland clasped hands with the elders. "You stand strong now. We'd stay longer, but there's an overdue wedding back home—our sister Clarice to Tyrell Levithoro. Can't miss that."
Mara gripped his arm. "You've given us more than strength—hope. Safe roads, Sergeants Tenebrae."
The militia saluted as the brothers' one hundred five marched out, packs laden with trophies: bundled harpy feathers, sacks of lizardman scales, glowing cores in warded pouches. Chris hefted a feather bundle. "Clarice'll love these—wedding veil fit for a queen. Or maybe a prank for the twins."
Tom snorted. "Tyrell'll try forging them into armor. 'Protects against bad dancing at the reception.'"
Laughter echoed as they trekked north, the road winding through secured wilds.
Back in Eldermere, Byrt and Stanley worked in a secluded smithy, hidden from apprentices' eyes. The air hummed with heat and magic, the anvil glowing under hammer strikes.
"Steady now," Stanley grunted, swinging his hammer down on the mithrilite ingot—metallic blue, pulsing like a living heart.
Clang. Sparks flew, blue and ethereal.
Byrt followed, his strike precise. "Almost there. Feel the vein's power? It wants to be shaped."
Clang. The blade took form, edges shimmering.
One final strike from Stanley, then Byrt laid his hands on the cooling steel, whispering an enchantment—words of protection, drawn from family lore. Runes flared blue, sinking into the metal.
They stepped back, slowly smiling over the finished mithrilite longsword—gleaming, humming faintly, a weapon born of secret depths, ready to guard what mattered most.