The airship docked in silence.

  No banners flew from its rigging. No horns announced its arrival. Just the groan of gangplanks deploying and the low hiss of cooling arcane engines as the eastern vessel settled into place above the harbor tower.

  A few dockworkers paused to watch, expecting merchants or dignitaries.

  What stepped off instead silenced the platform.

  Five figures appeared, robes billowing in the wind, boots striking the wood with a steady, deliberate rhythm. Two priests, dressed in bone-colored vestments, led the group with their hoods pulled low. Behind them, two escort soldiers clad in steel armor, with pauldrons bearing the burning-eye insignia of the Divine Path, marched along. Their armor was coated in the pale dust of highland roads, but their eyes stayed sharp and vigilant.

  At their center, a fifth figure walked, hooded, gloved, unarmed.

  The Inquisitor.

  He moved calmly, without any flourish. The crew scattered instinctively without needing instructions, and even the dockmaster stepped back, muttering a blessing under his breath. They said nothing as they passed, no greetings, no questions. Just the sound of boots on wood and stone as they made their way off the airship dock and onto the main causeway, heading for the heart of the city.

  The forge hall gates swung open with a familiar creak. Heat washed over us like a dragon’s breath, thick, metallic, and expectant. The smell of charcoal, oil, and scorched steel filled my lungs like a memory. It almost felt like home.

  Seraphina stepped beside me, her eyes scanning the chamber with quiet focus. The morning crew was already deep into their rhythm, hammers pounding in uneven beats, anvils flashing like signal fires. Apprentices moved swiftly but silently, as if even they could feel the pressure mounting.

  A few looked up. Some nodded out of habit or respect. Others looked away too quickly. I saw it in their shoulders, the stiffness, and the way conversation faded as we passed. They sensed that something had changed. Not just a title. Not just a new blade. Something deeper.

  Mark jogged up from the back, a streak of soot smudging his temple, arms loaded with fresh billets. “We’re stocked and ready,” he said, forcing brightness into his tone. “The new rack’s in place. Orders are already moving.”

  “Good,” I said. My voice came out flatter than I intended. I turned toward my station. Emberline rested in its mount above the bench, still as stone, but somehow never quiet. Its blade caught a strand of light and reflected it like a signal.

  We were making progress. Orders are being filled. Steel shaped. Apprentices trained.

  But deep down, something stirred. A subtle force pulling against the familiar. The kind of stillness a storm respects, right before it strikes. They’re coming.

  I exhaled and rolled my shoulders, releasing the tension. Thought wouldn’t help right now. Only motion would. I’ve been away from the forge for a bit too long.

  I moved toward my workstation, carefully setting Emberline on the bench beside it. Its glow faded, but it still seemed aware, as if watching. I rested a hand on the hilt for a moment, then let go. I can still feel its presence nearby, as if I could reach out and it would be there for me.

  Work first.

  The prince’s commission was ready: a billet of pure mithril, faintly gleaming in the morning light. Soft to the eye but deceptive. Mithril wanted to flow like silk, but could become stubborn without the right rhythm.

  Across the floor, Seraphina and Vaktar slipped into the office. She carried a ledger under one arm, her expression already sharpening into focus. Vaktar followed, keeping a respectful distance, but his hand lingered on the hilt of his short blade.

  Good. Let them handle that side of the storm.

  I set the mithril billet on the anvil and reached for my tools. The familiar weight of the hammer rested in my hand. The steady hiss of the forge sounded like a heartbeat waiting to sync with mine.

  I struck the first blow. It rang out not just through metal, but through my chest, grounding me again. This is where I find clarity. Steel doesn’t lie. Steel doesn’t hide. And I had a sword to wield.

  The forge burned bright with the steady roar below, the flames already licking toward white-hot. I positioned the mithril ingot in the cradle and let the heat take it. It caught quickly, almost too quickly, and began to glow with that ethereal, moonlit sheen unique to mithril. Silken blue with veins of silver threaded through it like starlight.

  Behind me, hammers rang like bells. The guild was alive, smiths working at benches, apprentices hauling rods and stoking flames. The guild might run on steel and sweat, but it thrived on rhythm, and today it was humming.

  “Master David,” came a call from across the hall.

  I turned. Corrin, the veteran smith from Forge Three, waved a thick hand. “Apologies, but this hinge order’s binding mid-pivot. Either the steel’s warped or I’m losing my grip in my old age.”

  I left the mithril to heat and crossed over, examining the hinge. A quick glance. A test of the pin. “Your grind’s clean, but the weld at the base is too hot. It pulled on one side when it cooled.” I reached for his chisel and, with a few deft strikes, adjusted the base. “Now refit it and let it cool slowly. It’ll align clean.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  He grunted, impressed. “How’d you spot that so quickly?”

  “Structural Insight,” I said, turning the hinge slightly between my fingers. “The light hit it just right. You see that ripple near the base? It’s subtle, but it shows the weld cooled unevenly. Probably just a half-second too long on the left side. That’s all it takes.”

  Corrin leaned closer, squinting. “Hells, I wouldn’t’ve caught that. Not without grinding it down first.”

  I handed the hinge back to him, already turning to go. “I’ve cracked enough steel in my day to know what failure smells like. You’ll feel it in your hands before you see it if you’ve been doing it long enough.”

  He shook his head, a grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “No wonder they handed you the title.”

  Back at my station, the mithril was ready. I drew it from the coals and placed it on the anvil. Unlike steel, it didn’t complain when struck, it sang. The first tap of the hammer produced a clear, melodic ring throughout the hall. Not harsh. Not defiant. Almost grateful.

  Each hit was deliberate, not overly harsh. Mithril didn’t want to be struck; it wanted to be understood.

  “Master Smith,” a younger voice, Mark’s, said. He held out a set of tongs with raw billets. “Should I prep the brass inserts for the guard, or are you going pure form?”

  “Let’s keep it simple,” I said, glancing at the blade. “No embellishments. This sword’s for the prince. Let it speak for itself.”

  Mark nodded and returned to his station.

  I turned the mithril. Folded it once, then twice. Each fold revealed a tighter grain and a more uniform flow. I shaped the fuller with a round peen, letting the hammer follow the lines already forming in the blade. This wasn’t about force; it was about alignment. Partnership.

  Halfway through, another apprentice called out, “Master David, the edge on this paring blade’s cracking along the line.”

  I set the prince’s blade gently on the leather mat and moved toward the voice. “Let me see.”

  It only took a moment, cheap carbon stock, over-quenched. “You quenched it too hot,” I said, turning the blade slightly. “Steel’s not all about heat. It’s about timing.” I picked up a file and eased the bevel. “Listen to the hiss, it tells you when it’s ready.” I dipped the blade into the quench tank again, this time more slowly. A gentler hiss rose from the oil, like steam breathing out.

  The apprentice nodded, wide-eyed, as I handed it back. I straightened and glanced around the forge hall.

  Ten forges burned across the wide space, each one a small world of sound and sweat. Smiths worked steadily, some focused on horseshoes or wagon axles, others shaping blades or setting hilts. Sparks danced in the haze, turning the air to gold and shadow.

  Near the third forge, I spotted two new apprentices I’d seen this morning. Young, barely sixteen, maybe. One was carefully hammering a hinge under the guidance of an older smith. The other was struggling with a set of tongs, but was getting it. Slowly. They’d find their rhythm over time.

  I felt a quiet pride swell in my chest. Not because I taught them directly, but because this hall was alive. People were learning. Creating. Becoming. That was enough. I turned back to my station. The prince’s sword still waited, resting in the halo of light as if it knew what it was becoming, back to the mithril.

  I shaped the tang and aligned the blade. It was coming together gracefully, yet durably. It had a commanding presence. Not just a blade for a prince, but a blade worthy of lineage. When I quenched it, this time in the polished, star-herb-infused solution, it released a soft sigh, not a hiss, but a gentle exhale.

  The hall around me buzzed, spoke, and echoed with the sound of progress. But at my station, time moved slowly.

  The forge still echoed with the sound of hammer strikes and shouted measurements. Apprentices buzzed like bees among flames and steel. But around me, everything centered on the sword in my hands.

  When I held it up to the afternoon light, shafts of gold streaming through the clerestory windows above, the blade caught every ray. Not just reflecting it, but catching it, bending it, as if it were drawing breath through the light itself.

  It was pure mithril, pale and polished but not cold. The edge shimmered with a thin line, almost as if it could cut the air itself. The fuller showed a gentle ripple, like a stone dropped in water, suggesting how it had been shaped and folded.

  Footsteps came up behind me.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Seraphina said softly, her voice low to avoid disturbing the forge's rhythm. She leaned in, wrapping her arms around my waist from behind.

  I turned, placing the blade down. She kissed me quickly, her hands still on my sides. “Vaktar’s escorting me some paperwork, and we need to pick up supplies from the quartermaster.”

  I wiped a streak of soot off her cheek with my thumb. “Stay close to him.”

  She smirked. “I plan to.”

  Vaktar gave a slight nod from the doorway. “We won’t be long, my lord.”

  “Watch her,” I said, not taking my eyes off her face.

  “Always,” he replied.

  They stepped outside, the sound of boots fading beyond the stone doorstep. The forge quieted again, except for the crackle of coals and the low hum of activity. I exhaled and looked back at the mithril blade on the bench. If Vaktar’s going to stay at her side, I thought, running a hand along the steel’s edge, then I need to give him something better than the mass-forged blade at his hip. Something worthy of the job. Then, in the corner of my vision, faint glowing text pulsed once.

  [Class Progress: 90% Complete]

  Just like before, no chimes. No triumphant fanfare. Just another number. Quiet. Closer to something being complete. The blacksmiths around me kept working, unaware. But I knew something was coming to an end, or maybe a new beginning. It wasn’t just a sword. It was a signal. A breath before the final strike.

  The Inquisitor walked with quiet confidence, his footsteps echoing on the cobblestones as the Divine Path moved through the lower quarter of Vaelthorn.

  They passed merchants who glanced briefly and then looked away. A blacksmith’s apprentice dropped his tongs. A child was gently pulled from a doorway and held close. Even the guards, experienced and trained, nodded respectfully and chose other corners to patrol.

  They didn’t ask questions. He didn’t offer answers. At a shaded stall near the well, the Inquisitor paused. The vendor, an older woman with ink-stained fingers and a keen eye, looked up, then froze. She said nothing. The Inquisitor reached out with a gloved hand. After a pause, she reached beneath her counter and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.

  Names. Descriptions.

  “Smith. Joined the Guild less than a week ago. Tall. Wears a long coat. Wife has red hair and sharp eyes. They don’t talk much.” The Inquisitor took the paper but didn’t read it. He already knew.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  The woman didn’t answer. She only reached for a bottle under the stall, one with a cork she’d blessed herself. Without a word, the group moved on. By the time they reached the guild square, the bells were chiming midday. The forge smoke curled high into the sky like a signal. The Inquisitor paused at the corner and turned his head slightly, not toward the guildhall but toward the Black Tower.

  “Still closed,” one of the priests muttered.

  The Inquisitor remained silent. He didn’t have to say anything. The path was already set in motion.