The castle of Vaelthorn didn’t just dominate the skyline—it commanded it. Its spires pierced the sky like spears, rising above the tiled rooftops and twisting alleys of the city below. Thick walls, mottled gray and black from age, enclosed the perimeter like a fortress. Every stone, weathered by centuries, remained strong, radiating permanence. This was not the home of politicians or luxury lords. It was a citadel of power. Deliberate. Heavy. Watching.

  As we approached the gates, the wide street narrowed between sharp buttresses and ivy-covered statues of long-forgotten kings. The cobblestones under our feet grew cleaner and more even, as if even the ground followed stricter rules here. The morning sunlight shifted to a soft gold, lighting up the colored glass in the upper towers and casting fractured rainbows across the flagstones.

  Banners hung high along the outer curtain wall, bearing the kingdom's sigil—a rearing stag against a storm-blue background. They snapped softly in the breeze, like warning whips.

  The Guildmaster walked beside me with the confidence of someone familiar with this trail, his dark cloak gently billowing in the breeze. I followed, weighed down by my pack, with my sword safely wrapped. Every step toward the gate felt like entering a different kind of forge—one where the heat wasn’t from fire, but from scrutiny.

  Two guards stood at the main gate, their plate armor polished to a shine that reflected the morning light like mirrors. They weren’t ceremonial guards—they moved like men who had fought before, hands near hilts, eyes alert even as we approached openly.

  “Guildmaster Verran,” the one on the left said with a nod. He was older, broad across the shoulders, and missing the top joint of his left ring finger. “You’re expected.”

  The Guildmaster pointed at me. “David Robertson. Master smith.”

  I glanced at him, raising my eyebrows. “Your name’s Verran?” I asked softly so only the three of us could hear. “You never told me.”

  Verran didn’t look at me, just exhaled softly through his nose—half amusement, half warning. “You never asked,” he replied without breaking stride.

  The guard’s eyes flicked between us, clearly noticing the exchange. He studied me a little longer than usual, then gave a quick nod and signaled to his partner. The second guard stepped aside and rang a bell twice, deep, deliberate tones echoing through the stone arch.

  Beyond the threshold, the interior courtyard stretched out like a stage, pristine and silent. Sculpted trees flanked shallow beds of crushed white stone. A reflecting pool ran beneath an arched portico to our left, and the air carried a faint scent of rosemary, polished marble, and steel oil. A single gardener quietly clipped hedges, eyes cast downward.

  “I was expecting more guards,” I muttered under my breath.

  The Guildmaster gave a quiet grunt. “They’re watching. Just not where you can see them.”

  I adjusted my strap on my shoulder and looked up, momentarily forgetting everything else. The grandeur of the design was staggering, with towering spires and precise symmetry, every stone laid with intentional accuracy. It wasn’t just beautiful. It was genius. A fortress disguised as art. Whoever built it hadn’t just thought about walls and battlements; they’d considered sightlines, control, and movement. I couldn’t help but smile.

  We moved up to the second tier, and I viewed the towers from a new perspective. There were arrow slits and channels for hot oil. Watch balconies were barely noticeable to an untrained eye. The walls weren’t just defenses—they were layered for protection. Every path led to a strategic choke point. No wonder the city outside was so loyal to its crown. The castle alone could withstand a siege.

  At the edge of a colonnade lined with stoic statues of sword-wielding ancestors, the Guildmaster paused and then turned slightly.

  They’re taking us to the Hall of Stone. Keep your tone calm, shoulders straight, and speak honestly.

  I nodded.

  Then we entered the main part of the castle, and the temperature gradually dropped. The stone absorbed the outside noise, while light filtered through narrow windows above us, casting shifting patterns on the floor. No torches were burning—only the faint echo of footsteps and the scent of parchment, iron, and history.

  The inner gate closed behind us with a thud that seemed to silence the city's noise. Inside, the world felt colder and calmer. The courtyard stretched out before us, paved with broad stone tiles worn smooth by centuries of boots, hooves, and ceremonies. Flags bearing the crest of Vaelthorn—silver tower, crowned sun—fluttered gently along the parapets. The air carried a faint smell of old stone, iron, and a floral scent I couldn’t quite identify.

  We trailed a steward in deep red livery through arched colonnades and echoing hallways. The castle wasn’t just grand—it was exact. No unnecessary decoration, no flashy excess. Everything carried weight. A seriousness. I started to understand why the sword had to be perfect.

  We reached a long chamber beyond the final set of guards, where two figures waited.

  One was a man in his fifties, broad-chested with thinning blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard that had mostly turned gray. His deep blue cloak was adorned with gold filigree. A signet ring shone on his right hand as he clasped his hands behind his back. His posture was relaxed, yet every detail radiated confidence and authority.

  “Duke Alaric,” Verran said with a respectful bow. I noticed that the Guildmaster gave me a sidelong glance, and I followed his lead, offering a respectful bow as well.

  The other man, a step behind him, was probably just a few years older than me—likely in his early twenties. He had dark hair tied back, with a slight, amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His doublet was crimson, lined in black, and the sleeves had a silver thread pattern I didn’t recognize.

  “Prince Kaelen,” Verran added, tilting his head once more.

  The Duke’s eyes moved to me. “So. You are the smith.”

  I straightened my shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “David Robertson, your grace.”

  Then the Duke gave a quiet, approving grunt. “Well then. Let’s see what all this fuss is about.”

  The Duke gave a small wave to a steward standing nearby. The man stepped forward quietly, his gloved hands held out expectantly.

  I hesitated briefly before sliding the pack off my shoulders and carefully opening it. The sword was inside, wrapped in thick cloth and secured with leather straps. I handed it to the steward, who accepted it with surprising grace for a man his size. His arms didn’t tremble. Either he was trained to carry weight without complaint, or he already knew what this sword was.

  “Bring it along,” the Duke said, then turned to Verran and me. “Come.”

  We followed as the long hall stretched out before us, high vaulted and lined with stone columns. Tapestries hung like sleeping giants—depicting ancient battles, old rulers, and creatures I assumed were either extinct or exaggerated. The marble floor beneath us was veined with green and gold, and our footsteps echoed with a rhythmic cadence that almost felt rehearsed.

  At the end of the hallway, tall wooden doors reinforced with blackened iron stood. Two guards in ceremonial armor flanked them, helms tucked under their arms. The Duke and Prince Kaelen reached the threshold, then the younger man turned.

  “Wait here,” Kaelen told the guards, then added, “When the king calls for them, you may let them in. Not before.”

  The guards nodded, their expressions unreadable.

  The Duke and Prince entered, and the doors closed behind them with a deliberate thud. The hallway grew quiet again, only the faint sound of footsteps beyond the doors and the low hum of the castle filling the air.

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  Verran looked at me sideways but said nothing.

  I exhaled slowly, knowing the real test was just minutes away.

  Behind us, the steward still held the sword with both arms, standing stiff and silent. But the flush rising in his face revealed he wasn’t used to bearing weight like that for long. The cloth-wrapped steel, balanced and heavy, was no ceremonial trinket.

  “Do you need any assistance?” I asked, stepping half a pace toward him.

  He straightened a bit, trying to hide the strain. “No, sir. I can manage.”

  His voice was steady, but his jaw was clenched, and his knuckles had turned white around the bindings. The reddish hue in his cheeks had darkened during the brief wait.

  I gave a quiet nod. “Okay, if you need help, I’ll help. It’s heavier than it looks.” He didn’t reply, but I caught the flicker of agreement in his eyes.

  Beside me, Verran let out a faint hum of amusement—approval, maybe, or just a gentle reminder that in a room like this, titles mattered less than observation. The silence returned, thick and expectant.

  The great doors stayed shut.

  I've always hated silences that go on too long. On a battlefield, they signaled something terrible was about to happen. In a forge, they indicated you’d misjudged the heat. Here, outside grand doors hiding royalty and judgment, it pressed down like a vice.

  And even worse, something about it all felt off. Too perfect. Too quiet. Like a script was being followed, and I hadn’t been given a copy. My instincts itched, subtle but persistent. A trap? No sign. No signal. Just tension crawling under my skin like tiny sparks skittering across metal.

  There was nothing I could do about it. No reason to act on suspicion alone. So I exhaled and squared my shoulders.

  I’d go with it. That’s what you do when you’re outnumbered and uninvited—you walk forward as if you’re meant to be there.

  I shifted slightly toward Verran. “So,” I said, low but clear, “Seraphina picked out these clothes. What do you think? A little dashing?” I pulled open the jacket to reveal its tailored cut.

  Verran blinked, caught off guard. His eyebrows raised in genuine surprise—maybe at the timing, maybe at the question. He opened his mouth to answer—

  —and that’s when the great doors began to open with a slow, resonant groan. Stone scraped against stone. Light spilled out from the chamber beyond.

  Verran straightened his cuffs and gave me a look that said, 'Later.' Just like that, the moment was gone, replaced by the heavy weight of expectation.

  The groan of stone still echoed through the corridor as the massive doors slowly swung open to reveal the chamber beyond. But just before the light fully crossed the threshold, Verran leaned slightly toward me, speaking softly.

  “Don’t forget to go to your knee,” he said. Then, after a pause, “Forget it—just follow my lead.”

  I gave a slight nod, my heart pounding. My mouth was dry, and my palms were sweaty. I hadn’t knelt for anyone since I was a kid—and now I was about to kneel before a king holding my work under judgment.

  “Wish us luck," I said with a slight laugh to the guard next to me. His eyes met mine briefly, and I saw a quick acknowledgment. I adjusted the strap across my chest, exhaled slowly, and stepped forward behind Verran as the last inch of the doors groaned open.

  A herald’s voice echoed through the chamber, resonating beneath the vaulted ceiling. “Guildmaster Verran of the Vaelthorn Artisan Council, accompanied by Master Smith David Robertson of Brackenreach.”

  My name drifted across the marble like smoke, softer than I expected but somehow heavier. I crossed the threshold and followed Verran into the hall, forcing myself to keep pace and not glance around at the spectators lining the walls—nobles in silk, advisors in dark robes, soldiers in ceremonial armor. Every step seemed to echo louder than the last.

  At the far end of the chamber, atop a raised dais of polished blackstone, sat the King and Queen.

  The King carried a quiet dignity—his crown simple but unmistakable, his beard neatly trimmed, and his robes a deep midnight blue embroidered with silver filigree. He did not slouch. He did not smile. He simply watched.

  Beside him, the Queen had a more subtle presence—her dress layered in sheer silks that shimmered in the candlelight, her gaze sharp behind a half-closed fan. She looked at me the way one might examine a blade for flaws.

  I felt the sword’s weight behind me even though the steward still carried it.

  Verran stopped at the base of the dais and immediately dropped to one knee. I followed a moment later, kneeling down, head bowed, hands steady.

  This was it. The room, the test, the sword, the silence. And then the King stood.

  “Welcome Guildmaster Verran and Master Smith Robertson." The king's voice echoed through the hall. I kept my head down as I felt the gaze of countless people upon me. "Rise," the king continued.

  The movement alone was enough to draw a collective breath from the room. No fanfare, no command, just the quiet authority of a man who didn’t need either. He descended the dais steps with deliberate steps, robes flowing like shadows around him.

  He gave a small gesture with his hand.

  The steward, recognizing the order, quickly moved to the front, carefully holding the sheathed sword with respect. His movements were deliberate, but I could see the strain starting to show on his arms. When he reached the King, he knelt and silently presented the sword. The King took it with both hands.

  I saw his brow furrow as he felt the weight, more than ceremonial, far more than decorative. This was no court ornament. This was a weapon meant for war and history alike. He slowly unsheathed it.

  The steel sang high and clear as the blade was drawn. Light reflected along its folded surface, shimmering like water over stone. The gold inlay flared against the torchlight as he angled it to read:

  “Strength to Rule, Wisdom to Refrain,” the King read aloud, his voice echoing in the vaulted chamber.

  He turned the blade gently in his hands, examining the balance, the craftsmanship.

  “My lord,” I said, stepping forward slightly, my voice calm but clear. “Be careful with the blade. It’s sharp.”

  A few nobles chuckled lightly at the warning, until—

  The King, unused to its weight and balance, made a small downward movement to lower the tip. Too much motion. The blade slipped forward.

  CRACK.

  The sword met the stone floor.

  A harsh, metallic hiss followed by a deep, unmistakable scrape—the kind only steel scraping against something far too solid would make. A clean groove now marred the polished stone at the King’s feet, half an inch deep, smooth, and carved like butter. Gasps rippled through the hall. The steward blanched, and one of the guards stepped forward before catching himself.

  The King blinked, then looked at the sword again… and smiled.

  The nearest guard stepped forward instinctively, eyes wide, posture stiff. He moved carefully as he took the sword from the King’s hand and—straining slightly—pulled it free from the stone floor.

  Stone dust hissed loose from the groove. The slice was clean. Perfect.

  The guard held the weapon with both hands, displaying it for inspection. The King leaned in closer, narrowing his eyes as he examined the edge. He slowly turned the blade, tilting it toward the torchlight for better clarity.

  Then came his voice—soft, steady, but easily heard across the hall. “Not even a mark.”

  Murmurs spread quickly among the spectators. Nobles leaned toward each other. At least one court smith loudly swore and was elbowed by his companion.

  The King stepped back, still watching the sword, and finally turned toward Verran and me.

  This is no fake showpiece. This is a weapon of war and honor. Crafted by a master… or a liar with the hands of a god.

  The guard carefully handed the sword back to the steward, then looked directly at me.

  “You’ve given us something dangerous,” he said. “And perhaps… necessary.”

  The Guildmaster and I bowed deeply together, my heart pounding in my chest. I kept my voice steady.

  “Your words honor me, my lord.”

  The King slightly turned to look at the Queen, who gave the faintest nod—an unspoken approval that carried centuries of tradition in a single breath. He stepped forward again, his voice rising with regal clarity.

  Master Smith Robertson, we thank you for appearing before this court and showcasing your skill for all to see. As recognition of your craft—and your restraint—” he cast a glance at the groove carved into the stone floor, drawing a few chuckles from braver nobles, “—I will grant you a peerage, along with all responsibilities and rights that such a title entails.

  He paused, letting the hall go still.

  “I, King Aldric of Vaelthorn, name you David Robertson, Earl of Brackenreach.”

  The words hit my head like hammer blows. Whispers spread through the room, and an uneasy silence settled in. Behind me, I could feel the Guildmaster shift slightly, just enough to exhale. A few nobles were already reevaluating the social hierarchy of the kingdom.

  I dropped to one knee once more.

  “I accept this honor with humility, my king,” I said, voice low but clear.

  From the throne, the Queen’s eyes met mine, unreadable yet sharp. The King gave a small, satisfied nod.

  Murmurs quickly spread through the chamber. Nobles whispered behind their gloves, fans fluttered, and several courtiers leaned in to consult their neighbors, eyes narrowing in suspicion. The old Duke who had flanked the prince earlier let out a dry, amused bark—one that could mean either approval or disapproval, it's hard to tell.

  “Brackenreach,” someone muttered not far from the dais. “Wasn’t that in Southlands?”

  The Queen’s lips twitched, but she stayed silent and composed. Prince Kaelen, still near her throne, gave me a long, cautious look. Not dismissive. Not friendly either—more like weighing a blade and deciding if it could cut both ways.

  From the gallery, a younger noblewoman leaned forward. Her gaze flicked between me and the sword still held by the steward, then back again. Measuring. Perhaps plotting.

  One of the lesser lords, wrapped in too much velvet for the heat of the hall, raised his voice.

  Your Majesty, forgive the interruption—but does the newly appointed Earl already have lands and vassals, or will they be granted by the crown?

  The King didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned back to me.

  “Do you claim the lands of Brackenreach, Master Smith?”

  I stood up again, my pulse pounding, while the hall remained silent with everyone staring at me. Brackenreach. Seraphina’s home. My mouth was dry. My mind shouted, Oh, Crap. What the hell are you getting into? This is a trap hidden inside a box with a ribbon.

  “I do,” I said simply. A moment of silence.

  “Then it is yours,” the King replied, his voice final. “Let it be recorded. The forges at Brackenreach will burn anew.”

  The herald at the far end of the chamber quickly turned to scribble on his parchment, already preparing the official announcement for the court scribe.

  A soft voice whispered somewhere to my left. A smith. An earl. What's next, a bard as a general?

  I didn’t reply, but I heard Verran chuckle softly nearby.

  Let them talk, I thought. Seraphina is going to be angry.