The world of Virellion did not appear on most Federation maps unless someone zoomed far enough into the outer frontier sectors to notice the thin cluster of systems orbiting a dim blue star. Even then the name carried little weight. There were no trade capitals there, no strategic military outposts, and certainly no royal courts. Virellion existed for simpler reasons. It produced metal, and in the frontier that alone was enough to justify a planet’s continued presence in the galactic economy.

  From orbit the surface looked harsh but strangely beautiful. Vast mountain ridges stretched across entire continents like scars carved into the crust of the world. Rivers of molten mineral flowed through volcanic valleys where automated extractors hovered constantly above the heat. The sky carried a faint violet hue caused by the planet’s unusual atmosphere, and the two small moons that orbited Virellion moved slowly across that sky like quiet witnesses to the endless industrial labor below.

  Most of the settlements were mining towns built along the edges of the volcanic ranges where the richest mineral veins could be accessed. They were not elegant cities. The buildings were heavy structures made from reinforced alloy plates, designed to survive both seismic shifts and the occasional meteor storm that struck the planet’s thin upper atmosphere. Cargo transports rose and descended constantly from the landing fields outside the settlements, carrying shipments of refined metal toward the inner trade systems where factories turned the raw material into weapons, engines, and the countless other technologies that sustained civilization across the frontier.

  One such settlement rested at the edge of a canyon filled with black stone and glowing lava streams. The people who lived there simply called it Forge Valley.

  At the far end of the main street stood a structure that looked older than most of the other buildings. Its walls were made from thick slabs of volcanic rock reinforced with steel braces that had clearly been repaired many times over the years. A tall chimney extended from the roof, releasing a constant plume of smoke that drifted lazily into the violet sky. The heavy metal doors at the front were open despite the heat inside.

  The rhythmic sound of hammer striking metal echoed from within.

  Odnar Zephyr stood beside the central anvil with both hands gripping a long forging hammer. Sweat ran down his arms and darkened the front of the leather apron covering his chest. The forge behind him roared with a deep orange glow as superheated air blasted through the chamber where a blade of raw alloy rested on the coals.

  Across the room an older man watched from a wooden chair beside a cluttered workbench. His beard had turned almost completely gray, and the deep lines in his face suggested decades spent breathing furnace smoke and metal dust.

  “That edge is drifting,” the old man said without raising his voice.

  Odnar lifted the glowing blade with a pair of tongs, placed it back onto the anvil, and struck again. The hammer fell with controlled precision, flattening the metal along the length of the forming weapon.

  “It’s not drifting,” Odnar replied. “The alloy just needed to settle.”

  The old man snorted quietly. “You say that every time.”

  Another strike rang through the forge. Sparks scattered across the stone floor like small bursts of orange rain.

  Odnar stepped back slightly to examine the blade. Even unfinished it carried a faint silver sheen beneath the dark scale formed by the heat. The weapon would eventually become a long combat sword designed for frontier militia forces that could not afford the more advanced energy weapons used by the major systems.

  “You could sell that one for triple if you polished it properly,” the old man said.

  “And spend another two days on a weapon a miner will probably break the first time he swings it?” Odnar replied.

  The old man shrugged. “Still better than selling it cheap.”

  Odnar lifted the blade again and plunged it into the quenching barrel beside the anvil. Steam exploded upward in a violent white cloud that filled the forge with the sharp scent of heated metal meeting cold water.

  “That’s not why people come here,” Odnar said as the steam cleared. “They come because it works.”

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  The old man leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re a strange blacksmith, Zephyr.”

  “I’m efficient.”

  “You’re stubborn.”

  “That too.”

  The old man’s name was Tarek, though most people in Forge Valley simply called him Old Tarek because few remembered when he had first arrived on Virellion. He had once been a skilled engineer on a cargo vessel that operated along the outer trade routes, but after an accident that destroyed most of the ship’s propulsion systems he had decided he preferred the quieter life of repairing tools and machinery in a mining settlement where no one asked too many questions about the past.

  He had also been the one who taught Odnar Zephyr how to shape metal.

  Odnar removed the cooled blade from the barrel and examined the surface carefully. The edge had formed exactly as intended, a smooth line running the length of the weapon that would hold its sharpness far longer than most factory-produced tools shipped from the inner systems.

  “You’ve improved,” Tarek said after watching him work for several minutes.

  Odnar shrugged. “That’s what happens when you do the same thing every day.”

  “Not always,” the old man replied. “Some people do the same thing every day and still manage to get worse at it.”

  Odnar placed the blade on the workbench beside several other finished weapons waiting to be collected. Outside the forge the noise of the settlement drifted through the open doors—cargo lifters moving along the main street, distant voices from the market stalls, and the low rumble of mining drills operating somewhere deeper in the canyon.

  Life on Virellion moved at a steady pace that rarely changed.

  That was one of the reasons Odnar had chosen to stay.

  “You’re thinking again,” Tarek said.

  “I’m always thinking.”

  “About the forge?”

  Odnar hesitated briefly before answering. “About the future.”

  Tarek leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “That’s a dangerous habit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the future has a habit of showing up whether you’re ready for it or not.”

  Odnar wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm and walked toward the open doorway. From the forge entrance he could see most of Forge Valley stretching along the canyon floor. The settlement was small by galactic standards, but it had grown steadily over the last decade as mining companies expanded operations in the surrounding mountains.

  He had arrived here several years earlier with little more than a set of tools and a determination to build something stable in a place where no one cared about his past.

  The forge had been his answer.

  “You hear the broadcast last night?” Tarek asked behind him.

  Odnar did not turn around. “Which one?”

  “The one about Kamelot.”

  Odnar finally glanced back.

  “Hard to miss,” he said.

  Tarek nodded slowly. “Whole planet taken in one night.”

  “According to the broadcast.”

  “You think it’s wrong?”

  Odnar considered the question carefully.

  “I think the truth is usually somewhere between the broadcast and the rumors.”

  Tarek chuckled quietly. “That’s a diplomatic answer for a blacksmith.”

  Odnar leaned against the doorway frame, watching a cargo skimmer descend toward the landing field beyond the settlement.

  “You spend enough time in the frontier,” he said, “you learn not to believe the first story you hear.”

  Tarek studied him for a moment before speaking again.

  “You ever think about leaving this place?”

  Odnar shook his head.

  “No.”

  “You’re young,” the old man continued. “You’ve got skills that could earn you more credits than this forge ever will.”

  Odnar glanced around the room filled with tools, half-finished weapons, and the steady warmth of the furnace.

  “I’m doing fine,” he said.

  Tarek did not argue further.

  The two of them stood in silence for a while, listening to the distant sounds of the mining settlement going about its daily routine.

  Then the ground beneath the forge trembled slightly.

  The vibration lasted only a few seconds before fading, but both men felt it clearly.

  “That wasn’t a mining charge,” Tarek said.

  Odnar stepped outside and looked toward the landing field again.

  A large transport ship was descending toward the settlement.

  Its engines burned with an unfamiliar blue flame that cut through the violet sky like a signal.

  Odnar narrowed his eyes.

  “That ship isn’t from the mining companies,” he said.

  Tarek joined him at the doorway and watched the vessel settle onto the landing platform at the edge of town.

  “No,” the old man agreed quietly.

  “Looks like trouble.”

  Odnar folded his arms and continued observing the distant ship as its landing struts extended.

  For reasons he could not yet explain, he felt a strange sense of anticipation forming in the back of his mind.

  As if the quiet life he had built in Forge Valley was about to change.

  And somewhere far beyond the mountains of Virellion, the war that had begun with the fall of Kamelot was already moving toward him.