The Blacksmith’s Fire

The world returned in fragments—heat, pain, the clang of iron striking iron.

Hakon woke with a gasp, his body wracked with fever and agony. A fire crackled nearby, its warmth pressing against his skin. He was lying on a cot, bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, the scent of medicinal herbs thick in the air.

He turned his head. A forge stood against the far wall, embers glowing within its belly. A hammer rested on a heavy anvil, surrounded by half-finished weapons and tools.

"You're awake."

The voice was deep, worn by years of labor.

Hakon turned his gaze toward the man sitting by the fire—a broad-shouldered blacksmith, his arms crisscrossed with burn scars. His hair was iron-gray, his beard thick, and his eyes sharp as a whetted blade.

"You've been dead for three days," the blacksmith continued, tossing another log onto the fire. "Or near enough. Found you in the woods, half-eaten by wolves."

Hakon's throat was dry as sand. "Why save me?"

The blacksmith studied him. "I don't much like kings."

Silence stretched between them. Hakon closed his eyes. Memories of the execution flooded back—the torches, the laughter, the sword biting into his flesh. His fingers clenched into fists.

"I need to leave," he rasped.

The blacksmith snorted. "You can barely sit up, boy. You leave now, you'll be crow food by morning."

Hakon forced himself upright, every muscle screaming in protest. His ribs burned, but the pain only hardened his resolve. "I don't have time to wait."

The blacksmith sighed, shaking his head. "Stubborn. Fine. If you want to leave, you'll need a weapon." He gestured toward the forge. "You're in no condition to fight, but you can still learn to swing a hammer."

Hakon frowned. "I'm no smith."

"Then you'd best learn." The blacksmith's eyes gleamed. "Because if you're planning to kill a king, you'll need more than just steel. You'll need something worthy of vengeance."

The hammer was placed in his hand.

And so, Hakon Blackwolf began to forge his own legend.