The First Ember

The hammer felt foreign in Hakon's grip—heavier than any sword he had ever wielded, yet lacking the familiar balance of a weapon. His fingers, still stiff from his wounds, curled around the worn handle, and he lifted it with effort. Across from him, the blacksmith stood by the forge, arms crossed, watching.

"Strike the iron," the old man instructed.

Hakon hesitated. He had commanded warriors, slain men in battle, and once held the loyalty of entire clans. But here, in the dim light of the forge, he felt like nothing more than a broken man grasping at embers of his former self.

Gritting his teeth, he brought the hammer down. The clang of metal on metal echoed through the small workshop. The force of the strike sent a jolt through his wounded ribs, making him wince, but he did not falter. He raised the hammer again.

The blacksmith grunted. "You've held a blade before. That's good. But this isn't battle. This is patience. Precision." He stepped forward and placed a thick-gloved hand over Hakon's grip, adjusting his stance. "Looser wrists. Let the weight do the work."

Hakon adjusted, then struck the metal again. The impact rang out cleaner this time.

For hours, he worked. Sweat dripped from his brow despite the cold air outside. His body ached, his wounds protested, but he welcomed the pain. It grounded him. Reminded him he was alive.

"You've got fire in you, boy," the blacksmith said, finally pulling him away from the anvil. "But fire alone won't make steel." He nodded toward the darkened sky outside. "Rest. We start again at dawn."

Hakon didn't argue. He collapsed onto the cot, exhaustion gripping him instantly.

The next few days bled together in a rhythm of fire and steel. He learned to temper metal, to shape a blade with patience rather than brute force. He studied the forge, understanding its hunger, its need for fuel and control.

And in the quiet moments, when the blacksmith left him to his work, Hakon thought of the kings.

He imagined their faces—Osric, who had smiled as he left him bleeding; Edwyn, whose forked tongue had convinced the others to betray him; the others who had stood silent as his men were slaughtered.

He thought of the banners they now flew, the thrones they sat upon, ruling with blood-stained hands.

Hakon clenched his fist.

They would fall.

Not as a warlord. Not with armies that could be betrayed.

No. He would strike from the shadows. From the darkness they believed him buried in.

He would become something they feared.

A week passed before the blacksmith finally placed a finished weapon in his hands. It was not yet the blade Hakon would use for vengeance, but it was a beginning—a simple iron sword, unadorned yet sturdy, made with his own hands.

"Steel remembers the hands that shape it," the blacksmith said. "This is yours now. You're strong enough to hold a blade again. The question is, are you strong enough to use it?"

Hakon turned the weapon in his grip. It felt good. Familiar.

The weight of it was not just in iron, but in purpose.

He met the blacksmith's gaze. "Where is the nearest place a man can find a fight?"

The old man smirked. "There's a village a day's ride from here. Bandits have taken it for themselves."

Hakon sheathed the sword. His ribs still ached, his strength not yet fully returned. But he did not need to be whole to begin.

The first ember of vengeance had been lit.

And he would feed the fire until it consumed the Five Kings.