Forging The Sword

Baldrek strode toward the forge, gripping the small chunk of ore in his calloused hands. The flames roared inside the furnace, embers swirling in the air like fireflies.

The intense heat pressed against Lindarion's skin, sweat already forming on his brow.

When Baldrek reached the forge, he placed the ore into the searing flames. The fire hissed softly as the metal absorbed the heat.

"This isn't a job to rush, boy," Baldrek muttered, his eyes fixed on the slowly heating metal.

"Mastery isn't about speed. Metal needs time to take shape."

'Sure, sure, dwarf.'

With a single, practiced motion, Baldrek reached for a massive hammer. His weathered hands—strong yet precise—lifted the tool as if it weighed nothing.

Leaning over the forge, he watched the metal carefully, his sharp eyes tracking its gradual transformation.

The air shimmered from the overwhelming heat.

Then came the first strike.

The hammer fell with a resounding clang, its rhythm echoing through the workshop like a heartbeat. Each impact was measured, deliberate—the strokes of a master shaping raw material into something greater.

"You should know—" Baldrek's voice was steady, even as he worked.

"A weapon is a reflection of its wielder. If you lack patience, you'll never wield the blade you desire."

Seraphine gave a slow nod, her gaze locked onto the forging process.

[That's right.]

Her face glistened with sweat, her blue eyes gleaming with sharp focus.

'He's a true blacksmith,' Lindarion thought, watching as the sword slowly took form.

Sparks flared with each strike, showering the ground like molten stars. The blade grew sharper, more refined with every blow. The heat, the rhythm, the skill—all blended into a single, seamless motion.

"This is the secret, Prince."

Baldrek landed a final, resounding strike, the impact sending a wave of heat through the air.

"Speed and sharpness aren't just about brute force. It's about precision."

The blade—gleaming and red-hot—had taken shape. The last explosion of sparks flared like a dying ember, a final touch to the masterpiece.

Seraphine observed in silence, her expression unreadable.

Baldrek turned, lifting the sword in his hands and examining it with a discerning eye before handing it to Lindarion.

"This is yours now, Prince. A dueling sword, forged by a true craftsman."

'It's perfect.'

The room fell silent, save for the crackling embers and their steady breaths. The newly forged blade gleamed under the forge's light.

The heat still lingered, but the time, the effort—the very soul poured into the weapon—had taken physical form.

Baldrek studied Lindarion as he turned the sword in his hands, testing its weight.

"It's not every blade that deserves to be wielded," he mused, his fingers brushing over ancient relics hanging on the workshop walls—forgotten weapons of long-dead warriors.

"This sword requires more than just strength. It demands a warrior with a sharp mind."

His words didn't intimidate Lindarion. If anything, they confirmed what he had already felt. Every curve of the blade, every groove whispered the same message—this weapon was meant for him.

[The Void Blade is beginning to accept you. Resonance level increasing.]

'!!!'

His grip tightened around the hilt, but he masked his surprise.

Lindarion gave the sword a few experimental swings. The movement felt… natural, as if the weapon was an extension of his own body.

Each slash cut through the air effortlessly, flowing with an elegance he hadn't expected.

Baldrek watched, nodding in approval.

"Now, get out of here," he grunted. "You've taken enough of my time."

Before Lindarion could respond, Seraphine grabbed his arm, ready to leave. But he turned back, lowering his head in a deep bow.

"Thank you for this weapon. I swear I will bring honor to it. We will meet again."

He smiled as he spoke, but Baldrek only scoffed.

"Don't make me laugh, boy."

Still, Lindarion caught the flicker of pride in his gaze before the dwarf turned away.

"The King will be grateful," Seraphine added with a cold smirk, her voice sharp as ice.

"Blah, blah—tell your King to leave me alone. And stop smiling like that. It's creepy. Now, get out."

Baldrek's gruff voice carried the weight of finality.

A moment later, the world around them fractured, dissolving like shattered glass.

When the distortion settled, they stood once more at the Stone Circle.

Gone was the metallic scent of molten iron. Instead, the air carried the refreshing aroma of damp earth and blooming flowers.

Lindarion glanced down.

The sword—cool and solid—rested in his grip.

'Beautiful.'

He swung the sword through the air, reveling in the familiar motion. It had been too long since he last wielded a blade.

Each strike cut cleanly, leaving a faint hum in its wake. The weapon moved effortlessly, responding to his every command.

Seraphine watched him closely, her gaze unwavering.

"Your Highness, your father wishes to see you."

'..? How does she know that? Telepathy or something?'

[Possible, Host.]

'…I wasn't being serious.'

"Alright, then let's go—"

Before Lindarion could finish, Seraphine grabbed his arm.

A blink later, they were standing inside his father's office.

"I see you managed to convince Baldrek," King Sunblade said in his usual stern tone. Yet, behind his cold demeanor, there was a glint of pride in his eyes.

Lindarion inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.

"Yes, Father, I did."

He unsheathed the blade, holding it up for his father to see. The King's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly.

'Voidsteel… a flawless sword.'

Eldrin's thoughts didn't waver as he observed the weapon.

"I summoned you here because of tomorrow, son."

He rose gracefully from his throne-like chair.

"Tomorrow?" Lindarion frowned. "I thought I had training scheduled."

He glanced at Seraphine, but she remained silent.

"Tomorrow is the Elven Festival, and now that you're six, I want you to participate."

His voice carried both authority and pride.

Lindarion tapped his fingers against his leg, considering his response.

'Hmm… a festival, huh?'

——[Quest Window]——

——————————

His eyes lit up as a white, celestial window materialized before him.

"I'll be there, Father," he said without hesitation.

Seraphine glanced at him as if she found it strange that he agreed so easily.

"Okay, son, but remember—this will be your first public appearance as a prince outside of the ball. You must dress appropriately and behave accordingly."

"I understand, Father," Lindarion said, nodding in unison.

"Good. Now, rest for the day. Your attire will be delivered to your room. Seraphine will be your bodyguard during the festival."

With that, Seraphine nodded and vanished into the shadows.

'This is still fucking creepy.'

"I understand, Father."

"You may return to your room now."

Lindarion bowed slightly before leaving the office.

Slowly, he walked back to his room, the endless corridors stretching before him.

The maids glanced at him as he passed, but it wasn't him they were focused on—it was the sword hanging at his side.

Once he entered his room, his thoughts returned to the mission.

'System, I accept the quest.'

[Quest started! Good luck, Host!]

Hearing the familiar voice of the system, he placed his sword next to the bed, then flopped down onto the mattress, sinking into the soft bedding as he looked up at the ceiling of his room.