forging

After a nice, long rest in the bed provided by the Titan, Dawn wakes to the sound of boiling food—faint sizzling, bubbling, hissing in the quiet air. The first thing he hears. The first sign of life pulling him from the depths of sleep. His eyelids, heavy with lingering dreams, slowly part to reveal the simple bedroom—a world of quiet solitude. There's nothing much here. Just a hay bed, four walls, and a door. 

But that door. That beautiful black-and-brown masterpiece. Carved with artistry beyond mortal craftsmanship, out of wood so foreign, so unfamiliar, that Dawn couldn't even begin to name it.

He rises. Steps forward. The floor beneath him creaks softly with the weight of his movement, and as he pushes the door open, his eyes sweep across the space beyond— 

A modest kitchen. Simple, yet undeniably elegant. Mahogany chairs with a sturdy table at the center, crowned by an intricate mantle of flying angels. In the corner, humble appliances—a microwave, a fridge, cabinets stained in the same deep tones as his bedroom door. 

Everything carries a quiet grace. A subdued beauty. 

And then— 

A voice. Deep. Harmonic. Reverberating like the very earth speaking. 

"So, you have awakened, young man. Good. I have prepared breakfast for us both. Go ahead and sit down." 

There is an ancient calm in the Titan's tone, a tranquility forged through centuries, and Dawn feels it. He senses it through his flaw—the ease, the absence of tension. He obeys, settling into a chair. His gaze lands upon the plate set before him— 

Eggs. Bacon. Yet not merely food, not merely sustenance. The craftsmanship in every slice, every delicate arrangement—it speaks of time, of patience. Of mastery honed through relentless repetition, through years—perhaps centuries—of refining the same meal to perfection. 

"Thank you for the food. It looks incredible." 

"Don't thank me, child. And yes, I would certainly hope it looks good—I've been making this same meal for about 700 years now." 

Seven hundred years. 

The number hangs in the air, staggering, incomprehensible. Dawn's breath catches. 

"Seven hundred years?" 

"Yes. I should probably mention—I'm not exactly as young as I look. Honestly, I don't even know how old I truly am, only that it's in the thousands." 

"Okay, wow... So, do you have anything planned for today?" 

The Titan's expression shifts—thoughts deepening, shadows curling in the corners of his gaze. Then, finally— 

"Well, actually, yes. Since you and I only have three days together, I've decided to teach you as much as I can—or, at the very least, set you on the right path for certain things." 

A pause. A hesitation. Dawn's brow furrows. 

"Actually, before that—why exactly do we only have three days together? You've been living here for centuries." 

Silence. Then— 

"Ah, well, back when I became a corrupted creature, I was actually killed by one of the divine. But my creator saw that I was still of use, so he put me to work—to wait for you. 

The moment you entered that cave, my job was essentially finished. Without a constant flow of energy sustaining my existence in this world, I'm simply going to... disappear, once that energy runs out in three days." 

The words settle into the room, heavy, final. A quiet certainty laced with the acceptance of fate. 

"I imagine the spell considers this as if you had killed me—because, in a way, my death is tied directly to your arrival." 

Dawn's pulse quickens. The weight of inevitability pressing against him, wrapping around his mind like iron chains. 

"But returning to the topic—what I'm going to be teaching you specifically is sorcery." 

A flicker of confusion dances across Dawn's face. His voice wavers slightly. 

"What do you mean by sorcery?" 

The Titan exhales—a breath carrying eons of knowledge. 

"Sorcery, or at least our definition of it, is the manipulation of essence—the power to turn nothing into something. Of course, you'll still need certain components, whether materials or simply the raw capability of harnessing essence itself. 

The particular type of sorcery I'm going to teach you is forging. And before you ask any idiotic questions, let me finish. 

The sorcery of forging was created by the Demon of Destiny, who was said to forge the destiny of everything. His name was Nether. 

Of course, that level of sorcery was divine, and you are nowhere near that tier. So instead, I'm going to teach you the basics." 

The Titan raises his hand, and darkness spills forth—outlined in a platinum-silver hue, tendrils of power licking at his skin. Slowly, deliberately, he pushes his hand into his own being. 

A deep plunge into his soul. A grasp. A retrieval. 

Carefully, he pulls forth a radiant soul core—a shimmering, beautiful fragment, large and brilliant. The glow pulsates, humming with ancient energy. 

Dawn's breath hitches as awe floods his senses. His voice drops to a whisper. 

"Where did you even get that?" 

The Titan's harmonic voice twists into slight playfulness. 

"This little thing? Oh, this is actually my soul core—or at least one of my seven soul cores." 

"You straight-up pulled part of your soul out of your body… Doesn't that hurt?" 

A low chuckle, shadowed by endless suffering. 

"Compared to the other pains I've suffered in my life? This is nothing." 

"Now, watch closely. I can only do this a handful of times." 

The Titan places the soul core onto the table, and with a single tap—a mere touch, feather-light—it fractures. A silent explosion. A breaking of eternity into countless shards. 

"I'm going to forge a storage memory, since it's very likely that you'll need one. Watch closely—because forging is about creating something out of nothing. It can be anything—an echo, a memory—it can even be a true name or an attribute. But those are costly, so I wouldn't recommend it." 

The Titan closes his eyes. 

Silence. 

Then— 

Essence spills forth—uncontained, uncontrolled, raw. Darkness coils, platinum-hued, wrapping his form, stretching beyond, swallowing light itself. His energy surges, washing over the shattered shards. 

"Once you reach this point in forging, imagination is everything. If you can't even visualize what you're trying to create, then there's no point in being a forger." 

The shards shift—move—morph. A shape emerges from nothingness. A satchel. Deep prismarine blue, like supple leather, materializing before Dawn's eyes. 

The Titan exhales, slowly opening his gaze—radiance shining amidst the abyss. He reabsorbs his essence, his voice like thunder softened by time. 

"At this point, my work is done." 

I've already placed the enchantments—though it may not look like much, this satchel could easily hold an entire house. Of course, the capacity still depends on your own essence—I, too, have my limitations." 

"But even this is beyond you right now. That's why I'm here—to slowly and steadily cram every piece of information possible into your brain." 

"Why?" Dawn's voice is barely more than a whisper, lost between awe and reluctant acceptance. His expression is unreadable—caught in the space between gratitude and unease. 

The Titan's face grows weary—the weight of centuries reflected in his gaze like a hazy mist. His breath is slow, deliberate, carrying the burdens of countless years. And finally—he speaks, voice tinged with something almost resembling sorrow. 

"Because, child—your life is yours. But your end... is not. You will encounter suffering. You will hear truths that shake you. But amidst all of it, you remain constant. 

I am simply giving you the materials to ensure that you don't break." 

The silence that follows is deep, vast, unbroken. Dawn searches for words, grasping at the emotions curling around his chest, tightening like a vice. 

"No... It still feels wrong. Why do all this for me? Why wait centuries for me?" 

Dawn's gaze shifts—drawn to a small apparition. A flickering flame, humanoid in shape, pulsing softly in the dim light. 

"Right, Flame?" 

A mental message—silent, direct. 

"Yes, Master." 

The Titan turns his gaze back to Dawn, his expression unreadable, lost somewhere between regret and inevitability. 

"Dawn... I wish I could answer that. But I lack both the power and the right to do so. I'm sorry." 

The words settle like a final note in an unfinished melody—soft, heavy, irreversible. 

author's thoughts:

seriously go ahead and comment helps with motivation. :)