The pounding of metal echoed as Enoch approached the smithy courtyard. Inside the workshop our blacksmiths worked in rhythm, hammers striking red metal as sparks leapt into the air.
"Hey, Enoch, just on time," shouted a man with a stubby beard and a messy head of hair as he fed metal into the forge. He wiped ash from his hands onto his apron. "The master called for you earlier."
"Oh. I'll go to him now. Let me put my satchel away first," Enoch replied, placing it beside his workbench.
"Morning, Alan, Mark, Ard," he said as he passed the others.
They nodded back, too busy working to say much. Ard even gave him a crooked grin, sweat streaking his face, while Mark raised his hammer in brief acknowledgment.
He slipped behind the leather curtain at the back of the workshop. Inside, an old man rummaged through a drawer.
"Master Lanfrey, you called for me?" Enoch asked.
The old man straightened slowly and turned. His beard was white and uneven, his hands scarred beyond counting. He looked Enoch over with the same sharp gaze he always used, as if measuring him against something only he could see.
"Ah, mi'boy," said master Lanfre.
He reached behind him and dragged a long object onto the central table, setting it down with care. It was wrapped in a rag, stained dark with oil and soot.
"Tell me, what is this beast of a sword yer have made?"
"Oh, that?" Enoch said smoothly. "A patterned blade. I learned it from my father before he left for the mines of Eleria."
"Hmm," Lanfrey murmured. "So you do know your way around mining and smithing."
Then he added, "A man saw it in the front shop, asked how much you'd sell it for. He said he'll return before midday today."
"I'll be sure to meet him since I have nowhere else I have to be before midday," Enoch said.
As he turned to leave, Lanfrey spoke again. "That man looked like a noble. Be careful how yer speak."
Enoch nodded and He stepped back into the workshop, the noise and heat rushing in all at once. The forge roared as Alan worked the bellows, and Mark hammered out a blade edge with stressful patience.
He placed steel into the fire and worked the bellows until it glowed red. Hammering felt easy now. His body barely registered the strain. Each strike landed exactly where he intended, controlled and precise. The resistance of the metal felt almost hollow, as if it yielded just a fraction sooner than it should have.
He folded the steel carefully, again and again, layering it until the pattern began to form. Eight folds, nothing more nothing less.
When he began shaping it into a long gladius, one meant to be wielded with both hands, time slipped past unnoticed.
When he finished fitting the guard and handle, the workshop had gone quiet.
He looked around then turned to find the others staring.
"What?" Enoch asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"What do yer mean what?" Mark said, pointing at the blade. "That took yer 3 hours. 3!"
"Yer make it hard to keep working," Alan muttered. "Hard to keep up."
Alan threw his hands up and stormed outside. Ard and the apprentice Lerk followed, laughing and patting Enoch on the shoulder.
"If only you knew the knowledge inside this vessel," Enoch murmured.
"Thank you, Adam," he whispered.
He returned to polishing the blade.
"Enoch," Mark called, peeking in. "That customer is back."
Enoch wiped his hands and stepped into the front shop. The air was cooler here, the light softer and not the red of the workshop. A knight in polished silver armor stood near the counter, his posture rigid. On the left side of his surcoat was a crest depicting a lion pressing a sword into the ground.
"Are you the one who made the Seraphyrax fang sword?" the knight asked.
"I am," Enoch replied, confused.
Since when did I name it that? he thought.
The knight stepped aside, and a blond man in expensive silks approached. His clothes were immaculate, his posture confident to the point of arrogance. A woman followed beside him, her brown hair neatly tied back, her own silken tunic bearing the same crest.
Next to her too was a servant in a robe, with a half open eye with lines representing light coming out from it.
"How much?" the noble asked, chin raised too high. Enoch turned to look at him, blinked then,
"Are you alright, my lord?" Enoch asked.
"What do you mean? And why do you speak funny?"
"what do you mean by funny?"
"You don't speak like the rest of the uneducated rabble" said the man frowning
"Oh yes, I do have formal education, so that's why my pronunciation is like this" said Enoch
"Hmm" hummed the man
"Could you please lower your chin a little, its making you look funny" Enoch added making a painful face.
Watch your mouth, peasant," snapped the knight
Then he reached for his sword, but the man raised a hand and lowered his chin.
"So," the man said, "how much?"
"Well," Enoch said, rubbing his hands together, "the labor was intensive. The material was rare, passed down from my father. Just thinking about it hurts my heart."
The noble smiled and dropped a heavy pouch on the counter.
"Fifty silver," he said.
Enoch bit a coin, grinned, and nodded. "More than enough."
He retrieved the sword from the room behind the workshop and laid it gently on the counter.
"One more silver and I'll make a fitted scabbard," Enoch offered.
"No need," the noble said, admiring the blade. "I'll have one made in the city."
Enoch turned to the woman. Her silver eyes meeting his red ones.
"Anything for the lady?" he asked smiling once again.
"Swords are too heavy," she said.
"Daggers?"
"Too short."
"Then a rapier would fit you perfectly"
"What's a rapier?" the man asked.
"Come back tomorrow," Enoch said. "I'll show you."
The woman smiled faintly. "Don't waste my time."
"I won't," Enoch said.
"My name is Enoch. Enoch Magnus," he added. "Prepare to be surprised, my lady."