The morning fires of Nogrod had not yet stirred when Vlad slipped out of his stone chamber, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The mountain was quiet in those early hours—only the distant trickle of underground streams and the occasional echo of a night-shift hammer breaking the silence.
He walked the halls alone, passing sleeping forges and shuttered shops. The ever-burning torches along the walls flickered low. His boots thudded softly on the carved stone as he descended toward the heart of the mountain.
The Great Forge of Telchar was already alive with heat.
To Vlad's surprise, the master smith stood there at the anvil, bare-chested despite the forge's chill, his muscles glistening with sweat. He was hammering a red-hot ingot of steel, each strike ringing out like a bell. Sparks danced around him.
"You're early," Vlad said, blinking.
Telchar did not stop hammering. "You're later than me. That means you're early enough."
"But I thought—"
"You thought wrong," Telchar grunted. "You came at a good time. That's the time you always come from now on. No later."
Vlad nodded quickly. "Okay."
Telchar set down the hammer and turned to him. "First task. Turn on the forges."
Vlad stared at the cold bellows and the massive levers behind them. "How?"
Telchar sighed—a long, gravelly groan from the depths of his lungs. "Right. First day. Fine. Watch closely. You do this once, you do it a thousand times."
The master smith moved with swift familiarity. He poured coals from a bin into the stone furnace, opened a vent to the molten flow beneath the forge, then pumped the bellows hard three times. A slow breath of fire stirred in the pit. The flames caught and grew.
"Now you."
Vlad moved to the next furnace. He mimicked Telchar's movements. The coal, the vent, the bellows—he repeated each step exactly. The forge roared to life. Orange and gold light danced across his face.
"Good," Telchar said. "Now watch me."
He placed a thick bar of steel on the anvil, held it in place with tongs, and began to hammer.
"Don't just look at my arms," Telchar said over the ringing metal. "Look at my feet. My knees. The way I breathe."
Vlad watched. He noticed how Telchar shifted his weight with each blow, like a rhythm—foot to foot, breath in, breath out, strike. The hammer wasn't swung with brute force alone; it was part of a dance, a flow of power rooted in every part of the smith's body.
Then Telchar stepped back. "Your turn. The hammer's fifteen pounds. Let's see if your arms are as strong as your mouth."
Vlad nodded. He took the hammer. The weight felt familiar, almost comforting now. He mimicked Telchar's stance—feet wide, knees bent—and swung.
Clang.
The sound echoed clean and sharp.
Clang. Clang.
He moved just as Telchar had. Breath, strike, shift. The steel began to flatten beneath his blows, not wild and uneven like a novice's strike—but measured. Rhythmic.
Telchar stared.
"…Mahal's beard," he muttered. "It's like you've done this before."
"I just watched you," Vlad said, lowering the hammer.
"No. This—" Telchar folded his arms, frowning. "This is more than just watching. The balance. The timing. You shouldn't be able to do that."
Vlad said nothing. The forge-fire reflected in his eyes.
Telchar shook his head in amazement. "Maybe Mahal did bless me, after all. I've trained none for twenty years. But you… you might just carry on my legacy, boy."
Ten Years Later – Year 355 of the Sun
The sound of the hammer was as familiar to Vlad as his own heartbeat.
Now fifteen years old, Vlad stood tall at six feet, four inches, towering above every Dwarf in the forge. His frame had broadened over the years, shoulders thick with muscle, arms calloused from a decade of labor. His hair, once short and wild, now hung in a black wave to his shoulders, tied loosely back. A shadow of stubble covered his jaw—human blood showing where Dwarves bore beards thick as wool.
He wiped sweat from his brow and pulled the finished blade from the water trough, steam hissing as it cooled. The sword gleamed silver, its edge clean, the hilt wrapped in leather. A fine sheath, tooled with gold thread, waited nearby.
"Another one done," he muttered, sliding it into the scabbard.
The name carved on the order tag: Balin, one of Nogrod's guards—and one of Vlad's few true friends.
He slung the sword across his back and left the forge, nodding at Telchar, who was hunched over another project and only grunted in response.
As Vlad walked through the city, heads turned. He heard the whispers again, same as always.
"That's him—Thror's ward."
"Telchar's boy. The best smith in three generations."
"Did you see how tall he's gotten?"
Praise trailed behind him like the ringing of his own hammer. He didn't mind. Not anymore.
Balin's house was carved into the eastern wall of the city, just beside the barracks. Vlad knocked on the reinforced oak door.
Balin opened it with a grin. "About time."
Vlad held out the sword. "Forged, sharpened, and balanced to your specifications. You owe me two mugs of stonebrew."
Balin took the blade, turning it over in his hands. "By Mahal's light… it's beautiful."
"You're welcome," Vlad said, smirking.
Balin clapped him on the shoulder and waved him off. "Go on, you mountain prince. I heard the lords are looking for you."
Back at the Lord's Palace, Vlad passed the guards without a word. He was family here. Always had been.
In the main hall, Lord Thror sat in his usual seat, combing his silver beard with a steel pick. Beside him stood Thorin, clad in fine tunics and polished rings, his beard braided in gold. He looked nervous and excited.
"There you are, boy," Thror called. "Come! We've news."
Vlad jogged up the steps and embraced both of them. "What is it?"
Thorin grinned. "I'm getting married."
Vlad's eyes widened. "You—what? To who?"
"The eldest daughter of the Lord of Belegost," Thror said proudly. "A strong alliance. Blood bound to blood."
Vlad pulled Thorin into a tight hug. "That's amazing. When?"
"In one month," Thror said. "In Belegost."
"We must bring gifts worthy of kings," Thorin added.
Thror turned to Vlad. "And you, my boy, will help craft the most important gift of all. I'll speak to Telchar tomorrow—but together, you and he will forge a suit of armor fit for the Lord of Belegost himself."
Vlad's chest swelled with pride. "Yes, Father. I'll make it so grand, they'll think it was forged in Valinor."
Thror laughed. "That's the spirit. Now go rest, lad. The forge waits for no dreamer."
Vlad returned to his chamber, a stone-walled room hung with weapon racks and old banners. He tossed himself onto the bed, hands behind his head, a grin still on his lips.
He stared up at the rough stone ceiling, heart racing.
Tomorrow, he would help forge something for royalty.
He was no longer just the strange boy saved in the woods. Not just a human in a Dwarven world.
He was Vlad of Nogrod—son of Thror, disciple of Telchar, and one day, the smith who would shake the world.
Sleep took him slowly, the firelight of his dreams burning as hot as any forge.