The forge was alive with heat and rhythm.
Sparks danced with the music of hammer and steel, and laughter spilled from two voices. one weathered, one young.
"You're hitting it like it insulted your mother," Master Rhys called out from the corner of the workshop, arms crossed, a crooked grin beneath his grey-streaked beard.
Damian scoffed, sweat dripping from his brow. "I didn't even know my mother and If it keeps warping on the edge like that, I'll hit it harder."
"You need to coax the steel, not beat it into submission. Sword smithing's a conversation, not a brawl."
Damian smirked. "Guess I'm not much of a talker then."
Rhys let out a bark of laughter and shook his head. "You're lucky you've got charm, kid. Otherwise, I'd have thrown you back to the slavers with a 'no returns' sign."
"You didn't pay for me, remember? You haggled them down to a broken shovel and a bottle of sour wine."
"A damn good deal." Rhys replied
Damian had spent most of his days, swinging hammers and brushing ash from his face.
He wasn't born here. He didn't even remember where he was born. All he knew was the cage, the iron bars of the slave cart that rolled through the gates of the eastern kingdom three years ago, with his wrists bound and spirit broken.
And then came Master Rhys.
A noble craftsman of few words and even fewer friends, Rhys had seen something in Damian. Not the chains, not the dirt on his face, but something deeper. Potential. And when no one else cared to notice, Rhys did.
They shared a moment of silence, the kind that came easy after years of shared ash, metal, and meals.
Then Rhys picked up a cloth and tossed it at him. "We're nearly done. All that's left is the obsidian pommel stone from Marek's stall. Go grab it, will you? Before the old man closes shop and charges double."
Damian nodded, wiping soot from his forehead. "You know, I'm starting to think you just like sending me out so you can nap."
Rhys smirked. "And I'm starting to think you enjoy talking back. One day you'll try out for the royal guard, and then we'll see who laughs."
"I've told you before," Damian said, walking backwards toward the door, "I don't care for titles. I have everything I need here."
Rhys just chuckled and waved him off.
Before shouting in the distance
"And don't try to flirt with Marek's daughter again — I don't need another angry father at my door."
"No promises."
The sun was dipping low when Damian returned, hand curled around the cool black stone in his pouch. The forge's fires still glowed faintly through the open window, familiar, welcoming.
Until he opened the door.
The scent hit him first. Not smoke. Not oil.
Blood.
"...Rhys?"
No answer.
Then he saw the body.
Slumped beside the anvil, crimson pooling beneath him, was his master. His friend. Lifeless. Still warm.
A figure stood above him. Cloaked in black. Motionless.
A white mask, smooth and featureless. Two void-like eye holes, stared at Damian.
Rage surged through him like wildfire.
"MASTERRRRRRRR!"
Damian unsheathed the half-finished blade from the bench. The edge was rough. It didn't matter.
He charged.
The figure didn't move at first. It simply watched, letting Damian close the gap then, in a flash of elegance, it unsheathed its blade in a single, fluid motion.
Their swords clashed.
Damian roared, swinging with fury, but the masked killer moved like water. Every strike was countered. Every lunge met with precision. It wasn't a fight.
It was a lesson.
A blur of motion disarmed him. Damian's half finished sword clattered to the ground. Before he could recover, the masked figure stepped in, placed the cold edge of its blade to his throat…
And stopped.
For a moment, time held its breath.
Behind the mask, there was no visible emotion. No voice. Just silence.
Then, the blade pulled back. Allowing Damian to catch his breath.
The killer turned.
And vanished through the back window in a shadowy blur. Gone as suddenly as they had come.
Damian fell to his knees, trembling. He stared at Rhys's body, then at the floor where the words had been painted in blood:
"D.E.A.T.H was here."
The hours passed without meaning. The forge was quiet. Dead. Damian sat alone at the bench where he and Rhys had worked so many nights.
The obsidian pommel stone rested beside him.
He picked up the half-forged sword. His hands moved slowly, methodically, tears streaking his soot-covered cheeks as he worked the steel.
This time, there was no laughter. No correction.
When it was done, he held it in both hands, fell to his knees beside the body of his lifeless master and cried into the night.
He stared into the flame, eyes hardening.
His sword was sharp.
His resolve - sharper.