Hours passed within the dimly lit cavern, the steady rhythm of Clark's hammer echoing like a heartbeat through the stone walls.
The air smelled faintly of heated metal and the acrid tang of forging oils, the flickering torchlight casting dancing shadows that made the corners of the chamber seem deeper than they were.
Finally, Clark rose from his station. His clothes were lightly dusted with soot, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, but his expression was triumphant.
In his hand, he held the newly forged sword, a sleek, black blade that gleamed faintly under the torchlight, its surface absorbing more light than it reflected.
Carved into the blade's body in fine, silver script was John's name.
Clark's lips spread into a broad smile as he turned the weapon in his hand, admiring his work.
