The silence had become unbearable.
Three days had passed since Martha's funeral, and the farmhouse now stood like a mausoleum of memories—every shadow a ghost, every creaking wood plank a whisper of what was lost.
Axel, hollow-eyed and sleepless, finally stood up from the edge of his bed. He didn't cry. He couldn't. There was only one thing he knew to do when emotions overflowed: move forward.
He walked through the dirt road, down the path to the village center. His steps slow, deliberate—like a man dragging the weight of his past behind him.
Smoke and iron filled the air near the old smithy, where the rhythmic hammering never truly stopped. The forge fire burned like a second sun behind a soot-covered window.
"Grandpa Peter?" Axel called out, voice hoarse.
From behind a stack of charcoal and steel came a gruff reply. "I'm over at the refinery, boy. Get over here before I turn into ash!"
Axel rounded the corner to find Peter, the village's aged blacksmith—muscles knotted with age and experience—hammering away at a glowing red bar.
"Grandpa…" Axel hesitated, then breathed deeply. "Teach me forgery."
Peter slowed. Looked at him long. "Why now?"
"I need something," Axel said, eyes sharp with unspoken grief. "Something to quench the fire in me. Before it burns me whole."
Peter didn't need more words. He saw the pain etched in Axel's expression. He nodded once.
"So be it. But forging is no comfort, lad. It's war—between flame and metal, will and weakness. You ready for that?"
Axel nodded. "Yes."
Day 1: Understanding Ore
Peter placed a basket of ore in front of him.
"This here," he said, holding up a dull, cracked lump, "is trash. Too brittle."
He handed Axel another piece—dense, metallic, with a shimmer like obsidian. "This? Steel waiting to be born."
He explained how every blade starts with a choice. "Like people. You shape yourself by what you feed your fire."
That day, Axel learned how to distinguish iron, carbon, and steel ore, how to test their strengths, how to sense the soul of metal.
Day 2: Refinement
The furnace blazed like a roaring beast. Sweat rolled off Axel's brow as he plunged the ore into the crucible, raising the heat until it hissed and melted into a glowing pool.
Peter guided him. "Now strike. Not to smash—but to purify."
Axel raised the hammer, remembering his father's training. With every blow, he imagined clearing his own soul of pain and fear.
Clang… clang… clang…
By nightfall, he had refined a usable ingot.
Peter gave a nod. "Not bad for a broken-hearted boy."
Day 4: First Creation
Axel shaped his first tool—a farming sickle. Crooked. Uneven. But sharp enough to harvest wheat.
Peter grunted, then smirked. "A humble start. A blade to grow food, not spill blood. Fitting."
Axel didn't smile, but his fingers tightened around the handle. This was more than metal. It was purpose.
Day 8: A Warning Forged in Flame
Peter sat him down that evening.
"You're ready for something more," he said, "but before you forge a sword, hear this."
He tossed a coal into the fire.
"If you craft it with revenge in your heart, it'll consume you. If you forge to kill, you'll become what you hate. But if you forge for something greater… then it'll be your strength."
Axel nodded.
"I don't want to destroy… I want to protect what little I have left."
Peter smiled. "Then let's make a blade worthy of that oath."
Day 16: The Dragon's Oath
For three days and nights, Axel worked without rest.
He folded the steel again and again—each layer a memory: his mother's embrace, Malcolm's laugh, the rage when he saw his home attacked, the sorrow when he buried them.
From the layers emerged a Damascus blade, 80 centimeters in length, double-edged, etched with waves and swirls like flowing wind and coiled smoke.
He inlaid gold and copper along the spine, thin lines tracing into the fuller of the blade—like veins of a sleeping beast.
The guard swept backward, shaped like wings, broad and angular. The pommel was carved into a dragon's head, mouth open, eyes narrowed. The scabbard he wrapped in deep black leather, embroidered with silver thread in the shape of dragon wings curling inward to a heart.
Peter inspected the sword, then let out a low whistle.
"You gave it soul, boy."
Axel sheathed it, then tied the scabbard across his back.
That night, as the moon bathed the farm in blue light, Axel walked to the hilltop.
He knelt before the graves of Malcolm and Martha, flowers in hand.
"I made a promise," he whispered. "To protect. To live. To find peace."
He unsheathed the blade, its surface catching the starlight, and held it before him like a vow.
"I don't know where this path leads… but I'll carry your love with every step."
He planted the blade beside the grave for a moment, lowered his head, and let a single tear fall.
The wind rustled through the trees gently—like a mother's hand on his cheek.
And for the first time in days, Axel stood not in grief—but in purpose.