Rogan's strikes echoed through the forge like thunder. Each blow rumbled deep, reverberating against the walls until it felt like the air itself was breathing with him. His sweat sizzled when it hit the anvil. Sparks burst and danced around his arms, their orange glow lighting the black steel weights that clung to his body like chains. Fifty kilograms in total — a burden he carried without complaint.
Across the room, Lysaara worked more delicately, her hands steady but unsure. The rhythmic clang of Rogan's hammer dwarfed her own lighter tapping, though her focus was sharp. The twin blades she had brought from Draconis rested beside her on the table — their edges gleamed with care, but small cracks ran along their hilts. She sighed softly.
"Chief," she asked, her voice breaking the rhythm of metal and flame. "Do you know how to fix a blade when the handle loosens like this? I've never really done any repairs, not beyond sharpening."
Maerin glanced up from the forge records she had been sorting. Her old eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. "You know how to maintain your weapons, but not how to heal them?" she teased gently.
Lysaara hesitated, then nodded. "The Guild usually handled that. We just fought and paid for maintenance after."
Maerin snorted. "Typical Guild hunters. Fight till you break something, then hand it off for someone else to fix. A good hunter learns how to mend their own tools — and themselves." She motioned toward an empty anvil. "Come here, girl. Let's start with something simple."
Lysaara quickly obeyed. Maerin handed her a cracked dagger and a small hammer, the handle wrapped in worn leather. "First lesson — control. Don't hit harder than you need to. Iron listens to rhythm and patience. Strike too fast, and it shatters. Strike too soft, and it forgets you were even there."
The young woman nodded, clutching the hammer nervously. "Yes, Chief."
Maerin smiled faintly. "And don't call me Chief when we're working. Call me Maerin. The forge doesn't care about titles."
---
By the next few days, the forge had become its own kind of classroom. Maerin's lessons were quiet but firm, her tone that of someone who had long outgrown impatience. Lysaara learned to repair edges, fill small cracks, and reforge loose hilts. Her early attempts were disastrous — her strikes too quick, her metal warped — but Maerin never raised her voice.
"Listen to the steel," the older woman said one afternoon, tapping a blade to let it ring. "It tells you when it's right. If you can't hear it, you're still thinking too loud."
Lysaara wiped her brow and tried again. This time, her hammer landed steady and even.
Meanwhile, Rogan continued his own training at the far end of the forge, his body slick with sweat, his muscles straining beneath the training weights. His hammer swings shook the floor. When he moved to spar with Seren or Lysaara, the ground itself trembled under his steps.
Every strike was strong — too strong. And every day, his practice longsword ended the same way — chipped, cracked, or shattered entirely.
On the fifth day, Seren blocked a swing with her lance, the impact sending a shockwave through the yard. The next instant, Rogan's blade split clean in half, the pieces clattering across the dirt.
"That's the fourth one this week," Seren sighed, lowering her weapon.
Rogan rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah… I keep trying to hold back, but—"
"But you don't," Seren finished for him, smirking slightly.
Maerin, who had been watching from the forge's open doorway, chuckled. "He's trying, dear. That's already progress. Before, he'd have broken two swords in one session."
Lysaara, watching from the corner, shook her head in disbelief. "He really breaks them that easily?"
Seren laughed softly. "Oh, that's nothing. You should've seen his first day here — he almost snapped a hammer in half."
Rogan groaned. "You're never letting that go, are you?"
"Nope." Seren's grin widened.
Maerin stepped forward, hands on her hips. "Alright, enough talking. Back to work. You can laugh when you learn control, boy."
"Yes, ma'am," Rogan said quickly, resuming his drills with renewed determination.
---
Later that evening, as the forge's fire dimmed to a soft red glow, Lysaara wiped soot from her hands and leaned against the wall, watching Rogan still hammering away at his latest training piece. His form was sloppy but strong, each strike carrying the weight of sheer willpower.
She turned to Maerin. "He doesn't stop, does he?"
Maerin smiled faintly. "He's learning what power really means. Not how hard you can hit, but how long you can keep going."
The older woman poured two cups of cool tea and handed one to her. "You're learning that too, even if you don't realize it yet."
Lysaara blinked. "Me?"
Maerin nodded. "You've got good balance, steady hands. But you still move like someone afraid to fail. The forge doesn't care if you fail, Lysaara — it only cares if you stop."
The young woman fell quiet for a moment, then smiled softly. "I'll remember that."
---
Over the following days, as Lysaara worked beside Rogan, she began to learn more about him — not from his words, but his rhythm. He rarely spoke while working, but every swing of his hammer told a story: frustration, discipline, hope.
During their breaks, Seren often joined them, her teasing lightening the air. One evening, while cooling off outside, Seren mentioned the story of Vulcarion Basal, the great wyvern slain by four hunters.
"Four went out," Seren said, eyes distant as she stared toward the mountains. "One didn't make it back. But three of us did."
"Three?" Lysaara asked, surprised. "You mean—"
Seren nodded. "Kael and Alder were there with me. It was… not a fight you forget."
Maerin, who was sitting nearby, added, "Their weapons were forged right here, in this very forge."
Lysaara's eyes widened. "The Grandmaster's forge?"
Maerin gave a small smile. "That's what the villagers call it. But to us, it's just home."
Lysaara was speechless. She looked between them — Seren, Maerin, and the glow of the forge — and felt a strange sense of awe sink into her chest. These weren't just skilled hunters. They were legends who walked like ordinary people.
And somehow, she had been sent here — to train where they once stood, to learn from the same fire that had shaped them.
As she watched Rogan practice, the steel weights on his arms clanking faintly in rhythm, she realized something.
His strength wasn't just raw muscle — it was a mirror of her own potential, untamed but full of promise.
She thought about her master's decision to send her here, about the simple letter that had led her to this place, and she finally understood — Korvan wasn't just another village.
It was a crucible.
And everyone who stepped into its fire was changed.
That night, as the last embers of the forge flickered out, Lysaara whispered to herself, "If they became legends here… then maybe I can too."
Maerin, standing quietly in the shadows, heard her. She smiled, her voice a low murmur lost to the night.
"That's what every legend once said, child. Now let's see if you can survive the fire."