The forge was awake before the city. While most of the underworld still lingered in the quiet hum of morning, the lower furnaces already blazed, filling the cavern's lungs with molten breath. Sparks leapt from anvils like fireflies; the heat shimmered across the stone walls until everything seemed to waver between real and unreal.
Texan stood near the entrance, sweat already crawling down his neck though he hadn't even touched a hammer yet. His palms itched at the thought of the day ahead.
Thorrak was a lvl 4 blacksmith, his smith held beautiful creations, soot that show perseverance. Thorrak stood across the forge, bare-chested, his massive frame glistening under the furnace glow. He was already working—each strike of his hammer powerful and thunderous, echoing through the molten air like a heartbeat.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
Texan had heard rhythm before—dock shanties, the beat of waves against a hull, his brothers clapping to his mother's songs—but this was different. This rhythm didn't come from joy. It came from purpose… and pressure.
When Thorrak finally stopped, the sound of metal cooling hissed through the forge. He turned to Texan, his eyes burning amber in the glow.
"Pick up the hammer," Thorrak said.
Texan obeyed. The tool was heavier than he remembered. His hands shook slightly as he gripped it.
"You hold it like it's a burden," Thorrak muttered. "It's not. It's a promise."
Texan frowned. "Promise of what?"
Thorrak turned back toward the forge, feeding the flames with a twist of a crank. "That's for you to decide. For me… it's a promise that I won't fail this city."
The statement hung in the air. Texan blinked. "Fail?"
Thorrak nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the fire. "Angar is dying. He won't say it, but I see it every day. His hands shake. His eyes lose focus. The old man can barely lift a hammer anymore. When he's gone… if no one can learn soul smithing, the skill will die with him."
He looked over his shoulder. "And I'm supposed to be the one who learns. The one who carries that fire forward."
Texan set his hammer down quietly. "That's… a hell of a thing to carry."
Thorrak's laugh was low, tired. "Aye. Feels like holding the mountain itself sometimes."
He turned and pointed at Texan. "That's why I'm hard on you. You've got that look in your eyes. The look of someone trying to prove something. But you can't forge strength from desperation. The metal doesn't bend for self-pity. Only will."
Texan's jaw tightened. "You think I don't have will?"
"I think you're chasing the wrong reason to use it."
The words hit harder than the hammer ever could. Texan didn't reply, only lifted the hammer again and brought it down against the anvil. Sparks erupted, flashing across his forearms.
BANG.CLINK.SHING.
He swung again and again, every strike louder, angrier, more uneven.
Thorrak watched, arms folded, saying nothing.
When Texan finally stopped, panting, his chest heaved with frustration. "You think I don't know why I'm doing this? You think I don't know how weak I look next to Himmel?"
His voice cracked. "He's everything I'm not. Strong, calm, unshakable. And I'm here… breaking my back swinging a hammer like a damn fool."
Thorrak picked up a set of tongs and turned the metal in the forge. "You trust him."
"Of course I do."
"Then stop fighting like you're trying to catch up. Fight like you want to stand beside him."
Texan's grip tightened on the hammer.
Thorrak added softly, "Desperation makes a good fire, but it burns out fast. You want to burn long—you need something steadier."
Texan swallowed. "Like what?"
Thorrak smirked. "You tell me. What's left in your life worth holding on to?"
The question opened something in Texan he didn't want to touch. He looked into the flames—and saw his past flicker back at him.
He remembered salt on the wind, the sound of waves slapping the hull of his father's ship. He remembered his mother's voice—clear, strong, laughing as she sang to the rhythm of work. "Leave her, Johnny, leave her," she'd sing as they hauled nets from the sea. Her hair had smelled of brine and wild mint. His father had pretended not to know the words just so she'd sing longer.
He remembered his brothers too. One always trying to outdrink the other, the eldest teaching him how to tie knots and play dice. They'd wrestle on the docks, throw fish guts at each other, and shout shanties at the top of their lungs until the sun dipped below the sea.
And then—The memory darkened.
Smoke. Screams. Chains.
He remembered the sound of boots on the deck that night, the smell of pitch and oil. The laughter of men who saw people as profit. He remembered being shoved to the ground, his mother's voice breaking in the chaos. His father's defiance ending in silence. He knew if it weren't for the curse that put on him, they wouldn't have even been on the surface. It was his fault they were caught.
He remembered the cold cage. The rocking of the ship. The emptiness.
He'd been fourteen when he'd escaped. The sea had swallowed the rest.
He stopped swinging. The hammer trembled in his hands.
Thorrak's voice broke the silence gently. "You've seen fire before."
"Yeah," Texan said hoarsely. "The kind that burns everything you are."
The blacksmith nodded. "Then you understand what it means to forge." He pointed at the glowing steel on the anvil. "You break it. You melt it. You hit it until it stops fighting you—and then you give it new purpose."
Texan stared at the blade in progress. Its glow wavered, imperfect, like him.
Thorrak turned back to the forge. "You don't get stronger for others. You get stronger with them. Otherwise, you'll crumble the moment they're gone."
Texan exhaled slowly. "I just… I don't want to lose them. Himmel, Recon… hell, even Gumbo. I finally got something that feels like family again. I can't lose that."
Thorrak nodded once. "Then fight for that—but know this: family isn't what you protect. It's what you build. Himmel doesn't need you to be strong for him. He needs you to be strong for yourself."
For a while, neither of them spoke. Only the fire did—breathing, whispering, roaring when the bellows stirred.
Thorrak motioned for him to strike again. Texan obeyed. This time the blows came steadier, not from rage but rhythm.
CLANG.CLANG.CLANG.
Each hit sounded cleaner. The metal no longer screamed—it sang.
Thorrak watched him for a moment, then took up his own hammer. "You're catching on. The forge doesn't answer anger. It answers truth."
Texan smirked faintly. "Guess I'm finally speaking the language."
They worked side by side, hours slipping away unnoticed. When they paused for breath, Thorrak poured two cups of molten-water brew and sat with him near the fire pit.
"Elder Angar tells me you've got a creature," Thorrak said.
Texan smiled, leaning back. "Gumbo. He's… something else. Half rhino, half shark, all trouble."
Thorrak laughed—a deep, honest laugh that echoed off the walls. "Sounds like you in beast form."
"Yeah, maybe," Texan said. "He's my reminder that I'm not done yet. I look at him and think… maybe I can protect something again."
Thorrak's smile faded into something gentler. "That's good. A smith needs something to forge for."
Texan stared into the flames. "Guess I've got that now. Himmel, Recon, Gumbo—they're all I've got left. Feels like the gods finally decided to throw me a bone after all that shit."
Thorrak nodded. "Then don't waste it."
He leaned forward, voice quieter now. "You know… you and I aren't that different. I was born here, never saw the surface. But I feel trapped all the same. Angar says I'm the future of soul smithing, but I still can't even feel a soul properly. The others look at me like I'm their last hope."
He clenched his fists. "If I fail… if I can't do it, everything dies with me. Every song, every name, every hammer stroke. Gone."
Texan looked at him, and for the first time, saw not a mentor—but another man shouldering the same weight he did.
"Then don't fail," Texan said simply. "You're a damn mountain, Thorrak. If you're gonna carry a legacy, then make it heavier. Add your own name to it."
Thorrak's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Heh. Spoken like a man who doesn't know how heavy that is."
Texan lifted his hammer. "Then let's make sure we both survive long enough to find out."
By the end of the day, the forge floor was littered with iron shavings and sweat. Texan's arms shook with exhaustion, his shirt drenched through, but he refused to stop. He struck the final piece until the blade's edge gleamed white-hot.
Thorrak lifted it carefully with the tongs, holding it up to the light. "Not perfect," he said. "But neither are we. That's what makes it strong."
Texan exhaled, collapsing onto a bench. "You sound like Angar now."
Thorrak chuckled. "Don't insult me."
They both laughed—a rough, honest laugh that echoed through the forge.
The fire crackled behind them, casting their shadows long against the walls.
Texan leaned back, eyes heavy, but his heart lighter than it had been in years. The ache in his arms, the burns on his hands—they didn't feel like pain anymore. They felt like proof.
He thought of Himmel—of his steady voice, his calm strength. Of Recon—stubborn, loud, but loyal. Of Gumbo—curled up at his feet every night.
He thought of his mother's songs, of his father's laughter, of the brothers who taught him to be loud, to be bold, to live.
He smiled softly.
"I get it now," he murmured.
Thorrak glanced over. "Get what?"
Texan looked up at the forge fire, the glow reflecting in his eyes. "You don't fight because you want to be strong. You fight because someone has to keep the fire burning."
Thorrak nodded slowly, pride glinting faintly behind his weariness. "Aye. Now you're speaking the language."
That night, when Texan finally left the forge, the city above was glowing faintly in the deep orange of the molten rivers. The rhythm of hammers still echoed in his chest long after they stopped ringing.
He paused before heading back to the quarters, turning once toward the forge.
For the first time since he'd lost his home, Texan didn't feel like he was running from something. He was building something.
He touched the burn mark on his forearm—a new scar was forming yet it healed over—and grinned.
"Alright, old man," he whispered to the fire. "Let's make sure the world remembers your name too."