The water steamed gently in the copper tub, filling the air with lavender and soap scents. I leaned back against the smooth rim, eyes half-closed, allowing the warmth to soothe tired muscles. Seraphina sat with her back turned to me, knees pulled up, softly humming as she rinsed a cloth along her shoulder.

  “I still don’t know how I’m sore in places I didn’t know existed,” she muttered.

  I smiled, tracing a line of water down her spine with my fingertip. “Blame it on all the climbing, hammering, and… extracurriculars.”

  She laughed, the sound light, echoing off the stone walls. “That’s rich coming from the man who went shopping and finished off the day killing four thugs.”

  I let my hand settle on her waist. “I didn’t plan that part.”

  “You never do. You just react. It’s like you become someone else when you fight.”

  She didn’t say it with fear—more like curiosity, laced with something heavier. Caution. Wonder.

  “I don’t like showing that part of me,” I said after a moment. “It’s… not something I ever wanted to need again.”

  She shifted, leaning back until her head rested on my shoulder. I could feel the damp strands of her hair against my collarbone. “But it’s part of you,” she said softly. “Same way the forge is. Same way I am.”

  I exhaled slowly. “I guess the world isn’t going to let us stay quiet, is it?”

  “Apparently not,” she whispered.

  We sat in the heat and silence for a long moment, the only sound the faint lapping of water against the tub. I wrapped my arms around her waist, kissed her neck, and felt her smile.

  “None of that here.”

  I blinked. “Wait, how did you—?”

  She tilted her head slightly to glance back at me with a raised brow. “Because I can feel things move. And I know you.”

  I paused, then laughed softly. “So that’s a no?”

  “It’s a later,” she said, smirking. “You’re not getting me out of this tub only half-soaked.”

  I pretended to be shocked. “Then let’s just finish this bath, dry off, and find something ridiculously greasy and filling for dinner.”

  She snorted. “And pastries.”

  “Obviously.”

  The last of the steam clung to our skin as we dried off and dressed, the warmth of the bath still lingering in our bones. Seraphina laced up her boots with a satisfied sigh. “That was the best idea you’ve had all week.”

  “Don’t give me too much credit,” I said, pulling my shirt over my head. “You’re the one who made it clear we weren’t leaving until every muscle was relaxed.”

  We made our way through the streets as the late afternoon sun cast a warm amber glow on the cobblestones. The Copper Candle felt familiar and comforting as ever. Inside, the common room hummed with quiet conversations and the sound of cutlery. We settled at a table toward the back, away from the busiest part of the crowd, and ordered something rich and fried without even looking at the menu.

  Halfway through a plate of spicy meat pies and fried root vegetables, the front door opened with a soft jingle.

  I noticed her first. Mira.

  She stepped inside with purpose, her usual brisk stride moving confidently through the room. Her hair was pulled back, and the seal-tied scroll was clenched in one hand.

  Seraphina noticed her as well. “That’s one of the guild receptionists, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I said, setting my fork down. “That’s Mira. She helped with my paperwork the first day.”

  Mira saw us and headed over, stopping right next to the table. “Master David?”

  “Yes?”

  She handed me the scroll. “This came in just after midday. The Guildmaster approved it. Royal seal and all.”

  Seraphina slightly leaned to get a glimpse of the scroll. “From the palace?”

  Mira nodded. “A formal request for a custom commission. You really need to read it.”

  I examined the seal. Gold ink. Pressed wax. Sharp edges.

  “You didn’t have to bring this yourself,” I said, breaking the seal.

  “I did,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s not every day I get to hand-deliver a royal order to the newest smith in the capital. Anyway, the request is marked urgent.”

  Seraphina smiled. “Guess you’re officially famous.”

  And felt the burden of what was to come.

  I unfolded the parchment with careful fingers, the seal already broken by Mira. The script inside was tight and formal, but every word hit hard like a hammer.

  David Robertson, Smith of the Guild of Vaelthorn,

  By order of His Majesty King Vaeric Thorne, you are hereby summoned to the inner court for a private audience three days from now. Additionally, the Crown requests a commission—a ceremonial blade of royal standard, to be completed as soon as possible. The design, composition, and delivery are left to your discretion. Please present the work upon arrival.

  I reread it twice. Once for clarity. Again for weight.

  Seraphina’s eyes met mine. “That’s not just a commission. No,”

  I said softly. “This is a test.”

  Mira furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

  I held the parchment up slightly, the seal catching the light.

  “They don’t want to hear if I can forge a sword.”

  I glanced at Seraphina.

  “They want to know if I can forge a king’s sword—in three days.”

  I stood there, the parchment still in my hand, the seal cracked, but the weight of its words settling into my chest like forged iron. “I need to get started.”

  Seraphina looked up from her plate, fork paused midway to her mouth. “Tonight?”

  I nodded, eyes already focused on the forge in my mind. “There’s no time to waste. Three days isn’t enough to make a king’s sword—but it’ll have to be.” I turned to her with a crooked grin. “Guess that night of sweaty passion is on hold for a little while.” Across the table, Mira choked slightly and turned a deep crimson.

  “Sure,” Seraphina said with a laugh, “excuses.”

  Mira coughed once, then steadied herself. She was about to speak when her eyes narrowed slightly, reading something quieter in my posture. “Should I alert the guild?”

  “No. Not yet.” I said to Seraphina, softening my voice. “Finish your dinner. I’ll be right back."

  She gave me that small, steady smile of hers—the kind that showed she trusted me, even if she worried too. “Don’t forget the part where you sleep.”

  I leaned in and kissed the top of her head, taking a breath of her scent a little longer than usual. “No promises.”

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  I stepped outside, and the door quietly clicked shut behind me.

  Mira looked after me for a moment, then leaned in toward Seraphina and whispered, “Where do you even find guys like that?”

  Seraphina didn’t even blink. “They just happen to show up when you least expect it.”

  I stepped into the cool night and hurried toward the guild, with each step more confident than the last. When I pushed open the side door to the forge hall, the space welcomed me like an old friend—warm, alive, waiting.

  I sat down at the drafting table, took out my sketch book, and laid my hands flat on it. The design was already taking shape in my mind. Not ornamental. Not gilded nonsense. Power in balance. Strength in flow. Brutality molded by grace. I picked up the charcoal and started drawing.

  The first lines appeared swiftly, long, angled strokes forming the blade's outline. Wide at the base with just enough taper to indicate deadly accuracy. The fuller stretched deep and clean through the center, a spine of strength that wouldn’t snap under pressure. I paused, inhaling the smell of charcoal dust and hot metal lingering from the day’s work.

  This wasn’t just steel. It was a message—a sword like this had to make itself heard before it ever left its scabbard.

  I refined the edges and extended the grip. Two-handed, with a ridged leather wrap—tough enough for a gloved grip but elegant enough for ceremony. The pommel... I considered capped iron or something bolder. In the end, I opted for stylized bronze. Not gold. Never gold. A king doesn’t need softness on the hilt; he needs honesty in the strike.

  I penciled in the guard last, swept slightly forward, like wings folded against the edge of battle. Sharp enough to turn blades, subtle enough not to draw attention. All function. No vanity.

  At the bottom of the vellum, I wrote a single word in neat block letters: Godsbane.

  Because if a king were to wield this blade, it needed a name that defied the impossible. I set the charcoal down and examined the finished design. My pulse slowed. My breath remained steady. In this, there was certainty. This sword would be forged. Not for glory. Not for royalty. But for the challenge. And for the story it would carry.

  The lines on the parchment were still fresh when I looked up. The windows above my office were dark now, except for the glow of the city lanterns casting long shadows on the stone walls. The last traces of sunlight had disappeared, leaving only the quiet of night and the soft hum of the guild’s resting breath.

  I stood, rolled the design carefully, and stepped out into the forge.

  It waited—quiet, respectful, like a stage before the curtain rises. I moved to the hearth and lit the kindling. The smell of oil, soot, and iron welcomed me like an old friend. As the flames caught, I leaned into the bellows, slow and rhythmic, coaxing the heat to come alive.

  The forge glowed with a warm orange light. Just as I stepped back to check the airflow, the door creaked open behind me.

  “Couldn’t let you start this alone,” Mark said as he stepped inside, wiping his hands on a cloth. He looked at the forge and grinned. “Let me work the bellows. You’ve got bigger things to focus on.”

  Without waiting for a response, he took his place beside the hearth, steadying the bellows with controlled movements. I nodded once, feeling grateful in the quiet between us.

  Then arms wrapped around my waist. Seraphina pressed against my back, her cheek warm against my shoulder blade. “You didn’t come back,” she said softly.

  “I couldn’t,” I said as Seraphina held me. “Not tonight.”

  She stood next to me, looking at the blank parchment I’d left hours ago. “Did you decide what to make?”

  I nodded and opened the sketchbook, flipping to a new page. “Yes. Something like this.”

  She leaned in closer, her eyes tracing the charcoal lines. A single-handed blade with weight and presence, yet with elegance—a tapered edge and curved guard, a king’s weapon without the pomp. A blade that could lead or defend.

  She smiled, pleased. “It’s clean. Strong. Regal.”

  Then, stepping back, she gently tugged at my sleeve. “You’ll need something to keep you sharp. I’ll bring back food—and something sweet. You won’t be much good to the king dead on your feet.”

  Her kiss touched my cheek like punctuation. And then she was gone, her footsteps fading into the corridor, leaving only the heat of the forge and the scratch of graphite in my hands.

  I turned to the forge, now blazing with purpose. The work was just beginning.

  The bellows hissed as Mark manipulated them, feeding the flames into a fierce roar. I stood over the anvil, sweat already forming on my forehead, staring at the first glowing billet of steel. The sketch of the sword lay nearby, pinned beneath a steel weight. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was myth in metal. Brutal. Elegant. A king’s challenge.

  I drew a slow breath and drove the steel into the coals. The forge glowed like the core of a star.

  The ringing started soon after—that steady sound of a hammer hitting metal. Not quick, but deliberate. Every strike guided by years of silent practice, each blow shaping the blade. Sparks flew. Shadows moved across the walls.

  Hours passed.

  The door creaked open again. Seraphina entered the workshop, her cloak pulled tight against the night’s chill. She didn’t speak—simply walked quietly to the chair in the corner and watched. Her eyes followed every motion, every movement of the blade as it took shape. She offered a soft smile when I glanced her way, then leaned back into the chair. Her presence grounded me.

  Mark had long since dozed off against the back wall, an empty cup in one hand. His gentle snoring was the only sound between hammer strikes. He’d devoured half a box of pastries before the forge even reached full heat, and now he looked like a man betrayed by sugar and poor choices.

  I kept folding the steel repeatedly. Heat. Hammer. Fold. Repeat. Each fold strengthens, sharpens the edge, and aligns the blade’s soul with its purpose. I remembered my father’s hands guiding mine at the family forge, my grandfather’s gruff approval, and the weight of legacy passed down through sweat and iron. Now it was mine alone.

  The hours blurred.

  The sword’s shape took form—wide and thick along the spine, narrowing to a heavy, sharp edge. The hilt would be broad and double-handed, with a simple but bold pommel. I quenched it with a hiss, and the forge steam rose like a spirit into the rafters.

  I looked at Seraphina. She had curled up slightly, her head tilted, sleeping peacefully in the chair, her hand resting gently on her cloak. I felt a pang of guilt — she should have been in bed. But she had stayed.

  As dawn filtered through the high windows, the blade was almost complete. Tempered. Hardened. Edges sharpened. Still rough, but noble. Ready for detail. Ready to become legend.

  I heard the bells of early morning ring out, shortly after two smiths from the nearby forges appeared in the doorway, drawn by the rhythm. They didn’t speak—just watched, silently leaning in the doorway with eyes wide as they took in the scene. One nudged the other. They knew what this was. Not just a sword, but a declaration.

  I wiped my brow, eyes bloodshot, and let the hammer rest. Still, the forge kept glowing.

  I set the hammer down, my arms heavy but steady. The forge’s roar had quieted, its fire reduced to a warm pulse in the background. I carried the sword to the bench with the reverence it deserved—no longer hot, no longer raw, but not yet finished.

  That’s when I heard the soft creak of the door. The Guildmaster entered casually, with the morning light catching the edge of his worn coat. In his hands, he carried two cups of tea, steam curling up in lazy spirals.

  He held one out to me. “Drink. You look like a man who’s been fighting ghosts all night.”

  I took it and nodded. “Not ghosts. Ghosts would’ve been easier. This edge gave me some issues.”

  He sipped from his cup and moved closer to the bench. His eyes stayed fixed on the blade resting on the cloth.

  “Is that for that request?” he asked, voice low.

  I lifted the sword, the weight of it solid and true in my hands.

  The blade was broad, nearly three fingers wide near the hilt, gradually narrowing to a chiseled edge that still had a slight curve. A thick spine ran along its length, ending in a squared tip built to cleave rather than just pierce. The steel showed a subtle ripple from its many folds—like water caught in mid-motion—barely visible unless you knew to look. It didn’t shine; it glowed, like a weapon that remembered the forge.

  The guard was short and slightly curved toward the blade, etched with twin arcs like rising moons. The grip, long enough for two hands, had been wrapped in treated leather over carved ridges that provided a firm, unyielding hold. The pommel—a flattened disc with a single inlaid iron ring—conveyed quiet authority, not flash.

  A king’s sword. Not ceremonial. Not gilded. Built for battle. For legacy.

  I held it out slightly. “Yes. This is the answer they asked for.”

  The Guildmaster didn’t speak immediately. He placed his cup next to mine and leaned in to examine the blade.

  “You didn’t just make a sword,” he said after a pause. “You made a masterpiece.”

  I carefully placed the sword on the bench, exhaling as if I’d been holding my breath since dusk. My eyes burned, and my back ached. But more than anything, I felt... complete.

  The Guildmaster watched me silently. He didn’t need to say anything; his eyes on the blade, and the quiet respect afterward told me more than words ever could.

  Still, I broke it.

  “It’s not finished yet,” I said, voice rough from the forge. “Needs polishing. Some detailing on the hilt. But it’s close.” I turned, glancing at Seraphina, curled up in the chair beside the wall, her cloak wrapped around her shoulders. “She needs a bed. And so do I.”

  The Guildmaster nodded and moved aside as the other smiths entered the room.

  They arrived gradually at first, men and women with blackened hands, soot-streaked faces, and heavy aprons, all drawn by the hammering echoing through the forge district since nightfall. One by one, they gathered around the bench, eyes fixed on the sword. No one spoke until one of the older journeymen muttered, “That’s not apprentice work.”

  Another snorted. “Not even a journeyman.”

  “Master,” someone else said softly. “No doubt.”

  I didn’t bother acknowledging it. I moved to the desk, grabbed the pile of request slips from the inbox, and thumbed through them while sipping the last of the now lukewarm tea. My fingers moved automatically, sorting commissions by complexity and urgency. A few I set aside for myself—challenging work I valued. The rest I organized into piles.

  I stood and handed out the first batch to the gathered smiths. “Corren, Ketta, these are yours. Good fits.” I passed the rest along. “Split these however you like, but I expect quality. If you’re unsure what to do with one, hold onto it. I’ll be back later.”

  “You’re leaving?” Corren asked, surprised.

  I looked back at Seraphina, still breathing slowly, curled up with a kind of exhausted trust that made my chest ache in a new way. “I’ve been forging steel all night,” I said. “Now it’s time to go hold something softer.” The smiths chuckled. No disrespect—just camaraderie. I crossed the room, knelt beside her, and gently brushed a lock of hair from her cheek.

  “Hey,” I whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

  She moved slowly, blinking up at me with unfocused eyes. “Is it breakfast?”

  “Almost lunchtime now,” I said with a tired smile. “You’re sleeping in a real bed tonight. I insist.” She stretched, stood up, and leaned silently against me.

  I turned to the forge crew. “I’ll be at the Copper Candle for a while. If something catches fire, come find me.” As we left the forge floor, the murmur of conversation picked up again behind us—but it wasn’t about work orders anymore. They spoke in hushed voices, heads close together.

  Mark kept snoring in the corner.