Garrett lifted the first chunk of ore from the chest, placing it in his crucible and pumping the bellows. Orange flames roared to life beneath the vessel.

  Minutes passed. The ore sat unchanged in the crucible, not even glowing.

  "Come on," Garrett muttered, working the bellows harder. The flames turned yellow, then white at their hottest points. Still nothing.

  "Is it supposed to take this long?" Lucia asked.

  "Regular steel would be molten by now." Garrett wiped sweat from his forehead. "Mithril is a different beast."

  "What if we made the flames hotter?" Clive took out his brush.

  "How? I'm already at maximum heat."

  Instead of answering, Clive dipped his brush in red paint, then yellow, then white. He painted directly onto the air above the crucible

  [Mix: Amber Flames II]

  Light erupted around his brush strokes, painting flames that radiated heat. But he didn’t stop there. “Lucia, if you could.”

  Lucia uncorked a vial of Alchemical Fire and poured it into the flames. The amber flames turned white. The sheer heat of it forced them two steps back.

  The ores began to bubble and separate, blue metal pooling at the bottom while stone slag floated to the surface.

  "That's it," Garrett said. "The metal's separating."

  He skimmed the slag with a ladle, revealing pure mithril beneath. The metal moved like liquid mercury, its surface rippling without any disturbance.

  "It's moving on its own," Lucia said.

  Garrett leaned closer. The ripples followed his movement, as if drawn to him. "That's... unsettling."

  Garrett poured the molten metal into an ingot mold. Even as it flowed, tiny currents swirled within it, visible through the translucent blue glow.

  The metal cooled faster than expected, solidifying into a shiny blue bar. Garrett picked it up with bare hands.

  "It's not hot," he said with wonder. "Room temperature, despite being molten seconds ago."

  The metal felt warm against his fingertips, but underneath that warmth was a pull—like something drawing mana from his core through his skin.

  He yanked his hand back. "It's feeding."

  "Feeding on what?" Lucia asked.

  "Me. My mana." Clive flexed his fingers, feeling the slight drain even from that brief contact.

  Garrett picked up his hammer and positioned the ingot on his anvil. The first strike rang like a bell, but the mithril remained rigid and cold. “Damn it, it cooled too fast.”

  “Can't you just use a mold,” Lucia asked.

  Garrett's hammer froze mid-swing. He turned to stare at her. "A mold? You want me to pour metal into a shape like I'm making horseshoes?"

  "I don't know how this works—"

  "Cast weapons are brittle. Weak. That's exactly the kind of corner-cutting that got Blackwell's customers killed." He placed the ingot back in the crucible. "We forge here. The proper way."

  Lucia held up her hands. "I was just asking."

  "Good weapons are hammered, not poured." The white flames surrounded the mithril again until it softened. "That's the difference between a blade that'll save your life and one that'll snap when you need it most."

  Garrett pulled the glowing ingot from the flames and began to hammer. The mithril stretched under each blow, but only while hot. After a dozen strikes, it stiffened again.

  Back into the crucible. Wait for it to glow. Hammer until it cooled. Back into the flames.

  Hours passed. Clive's painted flames flickered and died, forcing him to create new ones. Lucia replenished her alchemical fire twice. Garrett's shirt soaked through with sweat despite the cool mithril.

  "How much longer?" Clive asked during one of the heating cycles.

  "Normal steel? Two hours, maybe three." Garrett wiped his forehead. "This? Could be all day."

  The sun moved across the forge windows. The ingot slowly lengthened, one heating cycle at a time. By evening, it had begun to resemble something blade-like.

  Garrett set down his hammer and examined his work. "There. One sword."

  Clive picked up the sword. It had a blue sheen to it that reflected the forge light. He had constantly heard that mithril was much better than steel in holding enhancements.

  Time to test those claims.

  He dipped his brush in red paint and drew a careful line along the blade's edge. Fire bloomed to life, coating the metal in flames. The mithril withstood the heat without complaint, the blue metal glowing cherry-red beneath the magical fire.

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  Minutes passed. The flames held steady, fed by his mana. When his reserves finally emptied, the fire guttered out, leaving the blade pristine and undamaged. Unlike steel, there was no warping or stress fractures. The mithril looked as perfect as when Garrett had finished forging it.

  Clive switched to blue paint, coating the sword in frost. Ice crystals formed along the edge. The mithril bore the cold enhancement just as easily as it had the fire.

  Yellow paint brought lightning crackling across the surface, arcs of electricity dancing between his fingers and the blade. Still the mithril held firm.

  His thoughts drifted to his spar with Huntmaster Kell. The way Kell's 'Magekiller' dagger had devoured his paint spells entirely, leaving nothing but empty air.

  What if he could do that as well?

  He painted a layer of black over his blade. The black spread like liquid night around his blade, forming a pitch black blade reminiscent of the night sky.

  [Paint: Black Hole Blade]

  "Garrett, hold this up." Clive stepped back, readying his brush. "I want to test something."

  "Test what?" But Garrett gripped the handle anyway, raising the blade between them.

  Clive dipped his brush in red paint and flicked it toward the sword. A small fireball erupted from the bristles, no bigger than his fist.

  "What the—" Garrett swung the blade instinctively, intercepting the fireball mid-flight. The moment metal touched flame, the fire vanished completely. The mithril pulsed brighter for an instant, then returned to its normal glow.

  "Next time, warn me before you throw fire at my face."

  "Nice reflexes though," Lucia said. "You moved like a fighter."

  Garrett shrugged, giving the blade a few practice cuts through the air. "Spent some time with a sword when I was younger. Before the forge claimed me."

  "Try a bigger spell," Lucia suggested to Clive.

  "Wait, no!" Garrett lowered the sword. "Let me get ready this time."

  He shifted into a proper stance, blade angled to catch whatever Clive threw at him.

  Clive painted a larger flame, this one the size of a man's head. Again, the blade drank it completely.

  Amazing. Clive wanted to test its limits. How much magic could a single blade absorb before it reached capacity?

  "Get ready," he called to Garrett. "Time for some serious testing."

  He loaded his brush with red paint and began casting in rapid succession. Small fireballs at first, one after another. The blade absorbed each one, glowing brighter with every impact.

  "It's working," Garrett said.

  Clive didn't let up. He switched to blue paint, sending frost bolts that the blade devoured as hungrily as the flames. The mithril's glow intensified, shifting from soft blue to brilliant white.

  "Clive," Lucia warned. "It's getting awfully bright."

  But Clive was already painting with yellow, adding lightning to the mix. Each spell fed the blade more energy, the metal now so luminous it hurt to look at directly.

  "That's enough!" Garrett shouted.

  Too late. Clive sent one final fireball.

  The blade erupted in a burst of pure light and heat. Garrett cursed and flung it away, the weapon clattering across the forge floor as waves of absorbed magic discharged in all directions.

  When the light faded, they found the sword cracked down its center, the metal split like an overfilled vessel.

  "By the light," Garrett said, shaking his stinging hands. "Control yourself, Clive."

  "Sorry." Clive approached the ruined weapon. "I'll draw you a new one."

  He opened his sketchbook, then stopped. The blade lay in three pieces now, its form destroyed. He'd barely gotten a proper look at it whole.

  "Actually," he said, closing the book. "I didn't study it enough. The proportions, the way the metal caught light—I need to see it intact to draw it properly."

  Garrett groaned. "Another full day of heating and hammering."

  "I'll help more this time," Clive promised.

  "And I'll make sure we have enough alchemical fire," Lucia added.

  The next day brought another tedious cycle of heating and forging. Garrett worked with deep focus, his hammer finding its rhythm faster than before.

  By evening, they had their second blade, identical to the first.

  Clive examined every detail, exposing it to light at different angles. He noted how the mithril's reflection wasn't sharp like polished steel, but diffused. Where steel would show harsh glints and mirror-bright spots, the mithril had a soft luminescence.

  He sketched carefully, capturing the shape and essence of how mithril held and reflected light.

  [Item Created: Mithril Sword (High Quality)]

  Material: Mithril

  Attack: +50

  Durability: 60/60

  Damage Type: Slashing

  [MP Cost: 60]

  "There," he said, finishing the drawing. "Now I can make more when we need them."

  [Quest Completed: Edge of Understanding III]

  [Gained 1 Certainty Point]

  “Brilliant work, Clive,” Garrett said. “With your help, we’ll get all this ready in no time.”

  The forge became their second home over the following weeks. They fell into an efficient rhythm. Garrett would forge the base weapons—swords, spears, mace heads—while Clive studied each completed piece before committing it to his sketchbook. Once drawn, Clive could produce copies at a fraction of the time it took to forge them traditionally.

  As the days passed, word of their work spread through the district. Other smiths would stop by, ostensibly to borrow tools or trade materials, but really to catch a glimpse of the legendary metal being worked. Garrett shooed most of them away, but a few old friends were allowed to observe from a respectful distance.

  "Is that really mithril?" one weaponsmith asked, eyes wide.

  "The genuine article," Garrett confirmed, not breaking rhythm with his hammer. "And before you ask, no, you can't touch it."

  Three days before the deadline, they completed the final mace. The weapons filled an entire corner of the forge, each piece inspected, wrapped, and catalogued.

  "Thirty weapons of mithril," Garrett said, consulting his ledger. "One extra of each type, as insurance."

  They spent the remaining days performing final inspections, testing balance and edge retention.

  At the end of three weeks, the church guards returned.

  The guard captain inspected each weapon personally. He tested balance, examined edges, and even had one of her clerics demonstrate the mithril's magic-absorbing properties with a simple light spell.

  "Well done, Garrett," he said finally, approval clear in his voice. "You did it."

  "Just holding up my end of the contract, Captain."

  The guards began loading the weapons onto their wagons, handling each piece with the reverence it deserved. The captain signed the completion papers and handed Garrett a heavy purse—the remaining payment for his work.

  "One more thing," The captain turned to Clive. "The Saintess would like to see you."

  The forge fell silent. Even the guards paused in their loading.

  "The Saintess?" Garrett's voice was guff. "Why would she—"

  "She doesn't explain her reasons to me," the captain interrupted. "But when the Saintess requests someone's presence, it's not a casual matter. You're to come with us. Now."

  Clive looked at Garrett, uncertain.

  "Go on, lad," Garrett said, clasping his shoulder. "You've done nothing wrong. I’ll come with you as well."

  The captain shook his head.

  "The invitation is for the painter alone."

  "Forty years at the forge. I remember much, but some memories are too dangerous to preserve.

  I've made swords that saved kingdoms and daggers that ended wars. The blade I helped create that autumn day? That one I pray the world will forget."

  From "Memoirs of a Royal Weaponsmith," by Master Garrett Forrester