Blacksmith Forge Novels & Stories

"I can't have a coward for a son. I won't." "Are you kicking me out?" I wiped the blood from my lip. "No." He stayed facing the glass. "I'm fixing you. There is a place for boys who aren't ready to be men. It's called The Forge." "The Forge?" My stomach dropped. "I've heard stories about that place, Dad. That place is a cage. They break people who come there." "Exactly." He turned back. His face was a mask; there was no love, no pity, just ice. "They break the weak parts so the strong parts can grow. You are leaving tonight."

Darius said. “Let's go to the regular forge.” Xander **** The scent of burning coal and metal filled the forge. It was very hot due to the roaring fires.I had never been to this building before, mainly because there wasn't anything that concerned me here. Sparks flew into the air as blacksmiths hammered on steel, shaping new swords and daggers.

Yet one day, they would be her subjects. The blacksmith stood dutifully at the anvil, his massive frame silhouetted against fire. His ashen, both by colour and the ashes of the coal, made some sense as to why his hair was tied back. Revealing a face lined with soot and scars. His arms, corded with decades of labour, swung a huge hammer, as though it were weightless, in a rhythm that seemed to shake the very ground. Sparks leapt like dying stars around him, but he didn't once flinch. This forge, like all forges, was run by the Wingless.

“Forging in itself is not a difficult thing. That can be easily done.” Phoebe kept shaking her head, and she said, “It’s not as easy as you think. This volcanic metal isn’t normal metal, so it’s difficult to forge it. If you’re not careful, you’ll break it. Only an excellent swordsmith can do it well. Based on what I know, there’s a swordsmith like that in this area, and he’s the only capable one. His name is Brighton Cook.” Thomas remembered the name “Brighton Cook” deeply.

As they waited, Sethlzaar found himself wondering what his mates were doing back at the seminary and how Soartin was. The Blacksmith spoke little, using his words to give the briefest of instruction that Sethlzaar would at times find himself having to work his brain to understand. When the blacksmith considered the forge hot enough he plunged a metal into the forge, holding it with a pair of iron tongs, watching as it took on a similar glow as the coal. Then he placed it on the anvil and struck it countless times with a hammer, bending it to shape as he pleased. By the life of Sethlzaar, he watched as the blacksmith hammered and flipped the metal in different ways, and understood nothing of