Blacksmith Pay Novels & Stories

“I think it was… Ten thousand?” “Very cheap considering its value. You got lucky, kid.” “I guess so. How do you know all this?” Salj put the blade back in its sheath before answering. “I have been a smith for over thirty years. I can tell a good sword and a bad one even if they both look the same.” “Ohh amazing! If it’s such a good sword, how come the other users refunded the sword?” Matthew asked.

“Uh-uh! That’s going to cost ya!” Sasha huffed. Everything in this goddamn place revolved around money. Thankfully, Zen’s meals were free. “How much?” The weaponsmith held up two fingers. “200 credits?” she asked hopefully, and the man pulled a face. “2,000 credits,” he growled. “You didn’t think my skills were that cheap, did you?” Sasha grimaced. 2,000 credits was a lot of money for someone who had to eat in the academy. Thankfully, there were no death penalties for the lower floors and seeing how Sasha earned a lot from Zen’s Rainbow Egg strategy from the Egg Hunt, she could afford this.

Instead, they had honed fire and steel into their dominion, becoming artisans whose skill rivalled that of any noble warrior. The blacksmith who greeted her was one such man: broad-shouldered, his talons still gleaming sharp despite the soot ground into his skin. His hair was tied back, his arms blackened from years of labor, and his hammer rose and fell in a rhythm older than song. The anvil sang with every strike, ringing like a heartbeat through the chamber. "Your Highness," he rumbled once again, his deep voice respectful but steady, not fawning. "Royal company is rare here."

“Two and a half.” “One hour forty-five.” The blacksmith rubbed his face. “You’re insane.” Michelle said nothing. He swore. “Fine. But you stay. If I leave you here alone and someone comes asking questions, I lose my licence. You stay. You don’t leave.” Michelle didn’t trust him enough to leave anyway. She nodded. “I stay.” He got to work. The forge roared to life, metal heating to red flame. Sparks burst. The air thickened with heat and smoke. Michelle sat on a stool against the wall, hands folded, mind sharp.

“So I don’t think you need to be scared of me.” “I’m not scared!” he squeaked. “I don’t have any money, so I can’t afford to buy anything yet. But when I do get some money, do you think I could buy stuff directly from you?” The question seemed to confuse him. “What do you mean?” “The stuff the blacksmith makes is good, but it’s expensive. You’re his assistant, right? I thought if I buy the weapons you make, it might be cheaper.” He lowered the knife and shook his head. “I do not have a hammer. You can’t forge iron without a hammer.”

Said Alex,with a smile on his face. "Before I can recruit men to become warriors, I will hire you to train the few warriors I already have now." "Has the Queen told you how much King Cyrus uses to pay me to train his men?" "I did not ask him,perhaps you can tell us." Said Carmen. "I used to earn 400 coins a week." King Stephen was shocked. That was more than what he paid Gideon in a month. "Then you must have been really good." Alex smiled. "I am willing to offer you 450 coins every week." Said King Stephen.

She shivered and looked away. As they turned down another street, the entire block was filled with blacksmiths. Everywhere flew anvils and hammers, and the ping of metal rang throughout the street, each blacksmith seeming to echo the other. There were also clay pits with large flames roasting slabs of red-hot metal, on which they were forging horseshoes, swords, and all sorts of metal work. Caitlin noticed the faces of children, black with soot, sitting by their father’s sides, watching them work. She felt badly that the children worked at such a young age. Caitlin looked everywhere for a sign of Scarlet, of her Dad, of any clue of why they were here—but she found none.

, he says. “Okay! I’m moving everyone’s pay to a grand a week”, I tell them. “Spin, you’ll be at fifteen hundred”! “How am I paying you more than I’m making?”, he says. “You're a laborer, I’m a manager! The pay is according to the trade”, I told him, but he dead-ass pouts at me!

"It only knows the strike. It only knows the truth of the metal." He looked at the front row—a group of blacksmiths and silversmiths. "You know my father's name. Thomas Silas. You know the House of Aris has been selling you brittle steel and hollow gold for three years. I am the man who stayed in that 'dirt' to make sure the work remained true, even when my name was stolen."

I was shoved inside a building by one of the guards. It was the blacksmith's dwelling place. The blacksmith forged and repaired weapons for the pack's warriors, ensuring they were well-equipped for battle. It wasn't just for the warriors alone. The hunters, gatherers, and even craftsmen were included. I had been here on several occasions, running errands. But each time, the heat from the furnace was hotter than the last. "She's here," one of the guards with me said to the head blacksmith, Benjamin Robinson. A man in his early forties, maybe with balding hair and wrinkles at both sides of his eyes.