Blacksmith Quarters Novels & Stories

past lamp niches that barely brightened the gloomy room. They arrived at the Wound Maidens' Quarters, a chamber carved from raw stone with a ring of women surrounding it. They were slaves and lower-class hollows. Their faces were grey, their hair was lanky and matted, and none of them spoke. Dark streaks smeared over the Quarters' walls, and the only source of lighting came from a fire pit—low, sickly green flames. Above it hung a cauldron full of heavy steam curling in tendrils.

Without saying a word, he walked back to where the villagers were gathered and watched as the blacksmiths checked out the metals. Out of the metals that were seen spread on the ground, the blacksmiths only picked out bronze, silver, iron, steel, and aluminum. They selected them and dropped them aside and turned to look at Ethan who was closely watching them. "I think these would be perfect to make ammunition" one of them said to Ethan who nodded and turned to face the spokesperson of the villagers. "Please, take those inside the cottage" he said to his men while looking at the spokesperson. Boston, George, and the other two blacksmiths took the metals inside while Ethan remained with the vil

None of them seemed to mind him as they went about their duties. Zenas walked past the entrance into the hot interior. From the heat of the building, he guessed that a fire was burning, fire by which the blacksmith would melt iron to be shaped into weapons and shields. As he walked into the dark interior to seek whom to talk to a small figure bumped into him with surprising strength almost knocking him to the floor.

Ribs pressing against his skin like a washboard. The blacksmith was a one-eyed old man with a vicious temper who forged blades that never broke. Every soldier in the camp came to him for repairs. Rex crouched outside the smithy for three days, watching the old man work the iron. The metal in the furnace bloomed orange-red. The old man pulled it free with tongs, laid it on the anvil, and struck. Sparks burst with every hammer blow. Burn scars covered his hands, layered over each other like the bark of an ancient tree.

“If you’re to make good on our deal, I need to be able to find you.” Kizwat was staring lovingly at the spike. “I will head to Dargot. It is the city in the north. They had a silver blacksmith there who died recently.” “Won’t his apprentice inherit his hammer?” “Silver hammers can’t be passed down, they must be earned. Come find me there in a couple of months and I should be ready to make you whatever you wish.” Seemed like a good plan. The blacksmith returned carrying something wrapped in green cloth. He opened it to reveal a short sword, about the length of my forearm.

Although the Shadow-moon pack was bigger, many people live there unlike Damien who only has two main quarters, the first one was called the Alpha’s quarters according to him. It was on opposite sides with hallways separating them, the other quarters were split in top two, one for the workers and the others for the guards off duties as the ones one duty sleep on their post. I didn’t think there was anything left to see until Damien led me outside the back of the house. I drank in the beauty of the environment as he led me down another path that looked just like the one we drove through on arriving here. After walking on foot for about ten minutes, we arrived at another gate. It wasn’t as big

‎Azriel was there, just as Lazarus had mentioned. ‎He was stripped down to a dark thermal shirt, its sleeves pushed up past his elbows, his bare forearms gleaming with sweat despite the freezing temperature outside. In his gloved hands, he held a heavy iron tongs, maneuvering a red-hot iron bridge bracket over the anvil while his right hand wielded a heavy blacksmith's hammer. ‎CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. ‎The rhythmic strikes rang out clear and sharp, sending bright orange sparks cascading onto the dirt floor.

We stopped before a heavy door made of darkened metal, marked by old dents, soot stains, and deep scratches near the lock. “The Blacksmith lives here,” Darrow announced, his voice echoing with dark reverence. “He makes every weapon in Verisure.” Darrow knocked twice with his closed fist, hard enough for the metallic impact to vibrate through the door and echo down the corridor. A few seconds later, we heard the heavy sound of locks being moved on the other side. When the door finally opened, a wave of heat immediately escaped, striking my face after the street’s biting cold. The contrast was so abrupt that I felt my skin tighten.

She caught me watching and narrowed her eyes before hurrying after the others. I watched her walk. No limp. But she favored her right side. Just a little. Anger simmered low and hot. Questions crowded my mind. They would wait. People were stepping out of buildings now. Smiling. Waving. Too many. Too calm. What kind of place was this? The Timber Quarters were rustic but well-built. Thatched roofs. Glass windows. A rough path winding between them. Gardens heavy with food. Cows, goats, chickens. Two vehicles parked at the edge of the road.

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.