Seattle Blacksmith Novels & Stories

Clarabelle shut her eyes and said, “The blacksmith is a legend among the mortals. Some of them actually believe he exists, and some of them believe he's just a myth. They say the blacksmith lives in the deepest, blackest depths of Mystic Meadow and enternaly hammers a glowing piece of metal, waiting for the day he can take revenge on the ones who hurt him. Legend says people actually go to him to seek weapons that can slay monsters and grant powers beyond human imagination, but to get to him, you'll have to lose all sense of good you have in you, let the darkness take over, and get engulfed in the lust for hatred and revenge that surrounds his workshop. But who is the blacksmith, who exactly

She smiled and showed her age with a few missing teeth. After a while, Ivar returned and took Yvayn on a tour. They went to the blacksmith, Ernor, on the eastern edge of town. Yvayn was right about the old man: his metal work was exquisite, even the hinges that held up the doors. “Ernor?” Ivar knocked on the open door of the smoky shop. Black iron tools hung on the walls. A large fire was in a pit just outside the door. A pile of coal was next to it as well as several shovels.

"This is Clare Mullins and Devin Mullins. Their grandfather used own a blacksmithing shop in Newtons City back in the early 1900s." "Hello, Ms. Vicky," Clare, the elder of the two, began, sticking his hand out to shake mine. "It's an honor." "The honor's all mine," I smiled. "Your sculptures, they're beautiful." Devin flashed me a grin. "Thank you, you're too kind. Now, Markus tells us you're looking for something one-of-a-kind design." His eyebrows lifted, noting the underlying message behind his words, as he took another drag of his cigar.

The air inside the lower forges was a sweltering suffocating wall of sulfur, coal smoke, and radiating thermal heat. Down here, deep within the subterranean roots of the Obsidian Hold, the rhythmic thud of heavy iron hammers striking anvils echoed like a frantic metallic heartbeat. But as Silas and I stepped off the stone lift, the sweating blacksmiths and forge masters immediately ceased their labor, dropping heavily to their knees on the soot-stained floor.

There have been rumors that they are an item, and looking at them now, I can understand why. My sister always gets touchy-feely with the people she likes. I remember when she used to drape herself all over me when we were younger. I guess she has outgrown that now. "So I heard you and Aiden are partners on this project," Sarah says, looking back and forth between us. "That is right," I reply. “Blacksmith is my partner.” Sarah frowns, her eyes flicking from me to Aiden. "I must say, it is kind of unusual to hear you call him 'Blacksmith'. It is distant and formal, but I guess that's just your way." She rambles.

So many precautions but I could understand that was protocol. The blacksmith was a short stout man, the tools of his profession evident on his body as some parts of his skin was covered in coal and black oil. “My Queen, pardon my manners. What are you doing in my home? Is there something you need? Or is there something I have done wrong? What can I offer you?” I didn't like that I made him nervous so I started with something small. “Tea will be fine. Ginger, hibiscus, go crazy.”

His hammer struck hot metal, the sound echoing through the cabin like a heartbeat. She didn’t mean to stare. But he didn’t look up. Not even when she spoke. “Hi. I’m… I’m with Highland Profiles magazine. I sent letters. About the article.” He didn’t stop hammering. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” she added, shifting awkwardly, her boots crunching on stray metal shavings. “You’re kind of a legend. Off-grid blacksmith. No internet. No phone. No interviews. I thought if I showed up—”

I said, trailing slightly behind, “you’re really going to give me the grand tour?” He threw me a sidelong glance, one brow raised. “You doubt my abilities as a guide?” “I doubt your patience,” I said with a faint smirk. That earned me the smallest, rarest sound—a quiet chuckle. “You might be right about that.” We passed the blacksmith’s forge first, where two shirtless men hammered glowing metal into shape. Sparks danced like tiny fireflies in the air. The heat from the flames brushed my skin even from a distance. “This is the heart of the camp,” Aiden explained. “Without this place, our warriors would be fighting with sticks and pride.”