Solitude Blacksmith Novels & Stories

"It’s just... the other half of the light. I can hold it. I can make the sun blink." We moved to the highest point of the Black Crag—the Crowned Summit, a jagged peak that was protected by a series of ancient, lead-lined arches. The heat was still astronomical, the white light of Solis beating against the stones like a physical hammer. Nathaniel had constructed a "Blight-Diffuser" out of salvaged iron and quartz. Inside the glass chamber, a swirling mass of oily, black smoke—the captured Blight—was thrumming with a predatory hunger.

Would I ever find solid ground? I tried to push the questions away, telling myself to focus on the small victories: making my own breakfast, turning the music up loud, buying flowers just because I wanted to. Yet, loneliness seeped into the cracks. --- One afternoon, walking through a crowded market, I stumbled upon a tiny antique bookstore tucked between two cafés. The faded sign read *“Fragments”*, and something about the name pulled me inside. Inside, the scent of old paper and dust wrapped around me like a warm blanket. Shelves sagged with forgotten stories and whispered secrets.

"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."

“The sword is my final masterpiece and lesson to you, Maximo. Wield it righteously.” What did he mean by that? “There are more instructions he left,” Miss Salve said upon noticing my confusion. “You’ll need to take an inventory of the workshop and furnace. Secure them; there will be a time when you will need it.” Somehow, that last line was the kind of order the Maestro gave that made a warming comfort bloom in my chest: idle hands are the devil’s playground, so to speak. I tapped my chest again, the pendant growing warm as it touched my skin.

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.

My task was to add the finishing touches, design the swords, and safely store them. The clanging of metal and the scent of hot iron welcomed me as I entered the forgery. One of the blacksmiths, a burly man with calloused hands and a perpetual scowl, nodded in acknowledgment as I approached. I wasted no time and began working diligently, my fingers dancing across the weapons, adorning them with intricate patterns and symbols.

The kind of tension born from months of relentless training. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, big man. Yeah, your muscles show you’re a fighter, but your demeanor doesn’t.” I stare at him, trying to understand where he’s coming from. “Get the hell out!” he roars to the prisoners expecting a second drama. The prisoners scatter, leaving just the two of us… and a few of his men. “I said leave!” he barks again, and the remaining ones disappear from the bathroom. “This prison is home to murderers, rapists, and violent offenders of every kind. Blackridge is a fire meant to purge them of their iniquities… or burn them in it.”

The building beneath it had long lost its charm, its windows cracked, paint peeled, and its insides hollowed out by time and neglect. It must’ve been beautiful once, but beauty, here, didn’t last. Everyone in this pack, it seemed, was a prisoner in their own way. Unless you served Xareth, as one of his soldiers or silver-tongued council members, then you have nothing. No rights, no voice, no life beyond survival. The rhythmic thud of axes biting into wood echoed through the trees, guiding me like a drumbeat. I followed the sound, weaving through overgrown paths and scattered logs until I saw Zevarion.

The chain was adjustable, allowing Aqua to wear the pendant at just the right length so that it rested over her heart. As she wore it, Aqua noticed the stone's clarity, reflecting her calm and balanced state of mind. Whenever she felt at peace, the pendant remained clear and pristine. However, when her emotions stirred, the pendant would change. A slight hue of blue appeared when she felt sadness, while a warm golden tone emerged during moments of happiness. If anger or fear took hold of her, the gemstone would darken, turning a deep, unsettling black.

She cut herself and held out her hand in the air, so the blood dropped into the sacred bowl. " Hold your hands together so the cuts meet," he said. I turned and faced her, her pretty face was a charm on its own and I found myself struggling to concentrate. I stretched out my hands to her, she did the same and placed her cut palm on mine. A spark was felt and I knew she felt it as well. The fire began to burn so well. Our wolves began to collide and I was struggling to breathe. It seemed the two wolves were trying to become one and we were the ones being affected by it.