Chapter 109: The List (29)
The clang of steel and the hiss of cooling metal filled the air long before the lecture began.
Vaelira had always thought that “Thaumic Metallurgy” sounded like a scholarly discipline, something that would be taught with runes and formulae on blackboards, not furnaces and anvils.
But the moment she had first stepped into the workshop-classroom, she had realized how wrong she was.
The place smelled of iron and oil, thick with the weight of smoldering coals.
Massive forges burned at the back, tended by assistants in soot-stained aprons.
Workbenches lined the walls, cluttered with chisels, rune-engraving tools, and fragments of half-forged blades.
It wasn’t a lecture hall, it was a smithy with desks.
At the front stood Professor Ilar Drenhart, a broad-shouldered man whose thick leather apron and burn-scarred gloves made him look less like a professor and more like a battle-hardened blacksmith who had somehow wandered into the academy.
His beard was ash-grey and his voice deep, steady, a furnace’s hum turned human.
Before him lay a display of weapons , swords, spearheads, axes, shields, each gleaming faintly under the workshop’s amber light.
“Now then,” Professor Drenhart began, lifting a sword with practiced ease.
“Every forged object carries the memory of its maker.”
The class fell silent.
Even the forges seemed to dim in respect for his words.
“When we shape metal,” he continued, “we do not simply bend ore into form. We are, in a sense, teaching the metal. The hammer’s rhythm, the heat of the forge, the pulse of mana through one’s veins, all of it leaves an imprint. The will of the smith, the emotion in their heart, even their doubts… they settle into the steel.”
He raised the sword higher, letting the faint blue light dancing along its edge catch the eyes of the students.
“This,” he said, “is not enchantment. This is intent made tangible.”
Vaelira leaned forward slightly.
There was something about that phrasing, ‘intent made tangible’, that resonated with her.
It reminded her of why she had chosen this discipline in the first place.
Magic was wondrous, yes, but cold in its abstraction.
Metal, though, metal was honest.
You could hold it, feel its warmth fade, feel it breathe.
Her hand rose before she realized it.
“Professor,” she said, her voice calm but curious, “isn’t that still a form of enchantment? The way the weapon reacts to its wielder’s intent, it sounds similar.”
Drenhart turned toward her, and the hint of a smile ghosted beneath his beard.
“A fair question, Miss Vaelira. And one I get every year.”
He set the sword down and began pacing slowly across the room.
“Enchantment, as you all know, is the act of embedding a specific spell into an object. A deliberate instruction. This-”
He gestured toward the weapons.
“-isn’t that. The resonance I’m describing doesn’t obey a spell. It responds to familiarity. To a kinship between the will of the smith and the heart of the wielder, if we are being philosophical. Enchantments can be overwritten. This cannot.”
Then, abruptly, he gestured for her.
“Come, Miss Vaelira. Let’s put that curiosity of yours to use.”
A few students whispered as Vaelira rose from her seat.
She brushed a strand of her lavender hair back and walked toward him, the forge’s warmth brushing against her cheeks.
Drenhart handed her the sword from before, a longsword, its crossguard shaped like unfolding wings.
The craftsmanship was immaculate: the grain of the steel glimmered faintly as if veins of light ran through it.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured without thinking.
Drenhart gave a satisfied grunt.
“Aye. Practical too, though you might not think it from how pretty it looks. Give it a swing.”
The professor turned to the rest of the class, a glint of humor in his eye.
“Duck if you value your eyebrows.”
A ripple of laughter spread through the room.
Vaelira exhaled through her nose, trying not to smile as she adjusted her stance.
She gripped the sword properly, lifted it, and swung once, cleanly, fluidly.
The sound cut through the air with satisfying weight.
But something felt… strange.
Not wrong, exactly, but off.
She frowned and swung again, slower this time.
The motion was fine, the balance was technically perfect.
And yet, her arm instinctively tried to compensate, as though one side of the blade were heavier than the other.
She turned it in her hand, examining it closely.
The reflection of the forge fire slid along the edge like molten glass.
“Something the matter?”
Drenhart asked.
“It’s…”
Vaelira hesitated.
She didn’t want to sound like she was imagining it.
“It feels off-balance. It looks fine, but when I swing it, it’s like the weight isn’t distributed right.”
The professor’s smile deepened, his eyes glinting.
“Ah. You feel it too, then.”
She blinked.
“You mean-?”
He nodded.
“Exactly as you say. The balance is wrong, but not in craftsmanship. It’s in attunement.”
Vaelira’s brows furrowed as she handed the sword back.
Drenhart turned toward the back of the class.
“You there, Alric, was it? You’re training for the Paladin’s Path, yes?”
The boy in question, tall, fair-haired, with a lantern’s emblem pinned to his uniform, straightened in surprise.
“Y-yes, Professor.”
“Which sect?”
“The Church of the Guiding Light, sir.”
“Good. Come here.”
Alric stepped forward nervously, and the professor placed the same sword in his hands without another word.
The boy hesitated, then gave it a cautious swing.
Followed by another, moving his body fluidly as he swung the blade, taking stances he was familiar with.
The effect was immediate.
The blade shimmered faintly, then began to glow, a soft, pearlescent white, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
Gasps echoed across the class.
Even Vaelira’s eyes widened.
“Enough,” Drenhart said gently, taking the sword back.
The light dimmed as if sighing.
“You see, class, this is what I meant by intent. This blade was forged by a smith of the Church of the Guiding Light, for use by paladins of their order. The will that shaped this metal carried faith, and so it resonates with those who share that same faith.”
He turned toward Alric.
“Your theological studies must be coming along well, boy. You channeled that energy effortlessly.”
Alric’s face flushed crimson.
“T-thank you, sir.”
He handed the sword back and hurried to his seat, met with quiet applause and a few friendly jests and back pats.
Vaelira turned as if to return to her seat too, but Drenhart raised a hand.
“Not so fast, Miss Vaelira.”
She froze, blinking in mild confusion.
***
Professor Drenhart regarded Vaelira in silence for a moment, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the forge-fire painted his face in copper and gold.
Then, without a word, he removed one of his heavy leather gloves and held it out toward her.
“Put this on,” he said.
Vaelira hesitated briefly, the glove was massive, its surface scarred and darkened by years of heat and soot.
Still, she nodded and slipped it on.
The leather was stiff and rough, smelling faintly of ash and oil.
It hung loosely on her fingers, the weight of it almost comical against her smaller hand.
“Now,” Drenhart continued, handing her the same sword once more.
“Give it another try.”
She adjusted her stance again, the glove creaking softly as she tightened her grip around the hilt.
Then she swung, once, twice, thrice.
Each movement was clean, unburdened by the strange resistance she’d felt before.
The balance was perfect this time, as if the sword had been reborn.
Vaelira blinked, her brow furrowing.
“It… it doesn’t feel off-balance anymore.”
The professor nodded knowingly, resting his arms behind his back.
“Of course it doesn’t. The difference is night and day, isn’t it?”
She turned the blade in her gloved hand, still puzzled.
“What changed?”
Drenhart took the sword from her gently and held it up for the class to see.
“A good question, and one worth understanding before any of you dare pick up a hammer.”
He turned the blade slightly, letting the firelight glide across its edge like liquid silver.
“Even when we don’t mean to, even when we’re not consciously casting, our mana flows into the things we touch, especially those we hold with intent. Weapons, tools, clothes, even a simple cup, all of them, in small ways, remember us.”
He looked to Vaelira again.
“This sword reacted differently to both you and young Alric here because of how your innate mana behaves.”
He gestured for the paladin student, who straightened slightly in his seat.
“For him, the mana channels etched into this blade were perfectly aligned with the flow of his own energy. Like water into grooves. The sword was made for faith, and his mana, steeped in holy resonance, fit it like a snug glove. It amplified him.”
Then his gaze fell back on Vaelira, though not unkindly.
“For you, however, it was the opposite. Your mana flow doesn’t follow the same rhythm. It clashes with the patterns embedded in the steel. To you, the sword becomes… cumbersome. An oversized shoe, as it were, still wearable, but ill-fitting. And so your body compensates, sensing imbalance where none physically exists.”
He turned the sword once more, its gleam soft beneath the forge light.
“The glove, on the other hand, dampens your mana flow. When you wore it, your energy didn’t reach the sword at all. It became nothing more than what it appears to be, a finely made piece of steel. No resonance, no friction. Just metal meeting motion.”
The students nodded quietly, some scribbling notes, others simply mesmerized.
The rhythm of the forges seemed to underscore his words, each strike of the hammers beyond the wall punctuating the lesson.
Drenhart finally set the sword down and removed his other glove, dusting off his apron.
“And that, class, is why understanding your own mana is as important as understanding the metal you shape. You can forge the sharpest blade in the world, but if it cannot sing with your soul, then it will never truly be yours.”
He paused, then added, “Your assignment is simple, and no, before anyone asks, it cannot be postponed. Each of you will forge a spearhead designed to channel your own mana properly. It doesn’t have to glow, or sing, or perform miracles. It simply needs to resonate, to feel right in your hands. You have two days. No extensions. Learn what your mana feels like. Listen to it.”
A murmur of groans followed, but Drenhart ignored them with the practiced ease of a man used to complaints.
“That’ll be all for today. Dismissed.”
The class scattered like embers caught in the wind, students gathering their notes, aprons, and half-finished sketches before filing out.
Vaelira lingered a moment longer.
She flexed her gloved hand, staring at the faint soot stains that had rubbed off on her skin.
There was something strangely humbling about it, to think that the simplest touch carried so much unseen intent.
As she made her way out, the heat of the forge gave way to the cooler air of the corridor.
Her satchel felt heavier than usual, weighed down not only by the books and tools inside but by the thought of the task ahead.
A spearhead that resonates with her mana.
Two days.
And half a dozen assignments are already waiting on her desk.
She sighed quietly, her steps echoing down the stone hallway.
“Perfect,” she muttered to herself.
But as she turned toward the path leading to the library, a small, wry smile flickered across her face.
Despite the exhaustion and the pressure, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling of fascination.
