Chapter 112: The List (32)
A bit of a walk away from the main building of Twilight Crown Academy, were the interwoven network of smaller buildings.
Connected to the main one via walkways reminiscent of a tree root.
At the end of one such root was the forge, a place built with ventilation and temperature control in mind, with levels going down to multiple basements, conserving both ores and fuels to smelt and shape said ores.
Although busy and bustling throughout the day with students and professors alike, the forge should have long gone quiet as the moon rose to its crescendo in the sky.
But somewhere in the far corner, beneath the dim glow of an exhausted lamp, the sharp clang-clang-clang of metal against metal still echoed.
Vaelira stood before the anvil, shoulders trembling beneath the weight of her fatigue.
The rest of the students had left hours ago, their laughter, chatter, and footsteps fading one by one until only she remained.
Even the assistant smiths had extinguished most of the forges, leaving the workshop cloaked in heavy shadows and the faint scent of cooling steel.
Only her station burned with stubborn light, a single forge roaring defiantly against the creeping dark.
Scraps of failure surrounded her.
Bent metal rods, cracked spearheads, fragments warped beyond recognition.
The table beside her was a graveyard of imperfection, each misshapen piece a testament to an attempt that had almost worked.
Almost.
The air was stifling, thick with smoke and molten heat.
Every breath burned faintly as it entered her lungs.
Her hair, usually tied with meticulous care, had come loose, lavender strands clinging to her damp forehead and the nape of her neck.
Her smith’s apron was darkened with soot and sweat; the once-crisp leather had softened and sagged from overuse.
Even her gloves, thick as they were, bore faint burns along the fingertips.
She brought the hammer down again.
Clang.
The strike echoed, sharp and uneven, like her heartbeat.
Clang.
Clang.
The metal beneath her glowed orange, veins of heat running through it.
She lifted it with tongs and placed it back into the forge.
Sparks jumped as it met the flame, briefly lighting her face through the heat-haze, eyes glassy, lips pressed thin, exhaustion etched into every line.
On a nearby lectern, three heavy tomes lay open, On the Thaumic Flow of Forged Matter, Mana Channeling for Beginners, and A Study of Resonant Metal Alloys.
Their pages were smudged with ash and fingerprints.
A diagram halfway down one page showed a cross-section of a spearhead, its inner lines glowing faintly blue, annotated with delicate script: Mana channels must mirror the smith’s personal flow.
Vaelira’s gaze flicked to it briefly.
She exhaled, wiped her forehead with her sleeve, and pulled the newly-heated piece from the fire.
The tongs trembled slightly in her grip.
She set it back on the anvil and resumed hammering.
This time, she struck in rhythm with her breathing, just as the book described.
With every blow, she whispered a quiet count to herself, one, two, three, breathe, one, two, three, breathe.
It helped her focus.
It helped her pretend she wasn’t on the verge of breaking down.
The metal resisted, as if mocking her effort.
Clang.
She struck again.
Clang.
Her arms ached, the muscles burning.
Clang.
Her vision blurred from the sweat trickling down her face.
The iron hissed furiously as she plunged it into the quenching trough, the water bursting into a cloud of steam that glowed orange in the forge’s firelight.
The air shimmered, alive with heat and magic, and the steam sang sharply in her ears, each note a sting against skin the visor didn’t shield.
The water bubbled like molten glass, runes faintly flickering beneath its surface, but she didn’t stop.
Her grip stayed firm, her breath steady, as if the pain itself was just another test of the metal’s temper, and her own.
The cycle repeated, hammer, heat, hammer, quench, over and over until time lost its meaning.
At last, she lifted the finished spearhead with trembling hands.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.
The shape was clean, the lines balanced.
The surface caught the faint orange glow of the forge and reflected it like a dying star.
Vaelira set the hammer aside and stripped off her gloves.
Her hands were red, raw, and trembling, her palms lined with faint bruises and callouses.
She took a deep breath.
“Alright…”
She murmured under her breath, voice hoarse.
“One more step.”
She held the cooling spearhead in both palms and closed her eyes.
Just like the book instructed, breathe in, let the mana flow.
Picture the current.
Let it leave the heart, move through the veins, down the arms, through the fingertips.
Let it infuse, not overwhelm.
Slowly, she felt it: the familiar warmth spreading from her chest, a subtle hum rising beneath her skin.
Her mana began to pour outward; invisible, gentle, alive.
The spearhead vibrated faintly in her palms.
She smiled, barely, hesitantly.
‘Maybe this time-’
The vibration intensified.
Her eyes snapped open.
The metal was shuddering violently, the metallic sheen being overtaken by a layer of slick black.
“No, no- stop-!”
She tried to cut off the mana flow, to pull back, to let go.
But before she could move, the spearhead exploded.
A deafening crack split the air.
Fragments of metal flew in every direction, clattering against walls and tools.
One piece zipped past her face, slicing across her cheek before embedding into the far wall with a dull thunk.
The ringing silence that followed was absolute.
Vaelira stood frozen, breath ragged, heart hammering.
Slowly, she raised a hand to her cheek.
Her glove came away streaked with blood.
For a moment, she just stared at it.
Then her gaze drifted to the floor, to the shattered remains of yet another failure.
Her throat tightened.
The tears came quietly, at first, a thin shimmer that blurred her vision, then heavier, until they rolled freely down her soot-streaked face.
Around her, the forge crackled softly.
Her spearheads, all broken, all useless, lay like a field of graves around her table.
“I can’t even…”
She whispered under her breath, voice cracking.
“…get one right.”
The frustration hit her like a hammer-blow.
She slammed her fist down on the table, the sound reverberating through the empty workshop.
The tools rattled, a few pieces of scrap metal falling to the floor with dull clinks.
Her hand throbbed in pain, but she didn’t care.
For a long moment, she just stood there, shoulders shaking, breath unsteady, before she turned toward her satchel, wiping at her face with the back of her wrist.
From one of the side pockets, she pulled out a small paper pouch.
Inside were the familiar purple candies, the same kind Balt had been given in his lecture earlier that day.
She stared at them for a second, her reflection faintly visible in their glossy surface.
Then she tore the pouch open.
She popped two into her mouth, biting down hard.
The sharp flavour filled her senses, herbal and ozone and something faintly floral, cutting through the metallic taste of the air.
She exhaled shakily, feeling the faint rush of focus return, that strange clarity pushing the exhaustion down just far enough to let her move again.
Her tears hadn’t even dried before she was slipping her gloves back on.
She tied the face shield tighter against her cheeks, ignoring the sting from the cut.
The air behind the glass fogged briefly with each exhale.
Then she turned back to the forge.
The embers inside had dimmed, but she fed more fuel into it, coaxing the flame to life again.
The glow reflected in her eyes, tired, red, and determined.
She set another ingot on the anvil.
Lifted the hammer.
And began again.
Clang.
The sound rang out through the empty forge, echoing down the long, silent halls of the workshop.
Even as her shoulders ached.
Even as her hands trembled.
Even as tears streaked her soot-darkened face beneath the visor, cutting pale lines through grime and ash, she kept hammering.
Each strike rang through her arms and shoulders, jarring her bones, sending fresh tremors through muscles already pushed past exhaustion. The visor fogged with every ragged breath, vision blurring, but she wiped at nothing and swung again anyway.
Her hands shook. Her grip slipped and tightened in uneven rhythms. Pain flared, sharp and insistent, then dulled into something constant and heavy.
She tasted smoke and salt and metal, couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
She didn’t look up.
She didn’t pause to check her work or count the blows.
The motion had become a mantra, a narrow path she followed one strike at a time.
Because stopping wasn’t an option.
Not now. Not when everything depended on momentum, on refusing the moment where doubt could catch up and drag her under.
Not until it worked.
Not until she proved she could do it.
