Online: Eiodolon Realms – Child of Ruin-Chapter 43 - 42 – The Flame and the Iron

The forge roared back to life with the familiar bellows of heat and breath. Eron stood at its edge, sleeves rolled up, soot already smeared across his cheek, and a thin film of sweat forming on his brow. Today would not be an easy day—but he didn’t want it to be. Not anymore.

The old man grunted from behind the anvil, his heavy boots scraping the stone floor as he stepped closer.

"You’re early," he said, not unkindly but not kindly either. "Don’t tell me you actually slept last night?"

Eron cracked a sheepish grin. "A few hours. Maybe." 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

"Hmph. Sleep’s a luxury for those who aren’t lazy, anyways." The old man tossed a pair of thick gloves to him. "You want to make something real today? Something that doesn’t look like a lump of burnt cabbage?"

"Yes," Eron said firmly, slipping the gloves on.

"Then shut up, listen, and don’t die."

He turned to the bench, where a pile of materials had been laid out—refined iron ingots, some tempered leather strips, buckles, and a curved mold. Eron’s eyes widened. This wasn’t like anything he had touched before.

"We’re making a vambrace," the old man explained. "Forearm armor. It is quite simple in theory but can become a complete nightmare if you don’t understand heat distribution and shaping."

Eron nodded quickly.

The old man lit the forge higher, metal glowing with that dangerous, molten orange. "Iron’s a stubborn beast. If you strike it too cold, it’ll crack. Too hot, it’ll flow like porridge and lose structure. You don’t just hammer the metaal, you talk to it. Listen to it. Respect it."

He picked up a bar of iron and plunged it into the heart of the flame.

Eron watched every movement. The old man’s arms moved with an ease that seemed impossible, each strike of the hammer echoing like a metronome through the forge. Sparks danced around him like fireflies, but he never flinched. He twisted the metal expertly, shaping it into a curved plate with smooth edges, then quenched it with a hiss in the oil bath.

"Your turn," the old man said, tossing another bar of iron toward him.

Eron caught it, hands already trembling.

For the next hour, the only sound was the roar of the flame and the music of hammers. Eron’s first few strikes were off—too shallow, or crooked. The old man didn’t miss a thing.

"Too cold. You’re bruising it, not shaping it."

"Wrong angle. Tilt the tongs higher."

"Are you hammering or dancing with it?"

Eron grit his teeth and kept going. He reheated the bar. He adjusted his grip. He measured the curve against the mold. His hands were blistered, his back ached, and every muscle screamed at him to rest.

But the fire in his chest burned hotter.

Finally, after what felt like hours, he had something that looked like a vambrace. It wasn’t beautiful—but it was curved, sealed at the right edges, and the straps could hold. He looked up, breathless.

The old man gave it a long stare, then ran his fingers over the inner ridge. He didn’t smile—but he didn’t sneer either.

"Better," he grunted. "Still sloppy in the joint. The edge could split under stress. But it’s... workable."

Eron felt a flutter in his chest.

"Really?"

"Don’t get cocky," the old man snapped. "One good piece doesn’t mean you’ve made it. But... I’ve seen worse from smiths ten years in."

The silence that followed was warm, like an ember smoldering.

For the rest of the morning, the lesson continued—polishing, tempering, checking flex points. The old man scolded him when he rushed, corrected him when he was sloppy, but every once in a while, he said something like:

"There. That strike was clean."

or

"See? Your fingers are finally learning."

Eron barely noticed how much time had passed. He was so focused on the work, the flame, the shape of the metal. The sound of the forge felt like a rhythm he was born to follow.

But as the afternoon light streamed into the forge through the warped window, Eron’s gaze drifted—just for a moment, towards the road leading to the old man’s house.

That door.

It was thick, reinforced, oddly out of place for a smith living alone. A strange energy lingered around it. The old man’s mood changed anytime Eron talked about it.

Eron swallowed. The old man caught the glance and let out a low growl.

"Focus, boy. That door’s not your concern."

"I wasn’t—"

"You were. I saw you looking."

Eron turned back to the forge. "I was just wondering what kind of hammers you keep up there."

The old man snorted. "Try again, liar."

But he didn’t press further.

As evening settled, the forge cooled, and Eron finally sat, arms sore and clothes soaked in sweat. He looked at his finished vambrace, the leather straps fitted, the curve proper, the metal gleaming from the oil.

He had made this.

"I didn’t think I’d ever get this far," Eron admitted softly.

The old man looked at him for a long time before answering.

"You’re not there yet. But you’re walking."

"Thank you."

"Don’t thank me. I haven’t decided if you’re worth it."

Eron smirked. "Sure, old man."

The old man grunted and turned to clean the tools. But there was no venom in his voice now—just tiredness. Or perhaps... reflection.

As Eron packed his vambrace into a cloth bag and prepared to leave, he hesitated again near the stairs.

"Can I ask one question?"

"No."

"It’s not about the door."

The old man narrowed his eyes.

"Why do you teach me? Really?"

There was a long silence. The old man walked to the forge, doused the flames, and stared into the cooling coals.

"Because I hate waste. You have a desire in your eyes but you are not using that desire. You have that desire but still have soft eyes. That means you haven’t seen enough yet. But you will. Might as well learn to build before the world teaches you how to burn."

Eron nodded slowly.

He stepped outside into the cool dusk of the false world, the sky painted with gold and purple.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring—but for the first time in a long while, he knew exactly where he was going.

And he wasn’t going to stop walking.