Online: Eiodolon Realms – Child of Ruin-Chapter 47 - 46 – The First Crack in the Lock

The sound of hammers, the hiss of quenching water, and the smell of hot metal had become Eron’s everyday reality. Days in the forge blurred together — a haze of sweat, soot, and the old man’s endless scolding.

And yet, for all the repetitive work, there was a spark in him that had nothing to do with crafting. It was the door.

That damn door.

It sat tucked away at the far end of the old man’s private quarters, solid oak bound with blackened iron, the kind of thing that looked like it would take a siege ram to break down. Every time Eron had seen it — whether in a quick glance or from the corner of his eye — there had been that faint, almost imperceptible gleam of secrecy about it.

It wasn’t just locked. It was sealed.

But now... now Eron thought he finally understood.

The realization had come to him late the previous night, when he had been lying in his cot in the cramped apprentice’s room, staring at the cracked ceiling and thinking about every little detail of the door he could recall. He’d been turning over the problem like a puzzle box in his mind when it clicked — literally.

It wasn’t a normal lock at all.

The door had no visible keyhole on the outside. That much he knew. But there was a circular indent on the right-hand panel, about waist height, etched faintly with runes he’d only half-noticed before. In the forge earlier that day, the old man had used a strange medallion to activate a runic press on the far wall — the same style of carving. That had to be it.

The "key" wasn’t a key at all. It was an activation token.

And the old man kept it with him at all times.

Eron almost laughed in the dark when the idea hit him. He could open the door — not now, but soon. All he had to do was get his hands on that medallion long enough to use it.

The hard part, of course, was figuring out how to do that without being caught and having his head caved in by a blacksmith hammer.

He’d spent the entire morning pretending to be absorbed in polishing a set of half-finished greaves, but in reality, his eyes kept drifting toward the old man’s neck — because that was where the medallion hung, tucked under his leather apron. Every so often, the chain glinted in the forge light when the old man moved just right.

If Eron could get him to set it down even once...

"Boy, I always knew that you are an idiot but are you deaf and blind too?"

Eron jerked, realizing the old man was glaring at him from across the forge. A glowing piece of steel rested on the anvil in front of him, cooling too quickly while Eron stood there daydreaming.

"By the gods, you’d ruin a perfect blade faster than you ruin my patience. Hit it now, lad. Before it turns into scrap."

Eron cursed under his breath and brought the hammer down, trying to hide the way his heart was still pounding with the rush of discovery.

The hours dragged. The old man was in a foul mood or maybe just his usual mood and he continued to bark orders until Eron’s ears rang. They worked on reinforcing the spine of a heavy longsword, a commission for some adventurer who apparently wanted it to be able to smash through wooden shields without chipping.

By midday, the workshop was sweltering. Sweat dripped from Eron’s brow as he hammered, his arms aching from the repetitive motion. He stole glances at the medallion every chance he got, noting when the old man fiddled with it absently, or when it swung free for just a second before disappearing back beneath his apron.

He started making a mental map of opportunities — times when the old man removed his apron, places he set his tools down, moments when his focus was elsewhere. If Eron was going to pull this off, it would require precision.

But not today. No, today was about preparation.

The forge work went on until the sun dipped low, painting the workshop in deep gold and shadow. Finally, the old man grunted, "That’s enough for today. Clean the tools and get out of my sight."

Eron obeyed, wiping sweat from his forehead with his soot-stained sleeve. As he scrubbed the hammer handles and organized the tongs on their rack, his mind was far from the forge.

He pictured the door again. The cool, dark hallway behind it. The smell of dust and maybe — just maybe — something older, something forbidden.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

That night, Eron didn’t sleep much. He lay awake again, eyes fixed on the faint moonlight spilling through the small window.

’I’m going to see what’s in there’ he promised himself.’ I don’t care what it takes.’

The next morning, he started observing more carefully.

He noticed that when the old man quenched certain metals in the far trough, he often had to bend low, leaving the medallion visible for longer. He noticed that when visitors came, like a merchant, a guard from the city watch, the old man tended to remove his apron to look more "presentable," hanging it on the wall hook beside his desk.

That... could be a window of opportunity.

Still, barging in recklessly would be stupid. If the old man caught him, it wouldn’t just mean getting thrown out. Eron was almost sure the old man would never let him step foot in the forge again.

No. He had to be patient.

So he kept his head down, working through the day. They shaped horseshoes in the morning — boring, repetitive work, but it kept the old man quiet for once. In the afternoon, they moved on to a more complicated project: a war pick, light enough for quick strikes but strong enough to puncture plate.

"Not like that, boy!" the old man barked when Eron tried to taper the spike too quickly. "You’ll weaken the whole piece! Steady heat, steady strikes. Let the metal tell you where it wants to go!"

Eron muttered an apology and adjusted his rhythm.

The old man sighed, rubbing his temple. "Hells, you’ve got stubborn hands. But I’ve seen worse. Keep at it."

That almost counted as a compliment.

By the time they wrapped up, the war pick was only halfway done. The old man grunted something about finishing it tomorrow and sent Eron on his way.

But Eron lingered near the workshop door for a moment, pretending to adjust his boot. His eyes flicked toward the private quarters. The medallion was still there, resting against the old man’s chest as he moved around inside.

Soon, he thought. Very soon.

That night, he began planning in earnest. He’d wait for a day when the old man had visitors — maybe a merchant with a delivery. He’d offer to carry something heavy inside, slip into the quarters for just a moment, and...

His pulse quickened.

He didn’t even know what he expected to find. Gold? Rare materials? Some forbidden weapon? Or maybe — and this was the possibility that kept gnawing at him — something deeply personal, something that explained why the old man guarded it so fiercely.

Whatever it was, he was going to see it with his own eyes.

For now, though, he forced himself to be patient. The old man was sharp enough to sense if something was off, and Eron wasn’t about to tip his hand too early.

Instead, he worked, he learned, and he watched — waiting for the moment when the lock would finally give way.