The forge door creaked open under Eon's hand, releasing a wave of heat that slapped against his face like a physical force. The air inside was thick with the acrid tang of molten metal and charcoal smoke, mingling with the sharp scent of sweat and oil. Flames roared in the central hearth, casting flickering orange glows across the stone walls and illuminating the intense atmosphere within.
Kaelen stood at the anvil, his muscular frame glistening with perspiration. He swung the adamantian hammer, its head gleaming with an otherworldly sheen.
Eon was impressed by Kaelen's focus on the hot iron. He was striking the iron with precise, thunderous strikes. Each blow sent sparks exploding like miniature fireworks, shaping a red-hot iron bar into something sharper, more purposeful. His breaths came in steady grunts; his dark hair, matted and covered, covered his entire forehead, leaving very little space for his eyes to see, but from the corner of its space Eon could see his eyes, which were burning with focus. The hammer, forged from a material said to be unbreakable, rang out with a clarity that cut through the din.
In the corner, Liam pedaled a grindstone Eon had improvised before, a foot-powered contraption with a wheel of coarse sandstone, belted to a wooden frame. The elf ground the edge of a dagger against it, the high-pitched whine of metal on stone added to the forge's symphony. Sparks were flickering from the blade, and Liam's face was set in concentration, his sleeves rolled up to reveal arms bulging from huge veins, which was very unlike the image Eon had in mind for an Elf. Hell, from the moment he came to this world, one after another, his previous biases broke like glass, and his imagination's horizon got very far. Nowadays nothing can faze him anymore. As if he had accepted the fact that nothing is impossible in this world.
A few other elves, faces Eon recognized but hadn't yet learned names for, huddled nearby, watching Liam intently. One, a lanky male with a faint limp, leaned in closer, murmuring questions. Another, a female with braided hair and calloused hands, nodded along, her eyes tracing the motion of the grindstone. They were learning. Seeing that he also got a sudden urge to do something.
Eon cleared his throat, and the activity of the room paused. Heads turned, hammers lowered.
"Gather round," he voice was soft, yet it carried over the dying echoes of the hammer. The elves complied, forming a loose semicircle around him. Kaelen wiped his brow with a rag, leaning on the anvil. Liam released the pedal; the grindstone whirred to a stop.
"We're short on time," Eon began, scanning their faces. "Hans left for Hyra County to negotiate with Hyra's merchant guild. But we don't know how that will work out. So we gotta be hopeful but also have to be prepared for the worst. That gives us today and tomorrow to prepare. Today: we will only make daggers and speartips only. Kaelen and I will be forging the blades. Liam, you handle sharpening and hilting. And the rest of you: assist with bellows, quenching, and assembly. Tomorrow, we'll move to swords and body-armors. No frills, just functional enough to fight."
Kaelen nodded, but his brow furrowed. "What about arrowheads? We're elves. Most of us have never fought any fight in our lives, much less use any swords. Bows are in our blood. Isn't it better to make bows, rather than make weapons we haven't used much?"
Eon shook his head. "Can any of you even draw a bow properly after all these years in chains? Be honest." Murmurs rippled through the group. All of their faces had clear signs of admissions of rustiness, stiff shoulders, forgotten techniques. So they didn't answer his question. Just silent.
"Exactly. No kidding, we need more practice time to polish those skills, but we have to be ready in two days for a mission. What will we do with just bows and arrows if things go wrong? It could turn very ugly. Fighting in close range becomes inevitable in these situations. So we focus on what everyone can use with minimal training: daggers for very close combat, spears for reach. And I guess swords need no explanation. We don't need experts; we just need survivors who can fend off threats while we rescue the other elves."
The word "rescue" ignited something in the air like a spark of fire. Everyone's eyes widened, postures straightened. One of the unfamiliar elves, a wiry female named Sera, spoke up. "You mean... our brethren? From the Denares cells?"
"Not just them, Sera, the others too," Eon confirmed. "I promised Verra. We're not leaving them to rot in those noble houses underground anymore. Just as we finish making these weapons, the first thing we do is going to be ride to the north, at the Denares estate and release the elves who are still in their basement."
A ripple of anticipation swept through the forge. Kaelen's hammer hand tightened, a fierce grin splitting his face. Liam set down the dagger in his hand with renewed purpose. The others started exchanging glances, their exhaustion melting into something electric, a hope, perhaps, or the thrill of something long lost reclaimed.
"Then let's get to it," Kaelen said, his voice booming. "For our kin."
They dispersed instantly with a renewed vigor, which was gone from them after Lereth's death. The forge became alive again but this time with a sharper edge.
Kaelen plunged a fresh bar into the flames. The other elves started pumping the bellows until it glowed cherry-red. Liam demonstrated the grindstone to the learners, showing the angle for a keen edge without weakening the blade. Hammers fell in unison, sparks flew all around the room, and the air filled with the satisfying clang of progress.
Seeing them work with such focus, Eon also joined in, taking a station at an unused anvil. He heated some iron and shaped it with measured strikes. Each of his blows was a step toward his next goal.
After some time, the heat was starting to bake into his skin, but the shared purpose of the elves in the room made it bearable somehow. For the first time in days, all of the elves in this forge room moved not just as survivors, but as a unit with a meaning.
The forge didn't go silent for a single heartbeat. They worked as men possessed; their movements were fueled by a feverish intensity that blurred the hours together. When the midday meal was brought to the door, the workers didn't even look up. To them, the roar of the hearth was more nourishing than bread, and the scent of ozone and hot iron felt more vital than water. They refused to stop, terrified that if the fire died for even a second, the momentum of their reclamation would die with it.
Eventually, Elsa and Teressa had to stage an intervention. The two women stepped into the sweltering heat of the forge; their faces immediately became slick with sweat.
"Enough!" Elsa's voice cut through the rhythmic clanging of hammers. She placed a firm hand on Eon's soot-stained arm. "If you don't eat now, you won't be able to lift a spoon tomorrow, let alone a sword. I get it, that you are building an army, but at this rate, you will make a graveyard of exhausted men."
Teressa stood beside her, arms crossed, her gaze softening as she looked at their hollowed eyes. "Take your lunch seriously. If you collapse from exhaustion, you're no use to your kins, whom you still have to rescue."
Reluctantly, the hammers lowered after hearing their reasoning. The "electric" hope that had filled the room earlier settled into a quiet, grim realization: they needed to survive the preparation if they were to survive the war.
"Sorry, we got too much into it. Hehe."Eon said as he wiped his forehead clean with the rag on his side.
They ate their lunch while Elsa and Teressa were sitting down in front of them. It was not much, just some 'Smoked Boar Meat, Hard-Crust Barley Bread, and Cold Ale'. It was just perfect for regaining the salt they lost through sweating. But someone was not happy with just this food. The nutrition was great, but Eon was craving rice so badly after coming to this world that he felt like he could kill just to eat a bowl of rice. His craving was getting so bad that he even dreamed of eating rice in his sleep nowadays. Something had to be done about it, and he felt it in his heart. Otherwise he would lose his mind.
After the meal, they once again fired up the forge and started hammering the blades.
Sweat dripped from Eon's brow as he quenched a spear tip in oil; the hiss and steam started rising like a sigh of relief. He glanced at the growing pile, dozens of daggers taking shape, speartips cooling on racks. It might not be an arsenal, but it would arm them enough for the next battles to come.
Meanwhile, in front of the mansion gate, in the sprawling soldier camp that ringed the mansion like a makeshift fortress, Captain Valen paced. Tents fluttered in the breeze, and the low murmur of bored men filled the air: dice games, sharpening swords, complaints about the mud. Valen ignored it all, his boots tracing a restless path from the camp's edge to the mansion's grand doors and back again.
He slipped inside the mansion for the third time that hour, peering down empty hallways, then darted out, scanning the grounds. His hand fidgeted at his belt, adjusting his sword hilt unnecessarily. A few soldiers shot him curious glances, but no one dared question their captain.
Alaric appeared then, descending the main stairs with Elora at his side. The girl was coming down by his side; her face was pale but determined, dressed in simple training leathers.
On the other hand, Alaric's expression was stern. He didn't look like a person who had a slave collar on his neck.
"Valen," Alaric said, his voice smooth but edged. "What are you doing? You've been hovering like a child waiting for sweets."
Valen straightened abruptly, his eyes flicking to Elora. He mumbled something incoherent, a jumble of "sir" and "waiting", before clearing his throat. "Just... waiting for you here, my lord. I was going to ask about the men. They're getting restless, cooped up like this. Nowhere to go, no taverns or markets nearby. Should we allow short leaves? Patrols, perhaps?"
Alaric's gaze narrowed on Valen. He could sense the lie, the way Valen's eyes darted, the forced casualness. Valen hadn't been waiting for him; that much was clear to him. But with Elora present, Alaric held his tongue on deeper suspicions. "Until I order otherwise, no one leaves this mansion's perimeter. We're here because I want you to be, not for sightseeing. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," Valen replied, saluting crisply. But his mind raced with thoughts Alaric had no idea of.
Alaric nodded curtly and guided Elora toward the rear doors, heading for the training grounds where the elves practiced swordplay. Elora glanced back at Valen curiously, but said nothing.
Once they were out of sight, a soldier approached. It was Grom, Valen's vice-captain; his sly grin was absent from his face for once. "Captain, I searched everywhere as you asked. The barracks, the supply wagons, even the stables. But couldn't find a clue for the thing you asked."
Valen's lips curled into a smirk, a glint flashing in his eyes like sunlight on steel. "No need. I found it." He paused, glancing toward the mansion's windows, where faint sounds of hammering echoes drifted from the forge. He said with a knowing, sly look on his face, "I understand everything now."
Grom raised a brow, wanting to hear what Valen meant by that, but Valen just clapped him on the shoulder and strode off, his fidgeting replaced by purposeful steps now. What is he up to? The question hung unspoken in Grom's mind.