And calmer.
Andthere.
I remove my hand from the fire, placing the pile of scales carefully onto the flat part of the rock, my hammer already in my left hand.
I don’t wait. I can’t allow the scales to cool.
But I will not force them, either. I will respect their structure and allow them to be what they wish to be.
I give them the lightest tap. The contact rings out clear across the clearing, a soft, mesmerizing chime.
Clang!
My power flows through my hammer like a newly released stream. Golden light spills through the scales, filling every tiny crack between them.
With the next hit, the scales compress, the energy from my heart streaming down through my arm, through my hammer, and into the scales.
And now the work begins.
For the next hour, I beat the scales with my hammer and fold them with my hands, beating and folding, over and over. At intervals, I plunge my hands into the fire to reheat the scales before I start all over again, beating and folding, pouring my power into the scales, making them mine.
I work to a rhythm of my own making, molding the scales into one whole piece that I fill with all the parts of me, strong and flawed. My medallion will not be perfect, but it will be true.
The perfect conduit.
I expect the process to take days, but within the hour, the scales are no longer scales.
They are gold.
I lift my hammer, intending to beat the metal one last time, but I stop.
Wisdom is knowing when something should not be entirely mine. There is still a thread of the dragons’ natures in this metal.
It’s the finest possible thread, nearly invisible, practically imperceptible, but I don’t want to beat it out.
It’s the same thread that has given me purpose and kept me alive: a sense of family.
I lower my hammer as a hush settles around me.
The dragons have remained quiet, and now they hunch low to the ground, their focus on me becoming even more intense.
Now, I must claim the medallion as my own.
The final clangs echo in my ears, a melody that washes away in the wind, whipped out to sea.
The golden band I’ve created is wider than any other medallion. It will cover more of my palm.
Lowering my hammer to the ground and leaving it there, I lift my left hand, hovering it over the medallion for a moment.
You belong to me.
My power is mine.
I press my palm down onto the golden band. The metal I’ve created responds instantly to my touch, wrapping itself around my palm, fitting itself to my skin, and sealing across the back of my hand.
I inhale and exhale, breathing through the moment, letting my power settle, taking in the ebb and flow of it and the way it changes how the world appears to me.
First, the wide expanse of water, countless droplets churning with energy, then the makeshift anvil itself, all its striations and grooves, and its ability to take the force of my hammer and carry the heat of the eternal flame without breaking.
