Page 57 of Crownless Heirs

For the next hour, Goibniu drilled the two men relentlessly. Every sluggish stance, every movement, and every failed parry was met with a scathing critique. Kyron fought with brutal reckless aggression. Maelan relied too heavily on flashy, overly confident maneuvers.

Sorcha blocked out their grunts of pain, turning her back to the training floor to focus entirely on her anvil. The steady, hypnotic rhythm of her hammer meeting glowing metal drowned out the rest of the world. She had failed more times than she could count. Her muscles screamed, a deep and heavy exhaustion threatened to slow her arms, but she refused to let the hammer drop.

Finally, with one heavy blow, the metal yielded. The blade took its true shape beneath her hands, the raw steel gleaming orange in the forge’s glow. Her breath caught in her throat as she lifted it using the heavy iron tongs, turning it over to inspect her work. It wasn’t perfect, the edges were slightly uneven, and the spine bore the messy marks of her strikes but it was hers.

Pride swelled her chest. She turned toward Goibniu holding the blade out for inspection. The God paused his instruction, stepping away from Kyron and Maelan. His calloused fingers curled directly around the hot hilt as he hoisted it into the light, remaining silent for a long, agonizing moment.

“Good,” he said simply, his voice echoing off the cavern walls. “Now, you’re ready to make a real weapon.”

Sorcha’s brow furrowed. She looked between the smith and her hard work in utter confusion. “This isn’t one?”

Without answering, Goibniu muttered a low incantation in a language older than the mountain itself. The forge rumbled in response as orange flames violently recoiled before erupting into a blue so deep, so fiercely alive, that nothing on Eadartha could compare to it. The cobalt fire surged toward the stone ceiling, casting distorted, unearthly shadows across the chamber.

Goibniu stepped aside, gesturing toward a heavy stone table laid out with an array of glistening minerals and metals. Each piece hummed with a faint, musical vibration.

“Choose,” he commanded.

Sorcha stepped forward, her fingers hovering just an inch above the shimmering materials as Goibniu explained their virtues.

“Amber. The sun’s gift. A shield against harm, a beacon of healing and protection.”

“Jade. For balance, wisdom, and harmony. The choice of a leader who sees far beyond the battlefield.”

“Clear Quartz. A stone of absolute clarity. It amplifies, sharpens, and makes the unseen known.”

“Carnelian. Courage, fire, and raw creativity. The heartbeat of true warriors.”

“Citrine. Fortune’s blessing. The very prosperity of the gods rests within its crystalline veins.”

“Silver. Sacred. Moonlit power, woven tightly with divine energy.”

Each material whispered to her, a pull straight to her soul. Goibniu watched her carefully. “A warrior’s weapon is far more than just folded steel, It is a reflection of who they are.”

Sorcha’s fingers trembled. The blue forge glowed brighter, the heat prickling against her skin. Her eyes drifted over the carefully arranged elements. She reached forward, her skin brushing the smooth, freezing surface of the silver first. It felt balanced, carrying a quiet, dangerous power. Next, she lifted the raw chunk of amber, and finally the carnelian its crimson stone shining brightly.

“Amber, silver, and carnelian.” He nodded, stepping closer to inspect the trio. “The sun’s gift, the moon’s strength, and the fire’s heart. A reflection of who you’ve become.”

Goibniu gestured to the anvil. “Now, let’s forge it.”

She placed the chosen materials directly into the blue flames, watching in awe as the enchanted heat licked at the silver and amber, fusing them together in a vibrant, molten dance. Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead as she worked tirelessly, pouring every ounce of her remaining strength into the hammer, bending the magic to her will.

Hours melted away into the rhythmic song of steel meeting steel. When she finally finished, she placed the blade in the stone bath, a violent cloud of steam hissed into the air.

It was a scimitar, its sweeping, curved edge catching the blue firelight. The silver and amber ran down the length of the blade like the intertwined threads of fate itself. It was sleek, perfectly weighted, and thrumming with an electric current of power.

She presented it to Goibniu. The God reached out, his massive hand wrapping around the hilt and lifting it with a casual ease that made her hours of labor look effortless. He ran a thick thumb over the pristine edge, testing the balance and craftsmanship.

“Now,” he smirked, a dangerous glint in his eye, “you have a true weapon.”

Before Sorcha could process the praise, Goibniu turned back to the forge, his hands moving over the ancient runes carved into the stone hearth as he chanted a quiet blessing.

The scimitar in Sorcha’s hands suddenly shivered violently. The carnelian stones along the hilt ignited, burning with a brilliant, blinding crimson light. A sudden pulse of raw energy surged out of the grip, racing up her arms like liquid lightning. Instinct overrode her exhaustion. She gripped the hilt with both hands, dropping into a low, defensive stance just as the tip of the scimitar unleashed a brilliant ribbon of golden light. It unfurled across the room like a whip of pure, concentrated sunlight.

“Get down!” Kyron yelled.

He and Maelan violently threw themselves to the ground, their shoulders colliding as the glowing arc of solar energy hissed mere inches over their heads. Loose iron tools clattered across the floor. A violent wave of dry heat rippled through the chamber, singeing the air.

Only Goibniu remained completely unmoved. The tail end of the golden arc struck his bare forearm, leaving a searing, glowing brand across his bronzed skin, only for the flesh to knit back together instantly.