3 - Whispers of the Blade

Our cabin squatted like a wounded beast among the hoop pines, its rough-hewn logs blackened with age and weather. Protection runes carved deep into the doorframe caught what little light filtered through the grey canopy above. Most villagers whispered prayers when they passed our threshold, muttering about witchcraft and darker times. Fools. They called it superstition, yet mother renewed those carvings each full moon for good reason. Forest beasts might keep to the depths, but wisdom demanded caution. What villagers dismissed as witchcraft, the magical world knew as sorcery.

The path to the village twisted through what locals called the Steps, where massive pine trunks rose like the pillars of some forgotten temple. Bark furrowed deep enough to hide a man's fist. Green moss clung thick to their northern faces, slick with morning dew that never seemed to dry. Old women claimed you could tell true north by the moss, but directions had a way of shifting in these woods when your mind wandered.

Damp soil squelched beneath my boots with each step. The air hung thick with pine resin and something sweeter, the white petals of snowdrop flowers that bloomed only in spring. They peeked through the underbrush like the eyes of shy spirits. My footsteps echoed too loudly in the stillness, breaking the forest's morning prayer.

I'd always found peace in this space between worlds. The solitude let thoughts settle like sediment in still water. But lately, those thoughts had grown claws.

The dreams would not leave me be. Vivid, brutal visions of armored men with faces twisted by rage and devotion. Blood-soaked battlefields that felt more real than the ground beneath my feet. And always her. Golden hair like summer wheat, eyes clear as mountain lakes. Valeria.

"Who in the gods' name are you, Valeria?" I muttered, ducking beneath a low branch that scraped against my forehead. The rough bark left a sting, but not as sharp as the questions that plagued me. She felt more real than anything I'd ever known. More real than this forest, this village, this cursed life.

The trees thinned as I approached the village fields. The change always jarred me, from wild growth to ordered rows of wheat that swayed like a golden sea. Above, clouds hung lower than they had any right to, pressing down like a grey woolen blanket. No rain should fall at this time of year, yet the air tasted of it.

"Smells like rain," I said to no one, studying the dark clouds that squatted over the village like carrion birds.

The sounds reached me before the sights. Farmers calling to one another, goats bleating, babies crying. Normal sounds that felt forced today, as if the village tried too hard to convince itself that all was well.

Mistwood wasn't much to look at. Just a cluster of timber and thatch huddled together like frightened sheep. The houses followed the old ways, wattle and daub walls under steep-pitched roofs that shed the northern rains. Smoke curled from clay chimneys, carrying the scent of breakfast fires and fresh bread. The paths between buildings were pressed soil mixed with straw, turning to mud at the first drop of rain.

Near the village heart stood the temple of Laethos, Lord of Light. Its peaked roof rose higher than the rest, crowned with a burning sun and cross. The walls bore hundreds of small marks, names carved by generations who'd lost family to the misfortunes that plagued peasants like us. Some were so old their memories had been forgotten, their sorrows buried with their makers.

The villagers moved through their morning routines like players in a well-worn performance. Women drew water from the moss-covered well, pausing in their gossip as I passed. Some touched their hearts and whispered prayers beneath their breath. Not in my praise, but for protection from me. They tried to hide it, but I knew the gesture well as my own shadow.

Mud clung to my boots with each step, accompanied by wet sucking sounds. Spring had lingered too long this year. The ground barely had time to harden with approaching summers before these strange rains turned everything to muck. Cart wheels had carved deep ruts, now filled with murky water that reflected the brooding sky.

Children played near the granary until they spotted me. Their laughter died like candle flames snuffed by wind. The brave ones stared openly, as children do. Others ducked behind barrels or doorways. One small girl, no more than six, met my gaze directly. Her brown eyes widened with fascination rather than fear.

"Mama says your eyes are cursed," she called out, her voice clear as temple bells. "Says they're the mark of the witch..."

"Lily!" A woman rushed forward, snatching the child back. "Beg pardon, Master Einar." She kept her eyes downcast. "Children's tongues run loose as spring rivers."

I forced what might have been a smile. "No harm done." The words tasted bitter, familiar as old scars. Hidden children peered from their hiding spots, their own eyes glinting in shadows. Browns and blacks and greys. Safe colors. Normal colors that drew no second glances.

The world was full of superstitions, especially in villages where old beliefs clung like moss to stone. They believed eyes told your fate, marked the deeds of past lives. Golden eyes belonged to those blessed by gods, marked for greatness like the High King and his heirs, descendants of Thimir the Divine. Orange eyes marked those destined for fame or infamy.

Red eyes? Red marked death. Souls stained dark in previous lives. A curse no one wanted near. Like the demons from old tales, who still sent shivers through brave men. The deep crimson that set me apart made me an outcast in my own village, where mothers clutched children closer and merchants counted coins twice when I passed.

My lips twisted into something bitter as I walked past the granary, whispers following like autumn leaves in my wake.

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Smoke announced the blacksmith's forge long before it came into view. The rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil, the hiss of hot metal meeting water, the acrid bite of coal smoke. Dusk Forge sat at the village edge, stone walls blackened by decades of fire and soot. A weathered sign bore a hammer crossed over an anvil, the painted letters beneath faded but still readable.

Heat rolled from the open doorway in waves, carrying sparks that danced like fireflies before dying in the damp air. Loth's massive frame filled the entrance, his hammer rising and falling in steady rhythm. Each strike sent cascades of sparks over his leather apron, light catching in his salt-and-pepper beard.

"Einar!" His voice boomed over the anvil's song. "Right on time, lad."

The forge's heat wrapped around me like a living thing as I stepped closer. Loth didn't flinch at my eyes, never had. He was past fifty with skin tanned dark from southern sun, marking him outsider in these northern reaches. His hair, streaked grey and black, fell to shoulders broad as axe handles. Deep black eyes and a beard reaching his chest gave him the look of dwarves from mother's tales, though his mountain frame was too tall for that blood.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"Looking forward to it, aye?" He gestured toward the sword lying across his anvil, wiping sweat from his brow.

"You know how long I've waited." My eyes fixed on the blade, a grin coming without thought.

"Been three weeks since you brought me your father's worn longsword. Took some doing, reforging metal that old. But she's ready now."

The cloth fell away like a discarded shroud.

Iron gleamed in the forge-light, polished to mirror brightness. The blade stretched longer than my arm, gracefully slim yet promising deadly purpose. Its surface caught the dancing flames and held them like captured lightning, each flicker and shadow playing across the steel in hypnotic patterns. The crossguard bore elven runes etched deep into the metal, their angular script marking this as something far beyond a peasant's crude tool.

But it was the pommel that stopped my breath cold. A dragon's head snarled in eternal silence, carved with such skill I expected it to snap at my fingers. Ruby eyes caught the forge-fire and held it like trapped blood, gleaming with inner light that seemed almost alive.

Like a ghost given flesh and steel, it matched perfectly the weapon that had haunted my dreams for months. The same blade that had carved through armored foes like hot knife cuts through butter.

"There she is." Pride filled his voice as he crossed arms over his broad chest. "Sweet as southern mead, yet strong and keen as winter's bite. Reforged just as ye wanted, though I couldn't resist improving the balance some. Handle's wrapped in black leather, worn smooth as a maiden's cheek. Should fit your grip perfectly."

I wrapped fingers around the leather grip. The moment flesh met hilt, something deep and bone-familiar washed through me. It felt right, like my arm had grown a new limb. I gave it a testing swing. The blade cut air with a quiet whistle, weight shifting smooth as silk.

Loth watched with narrowed eyes. "Ye look like ye've held swords before, lad. This ain't yer first, is it?"

Without thinking, my body shifted into a stance that had plagued my dreams for months. Knees bent, feet planted firm. I swung again, faster this time, feeling the blade move like liquid steel. Another swing, then another. Each one fluid, precise. Like I'd trained with this weapon for decades. But I hadn't. This was the first proper sword I'd ever held, save wooden practice blades and woodsman's axes.

Loth's expression darkened as he stepped back. "By the gods... where'd you learn that?"

I stopped mid-swing, the blade still humming in my grip. My heart hammered against ribs as I stared at my reflection in polished steel. "I don't know." The words came rough. "I've never..."

His black eyes studied me, suspicion clear as mountain air. "Never trained with swords, yet ye're swinging like yer life hangs on it. What's going on, lad?"

I swallowed hard, trying to shake the chill crawling up my spine. "Instinct, maybe."

Loth snorted. "Instinct my arse." He rubbed his beard, still eyeing me like I'd sprouted horns. "That wasn't instinct, boy. That was... something else. Like ye'd done it before."

I stared at the sword, fingers tight around leather wrapping. The face looking back from polished metal didn't feel like mine. It looked older, harder. Marked by battles I'd never fought, wearing scars I didn't remember earning.

Loth's voice softened some. "Why d'ye need a sword anyway? Axes, aye, but a blade like this?"

"The forest behind our cabin. I'll train there with Alira. She can only awaken by the lake."

"Ah, that place is... special. Good for her... condition. Magic runs in her veins like her mother."

"Yes. The lake may seem peaceful enough, but creatures lurk at the edges sometimes. Need something better than an axe for protection."

"On that, I agree." He nodded. "Why don't ye visit that woman of yers? Pick up some potions while ye're at it. We've got no proper healer in these parts, just old wives with their herb lore and prayers that barely heal."

"She's not my woman!" The words came sharp as a blade's edge.

Loth laughed, deep and rumbling. "Aye, for now."

"Thanks for the sword. Copper well spent." I started to turn when his hand clamped on my shoulder. His face had gone serious, fear creeping into those dark eyes.

"The iron I melted from your father's blade..." Loth's voice went rough as stone on steel. "Wasn't common metal to come by. Cold Iron, they called it in the old era. Don't know how Aeron came by such a thing, but ye'd best keep it close and safe. Old metals carry old powers."

"Cold Iron?" I frowned. "Mother never mentioned it. She taught us everything about survival, crafts, and magic. Even reading and writing like a noble’s child. But never about her past, or father's."

"Aye, and wise of her to keep silent. Only a handful in this village can read, fewer still who can write proper letters.” His voice hardened like quenched steel. "Yer mother kept ye from dark knowledge for good reason."

I drew breath and met his eyes. "Can you... tell me about it? I've heard it in old tales, but never thought it real. Never thought father would have such a thing... I can’t ask mother about it."

Loth studied me for long moments before sighing. "It’s real... and rare, lad. Rarer than gold in beggars' purses. May not hold the sharpest edge, but it's more durable than the finest steel. And most important of all...” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "It wounds those who'd make slaves of us all, back when the world was darker than it is now."

"Demons," I said low.

"Demons." He nodded grimly. "Old magic was the only thing that could kill them outright, but that power belonged to old bloodlines. For men like us, Cold Iron was the only metal that could cut them deep, leave scars that never heal properly." His eyes grew distant, lost in memories I couldn't share. "But there was one who was different. The iron didn't mark her the same way. The Witch..."

Fear crept into his voice like winter frost, and his grip on my shoulder turned painful.

"What about her?"

He blinked like a man waking from a nightmare. "Nothing. Said nothing at all."

"You mentioned the witch. What witch?"

"I said nothing!" His hand shot up to cut off my words, panic flashing in his eyes. "We don't speak of her. Not here, not anywhere. Some nightmares are better left being that... a nightmare."

"Why? What happened in the old times? What did she do?"

He flinched like I'd struck him, then gripped both my shoulders hard as iron bands. When he spoke, his voice had dropped to a growl that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.

"Listen well, lad, because I'll say this only once." His black eyes bored into mine with the intensity of forge-fire. "Some tales are better left buried with the bones that lived them. The dark times are done, finished, gone to dust and memory. She'd be dead by now, even if she were some ancient thing with years beyond counting." He shook his head like a dog throwing off water. "Some knowledge isn't meant to be carried forward. Yer mother understood that. She did right by ye, keeping such stories locked away."

He released me suddenly, stepping back as if I'd grown too hot to touch. His face hardened like metal quenched in cold water.

"Just don't get yourself killed in those cursed woods. That's for heroes and stories, not for peasants like us, who have a family to look after. Ye understand me?"

“I know.” I forced what I hoped looked like a smile. "I'm just a woodcutter, Loth. Nothing more."

He barked harsh laughter. "Aye, that you are." His eyes fixed on the sword. "Don't forget it, boy. Keep that blade close."

His hand clapped my back hard enough to stagger me. I nodded and moved toward the village center, though my mind caught between dream-fog and the strange pull of steel at my hip. Something inside had shifted, something I couldn't name.

But promises needed keeping. My little sister waited.