(KBTCM) Ch 35: A Daunting Task, Sharpening Hundreds Of Swords

The roar of the royal forges was like thunder trapped in a hall of stone. The heat pressed against Kerren's skin, beads of sweat trailing down his temples as he followed closely behind Baric. Every hammer strike echoed through the cavernous space, each spark that flew off an anvil like a firefly dancing in molten air.

Kerren's eyes swept across the workers — men and women of all sizes, from broad-shouldered humans to burly dwarves and even a half-giant whose hammer was larger than Kerren's entire body. The rhythmic sound of their work was hypnotic. Metal clanged, fires hissed, and the smell of burning coal and hot steel filled the air.

They were good. Really good. Their movements were disciplined, efficient — a perfect flow between strength and precision. Kerren couldn't help but admire them, though his pride itched to prove he could stand among them.

Baric glanced over his shoulder, his white beard bouncing slightly with every step. "You see this, boy? This is what a forge looks like when every breath counts. We're not makin' toys here — every blade, every shield forged in this hall could mean a life saved or lost on the battlefield."

"I understand," Kerren said quietly.

Baric snorted, the sound deep and rough. "Oh, do you now, little pup?" He turned his head just enough for one bright blue eye to catch Kerren's gaze, a teasing smirk curling his lip. "Aye, every new lad says that before they've burned their hands a few times."

Kerren only smiled faintly. "Then I'll learn fast."

Baric gave a short, barking laugh. "Hah! That's what I like to hear."

Still, as they walked deeper into the forge, Baric found his eyes drifting back toward the boy more than once. There was something about him — something that didn't fit the mold. The way he carried himself, the steady rhythm in his stride, the power in his shoulders. Not the lanky, soft sort of strength that came from youth, but something denser. Solid. Like he'd been carved from the same kind of stone dwarves called home.

And then there was the way the princess had looked at him. Baric might have been old, but he wasn't blind. There was more to this arrangement than a simple royal favor.

Finally, they reached the back of the forge — quieter, cooler, tucked away behind the main smelting pits. Baric gestured toward a small, simple workstation. A modest anvil, a grindstone, a few scattered tools, and piles upon piles of dull, rusty swords stacked against the wall.

"This," Baric said, waving his arm like he was presenting a throne, "is where you'll earn your keep."

Kerren blinked. "All of these?"

"Aye," Baric said with a grin. "All of 'em. You've got until the end of the week to sharpen every single one. A thousand blades, give or take."

Kerren turned slowly, taking in the mountain of worn steel. Each sword bore the marks of war — nicks, dents, rust, and age. Some were half-snapped, others dulled to the point of uselessness.

"You want me to sharpen all of these... by myself?" Kerren asked.

"That's right," Baric replied, crossing his arms. "You said you wanted to be part of this forge, didn't ya? Then show me your resolve. We don't hand out spots here, boy — we earn 'em."

Kerren nodded, the weight of the task settling on him like the heat of the forge itself. "Understood."

Baric's grin widened. "Good lad. Don't disappoint me."

And with that, the dwarf turned away, his laughter rumbling like distant thunder as he walked back into the heart of the forge.

Kerren stood there for a long moment, staring at the wall of swords before him. He understood now why this area was set apart from the others. This wasn't just work — it was a test. Baric wasn't saying he was one of them. Not yet.

But he would be.

He took a steadying breath, rolled up his sleeves, and set to work.

⸻

Hours passed.

The rhythmic grind of steel against stone filled the back corner of the forge. Sparks flew in a steady stream as Kerren pushed another dull blade against the wheel. His hands were blackened with soot and oil, his shirt clinging to his skin from the relentless heat. But his movements stayed steady — smooth, precise, methodical.

He didn't stop.

Not when his arms began to ache.

Not when his eyes stung from the smoke.

Not when his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten since dawn.

He lost count after the first hundred swords.

⸻

Rowena's entrance was impossible to miss.

Even in the chaos of hammering and roaring flames, her presence sent a tremor through the floor. The ground shook gently beneath her boots, and the faint jingle of her golden earrings was swallowed by the low hum of the forge. The workers barely glanced up — most too disciplined to stop — but Kerren could feel the shift in the air before he even heard her voice.

She walked slowly, careful not to disrupt the rhythm of the smiths, though every step was an event in itself. Her towering frame glowed in the forge light, her long braid swaying like a crimson banner behind her.

Her blue eyes scanned the rows until she spotted him — a small figure working tirelessly in the far corner.

"Kerren," she said softly, her voice still somehow carrying through the noise.

He didn't look up right away. The grindstone kept spinning, sparks hissing in the air as he held the sword steady. Only when he was satisfied with the edge did he finally lift his gaze.

"Princess," he said, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. "You found me."

Rowena smiled faintly as she approached, kneeling beside his workstation. Her shadow fell over him completely, blocking out the forge light. To anyone else, it might've felt intimidating. But to Kerren, it was oddly comforting.

"Why is your station all the way back here?" she asked, frowning as her eyes drifted over the mountain of rusty swords. "This isn't what I had in mind when I invited you here."

Kerren chuckled softly. "Baric said I had to earn my place."

"By sharpening relics?" she asked, her voice rising slightly. "You deserve better than this." She began to rise, turning toward the main hall. "I'll speak to him. He can't—"

"Rowena."

Her steps halted immediately.

Kerren's tone was calm but firm — the kind of voice that left no room for pity. He looked up at her, meeting her gaze with steady eyes that gleamed faintly in the firelight.

"This is my task," he said simply. "And I intend to finish it."

For a heartbeat, Rowena said nothing. She just stared at him — at the conviction written across his sweat-streaked face, at the quiet confidence in his voice. Something fluttered deep in her chest, quick and unexpected.

She exhaled slowly. "You really are stubborn."

"Maybe," Kerren said with a tired grin. "But I'm not here to waste anyone's time."

Rowena's lips curved softly. "Very well. I'll hold you to that, Kerren."

She leaned closer, her voice a low whisper. "I'm rooting for you."

Kerren's grin grew. "Thanks."

As she straightened and turned to leave, Baric's voice boomed from across the forge.

"Don't coddle him, Princess! Let the lad work!"

Rowena laughed lightly, glancing back once more. Kerren was already back at his grindstone, sparks flying in a golden arc around him.

She smiled — quietly proud, quietly worried.

Something about him felt destined for more than just steel and flame.

And in that moment, neither of them noticed the faint shimmer of gold flickering across his skin.