*clang... *clang... *clang...
The sharp smell of iron filled the air around Hector, thick and heavy. Sparks flew in every direction, and clouds of smoke curled and drifted like mist. He coughed, raising an arm to cover his mouth as his eyes stung from the dust and fumes.
The air was suffocating—hot, choking, and nearly blinding—but, he pushed forward, step by step, until he reached the heart of the forge.
*Clang! *Clang! *Clang!
The sound of metal striking metal echoed like thunder, ringing through the chamber Hector was in.
The fire roared inside the furnace, spitting more smoke into the air.
At the center of it all—stood a large, grey-haired man.
Despite his age, his frame was massive—his arms thick with muscle as he swung a heavy hammer again and again.
*Clang! *Clang! *Clang!
Each strike sent out a burst of sparks as he shaped an intricate blade, its glowing form slowly taking shape on the anvil.
Hector stood at the entrance, coughing again as the fumes burned his lungs. He cleared his throat and stepped forward.
"I was…" he paused, fighting another cough, "…I was told that I will be mentored by you, sir."
"Get out," the old man said flatly, not even sparing Hector a glance. "I'm here to mentor no one."
*Clang! *CLANG! *CLANG!
The ringing sound of metal striking metal echoed again through the forge, each hit louder than the last. Sparks danced in the thick smoke, and the air stayed heavy with heat and iron.
But Hector didn't back down.
He stepped forward and lifted his arms.
A bright green light spread across his skin, flowing through his veins like shimmering leaves caught in a breeze—dancing and shifting with quiet motion—yet alive with energy.
The old man paused mid-swing.
Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes narrowing at the sight.
"I was told to show you this," Hector said through a cough, "by Lady Merilyn herself."
The old man let out a low hum. "Mhm."
Without warning, he tossed the hammer he had been using straight at Hector.
Hector caught it on instinct, but nearly dropped it.
The weight was enormous. His arms trembled, and the handle almost fell from his hands. He looked up—confused.
"Hit it," the old man said, stepping aside and nodding at the steel still glowing on the anvil.
"Let's see if that eidra of yours—is the real one."
Hector didn't hesitate.
He gripped the hammer with both hands and stepped up to the steel.
Drawing a deep breath,
*HUP!
he raised the heavy tool above his head and brought it down with all his strength.
*BANG!!!
A loud bang echoed through the room—but the steel didn't change.
Not even a dent.
The old man let out a long sigh and rubbed his forehead with two fingers.
"Use your eidra, child," he said, his voice firmer this time. "The hammer means nothing without it."
Hector looked at the old man, then back at his own hands.
He took another breath and closed his eyes—reaching inward.
Slowly, his eidra returned—its green glow spreading through his arms like shimmering leaves caught in the wind.
The forge, which moments ago smelled of smoke and iron, now carried the fresh scent of leaves and earth.
It was like the forest itself had entered the room.
With a grunt, Hector lifted the hammer again.
His grip tightened.
This time, when he brought it down onto the steel, the sound that followed was not a harsh bang—
*CLANG!!!
but a clear, sharp clang that echoed across the walls.
It was clean.
Precise.
Alive.
The steel that Hector struck transformed before his eyes.
From the point of impact, thick roots slithered out like living snakes, wrapping themselves tightly around the metal.
Leaves began to sprout along the twisting wood, vibrant and green—Just like his eidra, until the entire steel bar looked more like a tree branch than a weapon.
*HAHAHAHAHAHA!
The old man let out a roaring laugh, slapping his knee with such force that sparks from the forge jumped slightly.
"There's no use hiding it, child!" he said, pointing the stem of his pipe at Hector.
"You're the son of the Green Knight—Bercilak himself!"
Hector's expression darkened. His brows furrowed, and his lips curled in disgust.
"That scum will never be my father," he muttered, his voice low and cold.
The old man simply chuckled and lit his pipe.
He took a long drag, then blew a thick stream of smoke into the air—watching it swirl toward the ceiling.
"You know," he began, the smirk never leaving his face, "your father and I… we had ourselves a bit of a rivalry."
He leaned on the worktable, his eyes gleaming with old memories.
"He was always pushing me. Always testing my metal, literally. Wanted to see if my crafts could hold up against beasts, blades, and things not meant to be striked upon."
He tapped the pipe gently against the table, ashes falling into a small container.
"And I'll be honest with you, kid. That bastard made me better."
"You knew him…?" Hector's eyes widened, his voice laced with disbelief.
"But of course," the old man said, almost casually.
"Most of his swords were crafted by these hands—until he fell into the wrong ones…" His voice trailed off, quiet and bitter—as if remembering something he wished he hadn't.
Hector scoffed, stepping forward, his expression hardening.
"I already know what happened. He abandoned me and my mother—left us behind like we were nothing. All for the sake of power."
His voice cracked slightly, but he held it in.
"Even in her final moments… my mother still thought of him. She believed he would come back. But he never did."
The old man didn't speak. Instead, he stared into the smoke curling from his pipe.
"And I…" Hector continued, his fists clenched at his sides, "I could never forgive him for that. Never."
A long silence followed, broken only by the gentle crackling of embers and the faint hum of forge fire behind them.
"Such is the pain of a child," the old man finally muttered, "left behind by someone who should've protected him."
He blew out a slow stream of smoke and pointed the tip of his pipe at Hector.
"Maybe it's your destiny to avenge your mother. Or maybe… to surpass your father."
He stepped forward, eyes locking with Hector's. The forge light made the lines on his face deeper and sterner.
"But before any of that—before revenge, before legacy—you must learn how to fight… and protect yourself. Everything else can come after."
The old man turned without another word, his heavy steps echoing through the forge as he crossed the smoke heavy room. He knelt beside an old iron-bound chest tucked in the corner, its surface layered with dirt and time.
With a grunt, he opened it, revealing something wrapped in roots and vines.
From within, he drew a sword—gleaming, wild, and alive.
The blade shimmered green, its surface shaped like a great thorn.
Roots curled around the hilt like a living hand, and tiny blossoms bloomed gently along its length.
Grass clung to the sheath as if it had grown from the very soil. It didn't belong in the forge.
It belonged in a forest, under sunlight and wind.
The old man turned and held it forward with both hands.
"This," he said, voice low with reverence, "is not just a weapon. It's a test. A burden. A truth."
He stepped closer, the firelight catching the gleam of the blade as he presented it to Hector.
"Come, child. I shall teach you how to fight," the old man said, his tone firm and resolute.
He moved toward the exit, stopping just short of the doorway.
His hand rested on the frame as he looked back over his shoulder.
"Just as I taught your father… when he was your age."