He couldn't let this go—he needed a weapon.
"Sir Baldrek, surely we can come to an agree—"
"Listen, kid." Baldrek cut him off, his voice laced with irritation.
"You're not the first to come begging for a blade. Even that thick-headed king showed up once, but his whelp couldn't even swing a sword."
Lindarion and Seraphine exchanged glances, both raising an eyebrow at the unexpected information.
"Baldrek, don't be so—" Seraphine started, but Lindarion interrupted before she could finish.
"What if I can wield a sword?"
The entire forge fell silent. The rhythmic hammering stopped, and every pair of eyes locked onto him as if trying to burn a hole through his skull.
Baldrek let out a short laugh before turning back to his unfinished blade. But Lindarion wasn't going to let him dismiss him so easily. He stepped forward, his voice ringing through the quiet workshop.
'What is he thinking? He's never even held a sword…'
Seraphine's thoughts were written all over her face, her expression a mess of disbelief and frustration. She struggled to maintain her usual composed and cold demeanor.
A murmur rippled through the workshop. Some dwarves smirked, others chuckled, but the majority watched with wary interest.
Baldrek stayed motionless for a moment, then slowly turned to face Lindarion, his sharp gaze drilling into him.
"You'll prove it?" He repeated with a chuckle, crossing his thick arms.
"And how exactly do you plan to do that, kid?"
Lindarion didn't hesitate. His eyes flicked to a training sword resting on a workbench beside one of the dwarf apprentices.
Without waiting for permission, he strode over and grabbed the weapon. A longsword. Some of the dwarves sneered, but their expressions shifted the moment he took his stance.
As his fingers wrapped around the hilt, his muscles remembered—his instincts returned. Years of experience, of training from long ago, flooded back into his body.
He took a deep breath and executed a clean arc through the air, followed by a precise thrust.
The steel hummed as it cut through the space before him. A few dwarves let out approving hums.
'This… this is what I was missing.'
A rush of emotion surged through him. His eyes gleamed with excitement. It felt right. It felt like home.
Seraphine, on the other hand, looked like she had seen a ghost. Her wide eyes, her raised brows—her entire face had paled.
Baldrek snorted loudly.
"Not bad, but that doesn't make you a swordsman, boy."
He gestured to one of his apprentices, who stepped forward with a heavy training blade, a broadsword meant for power over finesse.
"If you really want to prove yourself, fight him."
Seraphine stiffened, ready to intervene at any moment.
Lindarion exhaled slowly, focusing his mind. His grip tightened around the sword.
The dwarf charged first—fast, powerful, just as expected from a battle-hardened smith.
Lindarion stepped back, barely dodging his strike.
Then, his instincts took over.
In an instant, he vanished from sight, reappearing behind his opponent like a shadow. Before the dwarf could react, his blade was at the apprentice's neck—stopped just a hair's breadth away.
Seraphine's face was frozen in pure shock.
Every dwarf in the forge gawked, mouths agape.
A slow grin spread across the dwarf's face. He let out a deep, hearty laugh, elbowing Seraphine, who still hadn't recovered from what she had just witnessed.
"Well, the kid's not completely useless."
Laughter erupted throughout the forge—not mocking but impressed. The air had shifted.
They no longer saw Lindarion as just some noble brat.
Baldrek sized him up one more time, his gaze thoughtful.
'What's he planning?'
Finally, Baldrek let out a long sigh.
"Alright, Prince. Let's see what kind of blade you deserve."
Seraphine stood beside Lindarion, still stunned into silence. She was trying to mask her reaction, forcing herself back into that cold, unreadable expression.
Baldrek turned abruptly and strode toward the depths of the workshop.
They followed him deeper into the forge, where the air grew thick and blistering hot.
The steady rhythm of hammer strikes gradually faded until there was nothing but the crackling of flames.
At last, they reached a massive iron door. Baldrek pulled a heavy key from his belt and, with a single firm motion, unlocked the door.
The metal groaned as it swung open.
'Amazing… It's hot as hell, though.'
Inside lay a private smithy, far more refined and organized than the outer one. The walls were adorned with masterwork weapons—exquisite blades, reinforced armor, and rare weapons, unlike anything Lindarion had ever seen.
The room carried an air of reverence as if every weapon here had a history, a soul forged in its steel.
Baldrek folded his arms and met Lindarion's gaze.
"Well, boy, if you're so determined to prove yourself, it's time you wield a blade that's worthy of you."
Seraphine remained silent, but Lindarion could feel her watching him, studying him.
'Is she trying to read my thoughts?'
His pulse pounded—not with nerves, but with something deeper. Anticipation. Excitement. The pure, unfiltered thrill of knowing that soon, he would wield a dwarven masterpiece. That soon, he would be able to wield a sword yet again.
Baldrek exhaled loudly, his gaze never leaving Lindarion's.
"A real sword isn't simply chosen, boy. A true weapon is forged for its wielder. But before I begin, I need to know—what do you seek in a blade?"
His words carried weight, pressing against the air between them. This wasn't just about steel and fire. He was asking about Lindarion. His intent. His purpose.
'What kind of blade do I seek…?'
Lindarion clenched his fists, scanning the weapons displayed around the room.
Finally, he took a breath and spoke.
"I need a sword that moves with me."
The words came slowly at first, but then they gained strength, his thoughts solidifying as he voiced them.
"Something fast. Precise. A weapon that strikes before my enemy even realizes I've drawn it."
Seraphine raised an eyebrow, visibly surprised by the certainty in his voice.
Baldrek, on the other hand, smirked. His thick brows lifted slightly, and amusement tugged at the corners of his lips.
"A duelist's blade, then. A weapon built for speed and finesse, not brute strength."
"Yes," Lindarion said without hesitation. "Exactly."
Baldrek grunted in approval and turned away, making his way toward a massive stone chest reinforced with thick iron bands.
With a grunt, he grabbed the lid and swung it open.
Inside, rare ingots lay stacked in neat rows—some as black as the void itself, others veined with gold and silver. A few pulsed with an eerie, faintly glowing blue light.
Seraphine's sharp gaze flickered with recognition, an unusual reaction from her.
"Eldersilver," she murmured under her breath, nearly inaudible.
"Aye, that and much more. These metals aren't tamed by ordinary smiths. Only the heart of a mountain and the hands of a master can shape them into something worthy of a warrior."
He reached in and pulled out a small, shimmering ingot, no larger than his palm. Its surface rippled like liquid mercury, shifting between silver and deep violet.
"Voidsteel," he said, his voice quieter, more measured.
For a brief second, Seraphine's expression faltered—just a flicker of something unreadable before she schooled her face back to indifference.
"This metal is light as a feather, harder than any mortal steel, and bends to mana like nothing else."
The moment Lindarion laid eyes on it, something stirred in his chest. A pull. A whisper. As if the metal itself was calling to him.
Baldrek noticed his reaction and let out a deep laugh.
"Hah. Seems we've found our core material, boy."
'For once, we agree.'
He tossed the ingot into the air, then caught it with practiced ease, and turned toward the forge.
"Well then," he said, rolling up his sleeves in a single, fluid motion.
"Let's forge you a blade, brat."