“You want to test the boy?” says Torm as you enter the smithy.

You note a trace of weariness in his voice and he is showing some hints of fatigue.

Trent nods.

“I’ve seen the boy’s work,” he says. “He learns fast and he has good control of the hammer.”

The smith pauses, his eyes noticing the unfinished dagger by the grindstone.

He turns to you, “Finish your dagger,” and then to Trent, “and bring me the others.”

He sits in one of the chairs, clearly tired from the forging and the walk to the quarry.

Trent brings him the three daggers you made earlier during the day as you start grinding the fourth.

Torm examines the daggers but soon puts them aside. He watches intently as you work on your last dagger, oftentimes frowning.

After some time, you finish your fourth dagger and bring it to the smith.

He takes the dagger, measuring its balance, checking its shape, and testing its edge.

“The last dagger is finely made,” he says, “maybe even at par with some of my apprentices in their first few weeks of work.”

“Your smithing talent is exceptional,” he continues, “but you will never be an exceptional smith.”

“Why?” asks Trent. “These daggers are some of the best works I’ve seen from a beginner.”

Torm moves closer to the anvil that you used in forging the daggers, sweeping away some of the soot with a flick of his hand.

“The daggers may be well-wrought,” the smith replies, “but they are empty.”

“They are only worth the price of their iron,” he finishes with a note of regret.

Noting your confused look as well as that of Trent, he gives an exasperated sigh.

“Come with me,” he says, “and bring the daggers.”

He leaves the smithy and heads to the armory.

You and Trent follow the smith, once again entering the structure that houses all the equipment produced in the smithy. Torm immediately heads to a wooden table at the corner.

The table seems of normal make, aside from the numerous scorch marks on its surface. The wooden table seems to have met a few small blazes during its time with the smith.

Torm takes a wooden tripod with a clamp at the top and puts it on top of the table. An apprentice soon comes in and gives the smith a few pieces of paper and then stands to the side.

Torm marks a sheet of paper with an X using red chalk. He then places the sheet underneath the tripod.

“The daggers,” he says, extending a hand.

Trent fumbles for one of the daggers, finally placing one in the smith’s hand.

Torm affixes the dagger to the top of the tripod with a clamp and then motions the two of you to come closer.

“Watch,” he says.

He releases the dagger and it falls into the sheet — piercing through it and lodging itself almost an inch deep on the wooden table.

It misses the X mark by more than an inch.

“Another one,” he says, gesturing for another dagger as he retrieves the one on the table.

Trent hands him another dagger and the smith repeats the process — but the results are almost identical.

“The tripod is off-center,” you say, pointing out the minor flaw in the tripod’s alignment to the marked sheet of paper.

The smith shakes his head with a forced smile.

“Leto,” he says, turning to the apprentice. “Show them your dagger.”

The apprentice takes out a dagger from his belt and affixes it to the tripod. He waits a few seconds to make sure the two of you are watching and then he releases the dagger.

The dagger falls.

“Thunk!”

It still misses the mark but you can see the dagger land relatively closer — by almost half an inch.

“All my apprentices carry their first daggers,” Torm explains. “One’s first works are usually enough to ascertain one’s talent in forging.”

“A smith puts his heart and soul into his forging,” he continues, “sometimes quite literally.”

“Every hammer strike and work that you put into forging a weapon will mark it with a piece of your soul — this happens in every form of creation. The farmer and his plants, the fletcher and his arrows, the weaver and her baskets, the alchemist and his potions.”

“The boy’s…” he stops. “Caleb’s work may be exemplary and he could refine his skills to rival that of a master’s — but his soul holds very little traces of magic. His creations, no matter how well-made, will only be ordinary pieces of metal.”

He takes a dagger from his belt and affixes it to the tripod. He then nods to the apprentice and they both turn to leave.

“The dagger…” Trent calls to Torm.

Slizzt!

The dagger falls from the tripod, seemingly drawn by outside forces.

It lands directly on the X mark accompanied by a crackling sound and a trace of ozone.

The sheet of paper bursts into flames — starting from the point of impact and spreading out until the paper is consumed, adding to the scorch marks of the wooden table.

The two of you stare at the burnt table, confused and marveling at what just happened.

“Master has a flair for the dramatics,” says the apprentice as he waits for the two of you beside the door.

Torm seems to have left while the two of you were enrapt by the dagger.

The two of you move to follow the smith, but the apprentice interrupts you with a cough.

He gestures at your breastplate, reminding you it was just lent.

You take off the plate and the cuirass, but you ask the apprentice if you could purchase the shield.

The apprentice merely nods and you see a trace of pity in his eyes.

“That Torm was a bastard, wasn’t he?” Trent says as you leave the room.

“What he said was the truth,” you answer. “And I wouldn’t want to spend my years hammering inside a smithy.”

“Hahaha!” Trent laughs. “That is true, boy. Our kind is made to wield weapons not make them.”

You nod at the veteran, but you feel a sudden pang of sadness and regret.

“And now you have a proper one,” he adds.

You lift the weapon, studying it closely.

Unfamiliar runes decorate the hammer’s head, runes similar to the ones written on the stone slabs in the clearing — runes similar to the ones around the summoner’s altar.

The runes are barely visible and imperceptible to the touch. It seems the smith did indeed coat the hammerhead with mithril.

You spot the smith hunched down beside a campfire, having dinner with the two apprentices with the stew from earlier.

Leto, the apprentice guiding you, excuses himself and heads to one of the buildings to get more bowls and cutlery.

“Sit,” Torm says as the two of you near the campfire.

Trent sits on a chair near the fire warming his hands as if recalling something.

You take a nearby chair and observe how the mithril in your weapon catches the light from the fire.

“The hammer needs a name,” says Trent, looking at the smith. His eyes aglow from either excitement or merely reflecting the flickering flames.

“It already has one,” you say, noting the carved runes on the hammer.

“Indeed it does,” says the smith. “But that name is now gone, vanquished by the weapon with your last strike of the demon.”

“Trent is correct,” he adds. “The hammer needs a name.”

A vision or memory of countless battles against otherworldly creatures and beings flashes in your mind — bringing forth feelings of fury and rage. A name comes to mind, one fitting for the hammer.

“Skybreaker,” you declare. “The hammer’s name is Skybreaker.”

The sky denotes something unreachable or impossible to achieve — with this weapon, you will break those realities.

“An ominous name,” Torm says, “It hints of a coming storm.”

The words of the smith seem to take a prophetic tone, giving each listener pause.

“Perhaps it does,” says Trent, shattering the silence. “But this storm will be on my side of the battle,” he laughs.

The two apprentices join in Trent’s laughter, infected by the old veteran’s mirth. The smith looks on with a distant expression as if trying to figure out the solution to a complicated problem.

Soon after, Leto returns with the bowls and cutlery.

You partake of the stew with the others, as the apprentices share their experiences and sufferings in their pursuit of smithing.

Torm seems to brighten up at the stories of his three apprentice, especially when they tell stories of the hardships that he put them through.

“Metal has to be hammered and tempered for it to be useful,” he declares, “And you three have been forged from iron into steel.”

The apprentices seem moved and humbled by their master’s sincere words.

“Anyway,” he says standing up. “Let’s move on to more important things — like the gold.”

“Ha!” Trent laughs. “Show him yer gold, boy”

One of the apprentices approaches Torm and whispers in his ear.

“It seems you want a shield,” he says looking up. “That’s an additional 20 gold.”

“200 for the hammer and 10 for the mess with the daggers — that comes up to 230 gold.”

“Pay the man,” says Trent. “Your hammer is worth five times that amount.”

He glances at the sword to his side, seemingly reliving the cost of its own forging as he unconsciously puts his hand on its hilt.

You take out the gold. Indeed, it seems a paltry sum compared to the weapon that you received.

An apprentice approaches you to take the gold.

You hand him a pouch with 200 gold and then take out another 30 coins from a smaller pouch.

The apprentice gives a nod of acknowledgment and he heads to the armory. He returns shortly after, carrying a round shield which he hands to you.

“If you feel the scales are somewhat unbalanced,” Torm starts, “then maybe you could just do me a favor sometime in the future.”

“As long as it is a reasonable one,” you agree, wondering what favor the smith had in mind.

“Then it is settled,” he says, turning around. “My three apprentices will see to any of your further needs or questions.”

“I need to retire from the day’s forging,” he says wearily. He heads to one of the houses, clearly showing signs of fatigue.

“Will he be fine?” you ask Trent once the smith enters the house — noting the weariness in his voice and movement.

“He’s just tired,” Trent answers, “both his body and spirit suffered ordeals to get you that weapon.”

“I understand,” you say.

“No you don’t,” he whispers, “none of us do.”

“Pack your things,” he says as he rises from his chair. “It’s another long walk to town, and we’ll be hunting wolves on the morrow.”

You strap your new shield to your backpack together with Skybreaker.