It struck.

Time and time again.

Their rhythm, steady, perfectly so, sending out flares of fireborn light that made the surrounding darkness recede, almost if frightened, but just for an instant, a blinding trace still burning in the eyes of one witness, fading, only to be burnt again with the next flash as her gaze remained set on the entrance she was bound to.

Her steps, inexorably leading her to the source of the sound, were light and encased in heels too delicate for the raw rock beneath, around, or above. In fact, such surroundings did no justice to her white and blue robes of fine cloth, tight around her lean torso and waist, yet with loose and wide sleeves of the color of the night sky. They felt like veils, subtly hiding a secret as they waved in her wake, boundless and tracing the shape of a breeze that did not exist. Her skirt, draped around her hips and longer on her left side, behaved in a similar fashion, allowing her more room for movement and leaving in full view her graceful white legs.

Most people fortunate enough to set their gazes on her figure, even if their number was rarely high when she was concerned, would think she was dressed for a party rather than an incursion in some long lost cave. Yet there she was, and her pace lacked the hesitation of someone with her youthful features. In fact, they were nothing but determined, and didn’t slack in the slightest as she reached her destination.

Inside, the source of such steady striking had her whole focus on her task, a hammer in hand, shaping a white-hot blade in a long triangular shape, and such focus wavered not when through the corner of her eyes, she caught a familiar gleam, result of the pale-blue hair the figure had, long and probably tied into a braid, reflecting the fire burning inside as she entered the forge.

Her arrival didn’t disrupt her; the newcomer had no intention of doing so either, and soon found a place where to sit and watch, her pale-blue gaze tracing the light bouncing of the woman’s dark skin, muscles evident underneath, trained and used to such strength-focused work. The process was lengthy, and one could not easily measure time unless they were to count their breaths, or the strikes, for barely anything changed aside from the object that was being forged, sparks flying around, the clash of metal resounding against the walls as if caged.

And only under an insightful gaze, would the mastery behind every swing be revealed.

These walls were shaded the color of fire, naturally so, tainted by the glow of a stream of magma running down one of them, filling an elemental pool where the blacksmith would occasionally soak the blade she was working on, its high temperature marked by that white, blinding color. She repeated this action one, twice, thrice, striking and molding in between with no hesitation, sure of the result, or maybe, just confident of her own skill.

Sparks flew, time and time again, and soon something began to stir in the air, thundering louder than the blacksmith's actions, echoing into something beyond common understanding, shaking the foundations of the very mountain they were in. The lady in the white and blue robes knew what was happening, she had witnessed it before, yet couldn’t but marvel at it nonetheless; or maybe, it was precisely her memories what was allowing her now to appreciate the events unfolding before her eyes.

The true work of the goddess of fire and creation, Hephaestus.

Under her superior senses, unperturbed by the scorching heat flooding the room, she felt the Essence around it swirl, untamed, almost provoked, but the fierce movement wasn’t what caught her attention, but its color, a profound yet untarnished gray.

It was elementless.

Such a type of Essence was tricky to manipulate, she herself knew from her own acts of creation, but it was also uncommon for Hephaestus to produce an artefact with it; her work, unlike her own, was often used for violence, be it in carnage or defiance, justice or vengeance, and so her creations were most commonly molded with them in mind, requiring an specific kind of Essence.

Fire, for War.

Water, for Restoration.

Air, for Freedom.

Earth, for Resilience.

Light, for Justice.

Darkness, for Vengeance.

These six elements could combine and so bring forth several other concepts that only a few could truly understand. Elementless Essence, on the other hand, had but one meaning: promise. It was neutral, it was something that could be… and so, despite its many uses, a weapon wasn’t one of them.

So why?

The thundering ceased, and so did Hephaestus’ swings, yet the Essence only became fiercer.

“Diana, the shaft.” The lady in white and blue robes heard, her gaze called back from her reverie, and now seeing.

“And here I thought you would leave me out of it.” She retorted while standing up, and with one gesture, she sent her power to the magma pool, drawing the requested object from its depths. She had long sensed it being there, and so a pale-blue veil covered it as it levitated all the way to Hephaestus' reach.

It was blinding hot, yet the material it was made of, never melted.

The blacksmith took it with her bare hands, and if she felt the heat, she didn’t show it. In fact, her squared features became like stone, and Diana could only know her inner enthusiasm from keen sight; it was there, in the depth of her red eyes, flickering like a flame. Someone with longer hair would have had to wave it away, less the strands be burnt or their sight be hindered, but Hephaestus kept hers short, black like coal and barely a finger long. That’s how she liked it, Diana knew, for she had ceased to be afraid of fire centuries ago.

Blade and shaft joined, and soon the hammer was lifted only to fall again, striking true, mightily, and the mountain shook before the thundering waves that once again began to resonate with the act, the Essence now conjuring a maelstrom around the blacksmith and her creation, as if looking for a way in.

Eager? Diana wondered, then confirmed when, after a particularly strong fall of the hammer, the Essence began to flow down, to the link between both pieces of what now she knew was a spear, filling it, slowly, gentle as a mother’s caress, a stark contrast to the rampaging storm surrounding the figure of the goddess guiding it.

Diana was aware of the phase Hephaestus was in, and even if maybe unneeded, she made an effort to blend with her surroundings as to not disrupt her focus, for the slightest wave in her state of mind could ruin her whole work, each hit of her hammer melding blade, shaft and Essence into one unique existence…

The process, natural despite the clear artificial methods being used, took a long time, several strikes and unyielding patience, yet true to her title, Hephaestus didn’t even break a sweat, a smile touching her lips as the Essence, all of a sudden, rushed in with the power of the ocean, the speed of lightning and a flash of deep meaning. It was then, in the silence that came after, that Diana realized that maybe what was in front of her could be one of Hephaestus' greatest works.

Yet such reverie was broken the next instant.

“Couldn’t use yer hands, could ye?” The blacksmith goddess said, drawing a narrowed gaze from her unusual helper, referring to how she had made the shaft levitate.

“If you want someone who uses their hands, you should have called for your disciple instead.” She replied with the sharpness of an arrow, and just as swift, knowing she had struck a sore spot when Hephaestus winced.

“Bah! That dimwit can eat a stone for all I care!” She spat, throwing hands. “Vulcan, god o’ fire and the forge. Did ye know the brat hit his finger the first time he picked up a hammer?! Course not!”

“Artefact crafting.”

“What?!”

“You forgot artefact crafting. They are calling him god of fire, the forge and artefact crafting.” Diana commented, as she shortened the distance.

“Artefact crafting, artefact crafters.” Hephaestus repeated, mockingly. “Good old blacksmiths, the lot o’ them. Just wantin to be called fancy names.”

“If you dislike dwarves so much, maybe you should not have spent so many centuries among them.” Diana said, her gaze now fully on the spear laying on top of the anvil, its red glow slowly fading into black and gold. “If you desired fame, maybe you should not have hidden your origins, nor your power.”

Hephaestus huffed. “I ne’er wanted fame, nor do I do now. It just clouds what’s important, that all it does.” She smiled then, meaningfully, looking up to her friend’s youthful features. “Besides, the little ones know some things can only be felt through one’s hands.”

Diana set her gaze on her, her chin barely a finger away from her chest. “You call them little as if you were any taller.” The blacksmith’s cheeks became flushed, drawing a chuckle from her, but before Hephaestus could get a word out, she raised a hand. “Enough. I do enjoy our little quips, but I hope such leisure is not the reason why you called me here.”

Like any artisan, to recall her own work made away with any other thoughts she may have entertained. “That’s right. I need yer help.” She made a gesture to the spear. “Take a feel first, with yer hands.”

The last remark drew a stare from Diana, yet she didn’t add anything else, and instead took hold of the weapon with notable ease, as if she weren’t a spellcaster, but rather a warrior, the shaft spinning vertically in her hands. “As expected, it is well-balanced.” She commented, then took a step back and performed a thrust. “Why a spear? With such a long blade, you could have produced something more common, like a sword. Aside from her, no one really practices spearmanship. Not even Ares.” Realization seemed to dawn upon her then. “That’s why you called for me? Because Cirse taught me a few tricks?”

“Athena, ye mean.” Hephaestus interjected. If she was avoiding her question, she didn’t show it.

Diana shrugged. “She did go by that back then, but now she is Cirse. It seems such a name better suits her concept.” She performed another thrust, but this time the movement was quickly shifted into an horizontal slash, the flow like water, and just as versatile. Diana’s features were touched by surprise. “The balance has changed.” She stated, sure of her own judgement, a flash of curiosity streaking her pale-blue eyes. Her figure took a stance, eager, and performed a series of attacks, switching from thrusting to slashing with a skill only known to few, drawing admiration from the spectating Hephaestus, who couldn’t but tremble before the prospect of her creation being in hands of someone worthy.

She is the goddess o’ the hunt, after all. She thought to herself.

But the joy lasted little, for after a few more tests, she had the urge to jump in when Diana lifted the spear for an overhead chop one would make with an axe, and struck the ground with all her might, shaking the mountain and cracking the rock, a crevice so large it almost split the forge in half.

The woman may be dedicated to expanding her wisdom, but her strength was nonetheless not to be underestimated, Hephaestus conceded as she wiped a streak of sweat that not even the searing heat of the forge was able to draw. Despite her confidence in her own creations, she would never stop feeling nervous every time they were put under such rough testing.

“Not even a dent.” Diana commented as she examined the edge of the blade, then added with a shrug, “I suppose it was to be expected, given the maker… yet I cannot help but question if that is all.” She turned to the blacksmith, offering her the weapon, her eyebrow lifted into an inquiry. “Its balance shifts to better suit the attack, and in perfect sync with the wielder it may seem… but I recall some other of your works which exhibited far more extraordinary traits.” Hephaestus gave no signs to want to take it, so Diana placed it on the anvil instead, then continued, “Thýella, for example. That greatsword you gave to that child, Achilles. I witnessed myself how one swing was enough to conjure a storm.”

That mention drew a smile out of the blacksmith, and her rough hand caressed her creation, gently. “Oh, but that one breaks.” She shook her head. ”Not this one.” There was no need to look at Diana to know her doubts. “Durindana is the name.”

“Enduring blade?” The goddess of the hunt muttered, recognizing the meaning in the old language. “It’s that true?”

“Oh, ye could strike the Tartarus’ walls with it. Hell, enough force and ye’d pierce a hole through the whole thin’” Hephaestus remarked, carefree, almost too much. Diana couldn’t hide her shock, understanding her words and the implications of such a thing.

“Are you saying… ?”She muttered, yet couldn’t finish.

“This spear can kill gods.” Her red eyes acquired a meaningful glint then, Diana saw, and so her next question was the only one she could ask.

“What do you need from me?”

“Ye should already be able to feel ‘em, ‘em threads.”

Her words, at first, flared her anger. “Don’t presume to know…” But then, her senses betrayed her, and confirmed Hephaestus' words. “How…?”

She stared at her in disbelief, yet soon understood how, and why. “So that is what you need from me. It seems you have been paying attention.”

The blacksmith just shrugged. “Ye blabber about it so much…”

“Who are you going to give it to?” Diana asked, ignoring her quip.

“Do ye know what’s happenin’? The new war that’s approachin’?”

“Troy’s.” Diana nodded.

“That ain’t right.” Hephaestus shook her head, the glint of the magma playing on the dark skin of her forehead. “One god against a culture is already abusin’, but two? What’s dat blonde thinkin’?” She shook her head again. “That ain’t right.”

Diana sighed. “Astraea is a young goddess, yet she holds true to her concept. Too true, some may say. Justice is easy to manipulate.”

“That’s why I sought to give ‘em an edge.” Her gaze returned to the spear. “I can’t intervene meself, but I can give that brat Hector a weapon.”

She observed the black shaft, so deep it seemed to swallow the light, then traced the golden edge on one end, long enough to seem more fitting for a sword rather than a spear. Then, she returned to the delicate features of Diana, the goddess of the hunt, the moon, and childbirth… The latter being a misinterpretation, she recalled, a mistake born of a rumour. “This’ the first time I create somethin that can hurt me friends. I forged it with ye in mind, with ye as witness, in the hope it may become connected to ye.”

Diana sighed, setting a pale-blue lock in its place with a hand, suppressing a shiver that no one perceived. No one, except for herself. “I cannot control it.” She clarified, adding intent and strength to her voice. “I do not control it. I just study it.” She raised her tone, not fully aware. “And yes, I can see some things that are meant to happen, and sometimes, rarely, I am meant to alter them.” She locked eyes with the blacksmith then, yet despite her expectation, she found nothing but understanding in them. “It is not my place to play with Fate.”

“I know.” Hephaestus nodded, a light smile adorning her squared features. “And ye know I too can see when somethin is meant to be. I know when an ore wants to be a shield, or a sword, or a horseshoe… and when I stumbled upon this one, I saw ye.”

Diana shook her head, and her first thought was of walking away, yet her hands found that shaft again instead, guided by something she knew all too well. She knew the inevitability of it. “You do realize… that these threads do not need to be a good thing.”

“I sensed no malice as I worked with it.”

Few people could make Diana trust their words as much as Hephaestus could, but her worries were not fully dispelled. “Assuming that’s the case, that would mean as long as I enhance this connection, the weapon will never harm me… but it will also impose a condition on the wielder.” She explained, finding herself again in control of her emotions. “It will not be a simple condition, but rather an anomaly. I cannot possibly foresee the ramifications such a thing could cause.”

“What do ye mean?”

“The weapon will not have the power to alter the wielder’s will. Rather, it will choose someone who does not go against its purpose.” Seeing Hephaestus’ expression, she realized how helpless she truly was. “I cannot know how that will affect the fate of everyone around such a person, and once I touch this connection, I will not be able to undo it.” A rueful smile appeared on her features. “To be sincere… I think it is better if we destroy it. Even if I do not meddle with it, this link you’ve created will remain, and so the weapon may become a hazard in the future.”

Hephaestus, against her expectations, just chuckled. “That is not possible.” By Diana’ expression, she guessed her denial was misinterpreted as refusal, so she shook her head. “Durindana, remember?”

“But you..?” She took a step back, unconsciously. “You created it. You must know a way to…”

“See for yerself, please.” Hephaestus motioned. “If what ye’ve said ‘bout destiny is true, then ye should be able to see it.”

Diana blinked a few times, recognizing the shadow of fear paralysing her actions. A few centuries ago, she would have done that immediately, without her friend’s advice, but now…

So be it. She thought, and steadied herself, shaking that feeling away, heeding the warnings she’d been ignoring since she entered the forge, that sense so used to the waves of the fabric of fate…

“I’m sorry about your mountain.” She said, casually, as she stepped forward, determination shining in her pale-blue eyes.

Hephaestus didn’t get a word in before she saw her hand flickering, three times in a natural yet swift movement, scattering a shimmering blue dust in the air above them. No. She denied with a gesture. Above the spear. And not sooner had she made this guess, that the dust gathered into a glowing circle, full of an Essence whose color was all too familiar, and from whose frame, threads began to wave themselves into symbols she could not recognize, guided by an expert hand…

They were complete after a few breaths, and only then did Hephaestus understand what Diana meant by her apology.

For the rock above their heads, in a flash of light, suddenly disappeared, replaced by a starry night sky, with a round, full moon at its center, its silver light seemingly falling upon everything, like rain, and even the magma pool lost its glow before it, yet not Diana’s gaze. There was a deep wisdom in that gaze, and a sharp sense of being seen through, inevitably so.

“Let us witness what fate has in store for you.” The goddess of the moon muttered, then with a wave of her hand, multiple silvery rays wrapped themselves around the spear, tense, and lifted it in the air.

The only thing that was heard after that, was Diana’s sudden cry.

And months later, words would travel about a renown warrior receiving an anonymous gift, a powerful weapon meant to break the siege on his homeland.