City A had a rhythm all its own—different from the polished, quiet grandeur of Nova Sanctum's main campus. Here, the streets pulsed with the clang of iron, the hiss of steam, and the scent of oil and smoke. Sam walked with purpose, the card Zeke had handed him crumpled slightly in his pocket, the name etched in his mind: Vann.
He reached Ironhall just before sunset. It was built like a fortress—thick stone walls, a roof darkened by soot, and two anvils positioned like sentries at the entrance. Sparks flared behind the slit-like windows, and the sound of metal striking metal rang through the air.
Sam pushed open the heavy door.
Heat rushed out to greet him, tinged with iron and burning coal. Inside, the forge blazed like a dragon's breath. Tools lined the walls in organized chaos—blades, hilts, gears, rods, and fragments of something ancient and strange.
A man stood over the main anvil, arms like knotted rope, face half-covered in soot. His beard was iron-gray, his eyes sharp despite the welding goggles perched above them.
He didn't look up. "You Zeke's stray?"
Sam blinked. "Uh… yeah. He said you'd help."
Vann snorted. He slammed a hammer down one last time, letting the metal cool before finally glancing Sam's way.
"You don't look like much. But he usually sends the broken ones."
Sam held back a sigh. "He said I needed a weapon. Something that fit me."
Vann grunted. "Everyone says that. They want a sword to make them strong. A lance to look noble. A bow to be mysterious. Got any idea what you actually need?"
Sam hesitated. "I used to fight with my fists. But I guess… I need something sharper. Something close."
Vann studied him. "Speed over strength. Precision over power. Huh. Come."
He led Sam deeper into the forge, past rows of weapons locked behind glass or draped in cloth. Each one hummed faintly with Aether. Some were carved with runes. Others had no edge at all but seemed dangerous just sitting there.
They stopped before a black case on a pedestal.
"This," Vann said, unlatching it, "was forged from fallen skystone. Fused with Aether-conductive ore. Not fancy. But it'll respond to your energy."
He opened the lid.
Inside lay a single dagger—sleek, slightly curved, its dark blade catching the forge light in cold flashes. The grip was wrapped in black leather, worn but firm.
Sam stared at it.
It felt… familiar.
He reached out, fingers brushing the hilt.
A pulse shot up his arm. Not aggressive, not burning—just a soft acknowledgment, like the blade had accepted his touch.
He wrapped his fingers around it and lifted it.
Balanced.
Light.
Lethal.
Vann watched carefully. "You felt that."
Sam nodded slowly.
"That blade's named Fellbrand. Old word. Means something like 'hidden fang.' It won't roar like a greatsword. But if you know how to strike, it only takes one cut."
Sam gave the blade a testing twirl, the metal whispering through the air. He imagined channeling his Aether into it. It felt like a natural extension of himself.
He finally looked up. "How much?"
Vann waved a hand. "Zeke already paid. Said you'd screw things up if left unarmed."
Sam blinked. "...He did?"
Vann shrugged. "Kid plays cold, but he watches the ones he thinks are worth it."
Sam sheathed the dagger.
"What now?" he asked.
Vann tossed him a black cloth holster that wrapped around the waist. "Now you learn to stop swinging like a boxer and start striking like a killer. Blade work's not about dancing around like some performance art. It's about knowing where to hit and making it count."
Sam tied the sheath around his hip. The dagger rested snug against his side, hidden but ready.
As he turned to leave, Vann called out.
"One more thing. You might want to give it a second name. Something yours."
Sam paused at the door, his hand resting on the hilt.
"I will," he said, eyes narrowing slightly.
"After my first real fight with it."
The forge doors closed behind him with a clang that echoed like the start of something new.
Back outside, the city had darkened. Lights glowed in the windows. Street lamps flickered to life. Sam walked with the dagger under his coat, steps slower, thoughts sharper.
He didn't know what kind of challenges lay ahead.
But now, he had something more than just fists.
He had steel.
Outside, the rain had stopped. City A's streets reflected the red and gold lights of dusk. Sam walked with the wrapped dagger tucked under his arm, the weight oddly comforting.
He wasn't sure what kind of fighter he'd become. But with this step, fists gave way to edge. He didn't need power like Zeke's. He needed his own way—quiet, sharp, and direct.
And now, he had it.
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