Night lowered itself over the forest, yet inside Andata's workshop, the air remained heavy and stifling, thick with the scent of charcoal, sweat-soaked iron, and dried grass. They had only just returned from their perilous journey, but before Natan could even wash the mud from his skin, the suspicion that had been festering in his chest finally erupted.
Natan strode toward a corner of the forge. There, beneath the dim glow of a flickering wick, a shelf gleamed. His eyes widened as he spotted familiar treasures—round, glowing orbs of various colors, neatly arranged upon a bed of velvet. They were the exact materials Andata had sent him to retrieve.
He spun around to face her, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and confusion.
"Why?" Natan shouted, gesturing wildly at the shelf. "Why did you send me to the mountain peak if you already had the orbs needed to forge the sword? Everything is right here, Andata! Your inventory is overflowing with these rare stones, yet you let me risk my neck!"
Andata set her iron tongs down. She took a deep breath, her long, vibrant hair swaying like living tongues of fire against the dark room. She looked at the mortal—a man so naive, lacking even the faintest understanding of the magical yet treacherous realm of Eldoria, a land where spirits and traitors lay in wait behind every shadow.
"Calm yourself, mortal," Andata replied, her tone gentle yet firm. "Your view is far too narrow if you truly believe that journey was merely a waste of time."
"Calm down?" Natan let out a bitter laugh. "How am I supposed to be calm when you played with my life?"
Andata stepped closer, her footsteps carrying the weight of someone deeply bound to the laws of this world. "I explained to you, in simple terms, that true understanding is not granted easily. I sent you up there so you would learn that anything of real value must be earned through hardship. Eldoria is no playground for someone blind to its dangers. You needed to stare trial in the face, to recognize the cup of poison before drinking from it, and to know the creatures you might cross paths with. A sword is merely a piece of metal if the hand wielding it lacks wisdom."
"Wisdom? Hardship?" Natan closed the distance between them, his eyes blazing. "Do you think suffering is something new to me? My entire life, Andata, nothing has ever come easy! Every mouthful of rice, every drop of sweat, every inch of breath I take had to be fought for in the mud. I do not need a lesson in sacrifice—it has been my cradle since the day I was born! What was the point of all this? To prove that I am weak? I stole only once in my life, and it was because I had nowhere else to run!"
Silence fell over the room, broken only by the crackle of the hearth.
Yet instead of offering pity, the blacksmith's brow furrowed. Her face, previously calm, darkened with a majestic fury. If anyone had the right to be angry, it was her.
"How dare you lecture me on your torments, Natan," Andata's voice resonated like thunder within the chamber. "You seem to have forgotten how you made it back here alive! I warned you. I clearly told you about the Sigbin—creatures that hide behind deceptive beauty, hounds with pitiful faces that conceal bone-crushing fangs. And what did you do?"
Andata took a sharp step forward, forcing Natan to recoil.
"You allowed yourself to become bait! You were entranced by their illusion, believed their soft cries, and nearly became their dinner beneath the moonlight. If you are this easily fooled and shaken during your very first trial, tell me... how do you expect to defend yourself? How do you plan to rescue your sister?"
Had Andata not intervened, Natan's death would have been absolute. She was the one who fought off the pack of ravenous Sigbin and guided them safely down the mountain stronghold of their enemies.
Natan froze. The air seemed to leave his lungs as the rage on his face crumbled into shock and dread. His true torment—the deepest wound in his heart—had been spoken by this woman without error.
"How..." Natan stammered, his gaze wavering. "How do you know about my sister?"
"I know the weight of the chains you dragged into this realm," Andata revealed coldly. "I know she is held captive by the High Elven Priest—a powerful entity who will not yield to the reckless anger of a mortal."
Natan felt as though his entire world was shaking beneath him. His proud stance collapsed, his muscles went slack, and his shoulders slouched. The resentment melted away, leaving behind only the raw desperation of an older brother who would do anything to save his kin.
"Then... I beg of you," Natan whispered, looking up at Andata, his eyes brimming with desperate tears. "Give me the map, Andata. The map that marks the locations of the lost relics. If you know my purpose, then you know it is the only way I can redeem her. Have mercy."
A bitter smile touched Andata's lips as she listened to his plea. She shook her head slowly, pitying his ignorance of how this world truly operated.
"You truly know nothing, Natan," Andata began, her fingers lightly caressing the handle of her hammer. "Have you never asked yourself why they are called the lost relics? Is it not strange that despite the immense power those artifacts possess, no one has dared to set out in search of them? It is not because their locations are unknown, but because the path leading to them means certain death. Many of the wisest beings in Eldoria believe the map you seek is not a guide, but bait—a trap set for desperate fools like you."
Andata turned her back on him to resume her work, signaling that the conversation was over. But Natan refused to yield. Kneeling in the dirt and ash of the floor, he pressed his forehead against the cold ground and crawled toward her feet.
Andata paused at the sound of his quiet sobs. She turned to see tears streaming freely down his soot-stained cheeks. The blacksmith drew a long breath, feeling the undeniable sincerity of a brother's love.
"Please, I am begging you, give me the map," Natan pleaded, his voice trembling with sorrow. "It is the only hope I have left to find and save my sister. I know no other way..."
Andata stared down at him for a long, heavy moment. After a deafening silence, she let out a weary sigh. Her hardened features softened, though her eyes retained their commanding presence.
"Get up, mortal," Andata commanded. "I will give you the map. But under one strict condition: you must prove you can lift and wield the heaviest sword in this entire forge."
Natan's eyes darted toward the corner she indicated. There, resting upon a golden pedestal, sat a colossal weapon. It gleamed with a silver sheen, casting blue and green reflections beneath the firelight. Even without touching it, Natan could tell it was no ordinary steel—it was forged from pure diamond, a weapon capable of cleaving mountains, yet requiring strength far beyond that of a normal human.
Andata did not show herself to Natan again after their conversation. Annoyed and unwilling to look at the mortal's face any longer, she sent him to another of her workshops, far removed from the noisy, cavernous stone city. That forge stood in the middle of a vast, emerald plain where the only sounds were the whistling wind through the grass and the rhythmic tapping of small hammers.
This cottage was managed by dwarf blacksmiths—beings short in stature yet possessing extraordinary strength and craftsmanship. Natan was not sent there to become their apprentice, but to face his punishment and Andata's formidable challenge: the sword of pure diamond, which had been brought along to the plains.
For the first three days, Natan tried every method to move the weapon. The silver steel with its shifting blue and green light seemed anchored into its golden pedestal. Every time he gripped the cold hilt, he felt as if he were trying to lift an entire mountain. With every pull, he strained his legs and arms to their absolute limits, yet the blade did not budge a single millimeter. His palms tore open and blistered while sweat dripped continuously onto the cold floor.
By the fourth and fifth days, his body began to give out. Every muscle in his back felt as though it were tearing from sheer exhaustion. Even so, he refused to stop. With every failure, the memory of his sister's face became the fuel that forced him back to his feet. Yet no matter how tightly he gripped the handle or how fiercely he roared in frustration, the diamond sword remained silent and unyielding, as if mocking his mortal weakness.
The seventh day arrived, marking the end of a full week of relentless struggle. In those seven days, he had failed to lift the sword even an inch from its golden rest. His hands were now wrapped in filthy rags to hide his bleeding wounds, and his breath came in ragged gasps from severe physical depletion.
When his footing slipped once more and he collapsed to the floor, the quiet of the workshop was broken by a chorus of laughter. The small dwarf blacksmiths, who had been watching from the corner, could no longer contain themselves.
"Look at the mortal!" laughed a dwarf with a long beard, pointing at the weakened man. "A whole week of breaking his back for something that was never meant for him!"
"Did you really think you could lift that with tears and mere arm strength, human?" another added, shaking his head. "Even the strongest warriors in Eldoria cannot raise that blade casually. Leave while you still have enough strength to walk, because that sword is not meant for a weakling like you!"
Their taunts and laughter echoed through the room, leaving Natan lying broken in front of the immovable weapon, cradling the crushing weight of his failure.
How was he ever going to complete his mission?