The king's decree was clear: every contestant would be provided with raw materials and tools at the competition grounds. Yet smiths were free to bring their own if they wished—anvils engraved with family crests, hammers tempered by fathers and grandfathers, chisels worn smooth by decades of use.
Howen Veyle, though, traveled light. He carried only the hammer he trusted most, its head blackened by years of fire, its grip worn perfectly to the shape of his hand. Along with it, he brought a few spare clothes, a small pouch of coins, and little else. Everything he truly needed, he trusted would be waiting for him in Eldoria.
