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Chapter 1 – Part 5 (Sparks of Creation)
The forge was quiet that night, save for the crackle of the coals and the hiss of steam when he poured water over glowing shards.
"Shhh–sshhhhh—" the sound curled like whispers, as if even the forge pit wanted to speak to him.
Jofyn Vale wiped the sweat dripping down his brow with the back of his soot-stained hand. The workshop was small, barely enough space for a single man to move comfortably, but it smelled of oil, iron, and old wood—a smell that clung to his skin even after hours of bathing in the river.
For most students, the academy's forge was nothing more than a passing station. They came, borrowed a hammer, struck at a piece of iron until it looked half-decent, and left before their friends teased them for wasting energy. But for Jofyn?
This place was his temple.
"Again…" he muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders. His voice echoed faintly against the stone walls.
The hammer in his grip felt heavy but alive. His father had once said: 'The hammer is not just a tool, son. It's a heartbeat. Swing it wrong, and you kill the rhythm.'
"Takk!"
The hammer struck. Sparks leapt.
"Takk!"
Another strike. Sparks danced across his cheeks like fleeting fireflies.
No one stood behind him. No one corrected his stance. No one encouraged him. He worked alone. Always alone.
The forge bellows sighed with every push, the flames swelling, shrinking, and swelling again, as if breathing with him. He liked to think the forge understood his silence. Sometimes, in the corner of his ear, he swore he heard the flames laugh or complain. But maybe that was just the exhaustion. Maybe that was the loneliness.
Jofyn paused, running his thumb over the half-finished piece of cloth-metal in front of him. It wasn't iron, not truly—it was a blend of fabric woven with low-grade shards he'd bargained for from a senior. Worthless to most, but in his hands, it felt like possibility.
Tonight wasn't about weapons.
Tonight was about… companionship.
He leaned forward, his lips tightening. The memory of the last week replayed in his head: the System going mute. His only friend—the only voice that had ever cared to reply to him—vanishing without warning.
That silence had clawed at him like a wound.
He needed something. Someone.
And so, the robe.
Not just a robe to wear—but one to speak, to think, to accompany him when the rest of the world laughed behind his back.
"Not just cloth…" Jofyn whispered, almost chanting. "A presence. A will."
He placed another shard—cracked, pale blue—onto the table.
It pulsed faintly. Thum… thum… thum… A heartbeat? Or perhaps only his imagination.
He laughed softly, shaking his head. "Even rocks sound alive to me these days…"
Still, his hands were steady.
He spread the ingredients:
Crystals for channeling.
Threads dipped in beast marrow for resilience.
Powdered herbs for warmth and subtle enchantment.
And finally, shards—low-ranked, yes, but malleable enough to stitch thought into fabric.
He had studied this in books, of course. Not the talking part—no text spoke of giving life to clothing. That part was his own stubborn dream. But enchantments? Infusions? He devoured every scroll he could sneak out of the library.
The forge hissed again as he poured oil onto the coals. Flames surged, painting his face in gold and crimson. His greenish eyes—dull compared to the glowing, fiery orbs of the noble-born—reflected those flames with quiet determination.
"Takk!"
The hammer fell again.
"Takk!"
Hours stretched. The moon outside shifted higher, then lower. He lost count of time. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it. His hands ached, but he tightened his grip.
And slowly… the robe began to take shape.
It wasn't beautiful. Its seams were rough. Its weight uneven. But the shards stitched within pulsed faintly, like dim stars trapped in fabric.
He laid it across the anvil, staring at it, chest rising and falling. For a moment, fear struck him. What if it doesn't work? What if it stays… silent?
The forge whispered again—shhh, shhh.
Jofyn inhaled deeply. "Alright… one last step."
He placed both palms on the robe.
His voice trembled, but he spoke clearly:
"By hand, by shard, by toil of sweat and blood… speak."
For a long while, there was nothing.
The silence pressed into him, thick and heavy. His throat tightened. His shoulders slumped.
"…I knew it," he muttered bitterly, dragging a hand down his face. "Stupid. Just… stupid."
He reached to pull the robe aside.
But then—
Pfft.
A small puff of air escaped from the fabric.
"Eh?" Jofyn froze.
The robe twitched.
"…Tired…" a faint, muffled voice yawned. "…So much hammering. Can't a robe get some peace?"
Jofyn's jaw dropped. His heart hammered against his ribs. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over a bucket.
"…What—"
The robe fluttered, as though stretching. "Oi, farmer boy. You're loud. And sweaty. Did you really stitch me awake just to watch me suffocate in your smell?"
For the first time in months—maybe years—Jofyn laughed. A wild, shocked laugh that burst from his chest, echoing against the forge walls.
It worked.
By his own hands.
Through his own sweat.
He had given birth to a voice.
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