The clang of hammer against steel rang through the sleepy village of Oakhaven, a rhythmic sound as natural to Howie as his own heartbeat. Beads of sweat traced down his forehead, soaking the dark strands of hair that clung stubbornly to his face. Each strike of the hammer reverberated through his arms, through his chest, through every fiber of him. He was a blacksmith's son, the kind of life where mornings began with toil and nights ended with aches—but even in that simplicity, his mind wandered to places far beyond the village's wooden fences and cobbled streets.
He paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow, and glanced up at the distant silhouette of the royal castle. It sat atop the highest hill, its spires glinting like diamonds against the morning sun. That was a world he would never belong to—or so everyone said. A world of knights in shining armor, of noble banquets and whispered secrets. And at the heart of it all was Bridget—Duke Alaric's daughter. She had appeared in his life only a handful of times, always moving like sunlight through the village square. Her laughter, bright and lilting, had a way of making even the oldest oaks seem younger. Her smile haunted him, lingered in his chest, and refused to let go.
Howie shook his head, letting the hammer rest against the anvil. "Dreaming again, aren't we?" he muttered to himself, a bitter grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "A blacksmith's son… you can't even imagine walking through those gates, much less catching the eye of a lady like her."
But dreaming was all he had.
That very afternoon, as he finished shoeing the last of the village horses, a trumpet blared from the hilltop. Villagers dropped their tools, shading their eyes as a royal herald, clad in blue and gold, rode into the square. His voice boomed across the gathered crowd.
"Hear ye! Hear ye!" he called, raising a gloved hand. "By decree of His Majesty, the King of Eldoria, a tournament shall be held at the royal castle! Knights and warriors from all corners of the kingdom are invited. The victor shall be granted a place in the royal court and serve as a knight of the King's own guard!"
The crowd murmured, some cheering, some shaking their heads in disbelief. Howie felt his heart seize, a spark lighting deep in his chest.
A place in the royal court. A chance—a single chance—to step into a world he had only dared to dream about. And maybe… just maybe, to stand where Bridget would see him.
He ran his fingers along the edge of his father's hammer, feeling the weight of it. It was not a sword, not even close—but it was all he had. And it would have to be enough.
That night, while the village slept beneath a blanket of stars, Howie crept to the clearing behind his father's forge. He had gathered makeshift training dummies—bundles of straw and old rags—and swung the hammer with every ounce of strength he possessed. He moved like a man possessed, muscles straining, heart pounding, imagining knights' armor and Bridget's radiant eyes.
"Focus, Howie. One strike at a time," he whispered to himself, biting back a groan of exertion.
The days that followed became a rhythm: dawn brought the clang of hammer on metal; noon, sparring with the village boys; dusk, running the hills and testing his endurance. He was slow, awkward, clumsy even—but determination can sharpen even the dullest edge. And Howie had determination in spades.
One evening, as he rested under the old elm tree near the forge, a familiar voice called from the path.
"Howie! You're at it again, aren't you?" It was Tommy, the blacksmith's apprentice and his closest friend. Tommy had sandy hair and a mischievous grin, the kind that suggested he knew more secrets than he should.
"I have to," Howie said, his chest heaving. "I… I saw the herald. There's a tournament. At the castle."
Tommy whistled, impressed. "The royal castle? That's… that's madness. You? A knight? You've got courage, I'll give you that. But courage doesn't swing a sword—or a hammer, for that matter."
Howie's jaw tightened. "Maybe not yet. But I'll learn. I have to. For… for her." He didn't need to say her name aloud; the wind seemed to carry it for him.
Tommy shrugged, though there was a flicker of worry in his eyes. "Well… just don't get yourself killed. Promise me that."
Howie laughed, though it was hollow. "Promise me? I plan to live long enough to see her smile."
The weeks passed. Howie's body hardened, his reflexes sharpened, and though he had yet to hold a real sword, he could parry and strike with surprising speed. Still, the castle remained a distant dream, a glittering promise he could almost taste but not yet grasp. And then came the twist of fate that no amount of training could prepare him for.
One afternoon, while fetching water from the creek, he stumbled upon a scene that made his blood run cold. A group of men cloaked in black were surrounding a carriage at the edge of the forest. The horses panicked, and a scream pierced the air. He recognized the voice instantly.
"Bridget!"
His heart leapt. Without thinking, Howie sprinted, the earth blurring beneath his feet. The black-cloaked men were rough, strong, armed with clubs and daggers. But Howie had one advantage: surprise. He grabbed a fallen branch and charged, letting his anger fuel his strength.
The fight was chaotic, clumsy, and desperate. Howie swung wildly, dodged as best he could, and somehow managed to knock one of the men off balance. Bridget's carriage driver, taking courage from the commotion, managed to break free and help her escape. In the confusion, Howie found himself grappling with the last attacker, his hammer-wielding instincts from the forge guiding him. With a mighty heave, he sent the man sprawling into the bushes.
When the dust settled, Bridget was safe, standing with wide, frightened eyes, her gown dirt-streaked but her spirit intact. Howie approached, panting, chest heaving.
"You… you saved me," she whispered, her voice trembling but clear.
Howie's own voice caught in his throat. "I… I couldn't let them—" He stopped, realizing how foolish it sounded. But she didn't laugh. She looked at him, really looked, and something unspoken passed between them—a spark of recognition, a bond forged in danger rather than distance.
"You… are not like the others," Bridget said softly. Her hand brushed against his arm, and a warmth spread through him, deeper than any sun or fire. "Thank you, Howie. Truly."
That night, as he returned to the forge, Howie could barely sleep. The tournament no longer seemed just a distant dream; it had become a goal, a calling, and a promise. And now, more than ever, he realized that he would risk everything—not for glory, not for fame—but for a chance to be near her.
The next morning brought a letter. Sealed with the royal crest, it was an invitation: every participant in the village who wished to compete in the tournament was to present themselves at the castle gates within a fortnight. Howie's hands shook as he held it, his eyes tracing the flowing script.
This was it. His life would change—one way or another.
He trained harder than ever, yet the shadow of doubt lingered. Could a blacksmith's son truly hold his own against knights and seasoned warriors? Could he truly stand in the light of the castle and meet Bridget's gaze without flinching?
As the fortnight dwindled, Howie realized that it was not strength alone that would define him. It was courage. Heart. And perhaps… just perhaps, the kind of determination that even the stars above could not ignore.
By the time he set foot at the castle gates, his hands were calloused, his arms toned, his mind sharp. And though the tournament would test him in ways he could not yet imagine, Howie felt ready. Not because he was a knight yet, but because for the first time in his life, he was fighting for something more than himself. He was fighting for Bridget.
Little did he know, the tournament would hold more than just skilled opponents. Secrets long buried, alliances twisted by greed, and a challenge that would push the very limits of his courage awaited him. And through it all, Bridget's presence—her hope, her light—would guide him in ways he could not yet understand.
The clang of hammer and the distant cheers of the castle gates mingled in his mind. Howie grinned. This was only the beginning.