Sophus did not sleep.
He lay on the packed earth of his hut, staring at the dark ceiling where smoke stains traced old patterns. His body was still. Too still. Beneath the calm surface, pressure coiled tightly through his muscles and bones, a constant reminder that he had reached the end of what flesh alone could offer.
Body Forging was complete.
Not because he chose it to be.
Because his body refused to go further.
Each breath felt dense, heavy, as if the air itself resisted being drawn in. His limbs were stronger than they had ever been, yet every movement carried a faint warning. A whisper from within that said stop, or break.
Wisdom did not argue with that voice.
Wisdom agreed.
Beyond the hut, Firsthaven slept uneasily. The probe from the wolves earlier that day had left its mark. Hunters had returned to the walls more often. Fires were kept burning longer into the night. Children slept closer to their parents. Even the elders spoke in lower voices.
The beasts were watching.
Sophus rolled onto his side and pushed himself up, ignoring the dull ache that bloomed through his spine. He stepped outside.
The night air was cold and sharp. The moon hung low, pale and distant. Torches flickered along the wall, their light revealing silhouettes of sentries pacing slowly.
Polemos stood watch near the eastern gate, spear like stick resting against his shoulder. He noticed Sophus immediately.
"You not sleep," Polemos said quietly.
"Neither do you," Sophus replied.
Polemos shrugged. "After wolves come close, sleep feel wrong."
Sophus nodded. "You feel it too."
Polemos's grin was absent. "Yes. Like world leaning closer."
Sophus looked toward the dark plains. Somewhere beyond sight, eyes watched.
"We need more than bodies now," Sophus said.
Polemos followed his gaze. "You say that before."
"I know," Sophus replied. "Now it true."
Polemos frowned. "What change."
Sophus did not answer immediately. He flexed his fingers slowly, feeling the strength in them, the density of muscle and bone. He clenched his fist.
"It reached limit," he said at last. "Body cannot go further like this."
Polemos blinked. "You mean you weak now."
"No," Sophus said. "I mean body complete. But danger not."
Polemos scratched his jaw. "Then we need sharper teeth."
Sophus looked at him.
Polemos grinned faintly. "Like beast."
Sophus did not smile, but the thought settled in his mind.
….
By morning, Sophus had already made his decision.
He gathered the main cast near the center of Firsthaven as the first light crept over the horizon. The tribe moved sluggishly, exhaustion from the previous day still heavy in their limbs.
Valerius leaned on his stick, eyes sharp despite fatigue.
Thalara stood with arms crossed, posture firm.
Alexios carried a bundle of herbs.
Aletheia watched Sophus closely, sensing the shift in him.
Chronicus hovered nearby, bark and charcoal in hand.
Arete Chalybe stood apart, hands blackened with soot even before the day began.
Sophus addressed them calmly.
"The beasts tested us yesterday," he said. "They will test again."
No one argued.
"Our bodies stronger now," he continued. "But strength alone not enough."
Valerius nodded. "They faster. Smarter."
"Yes," Sophus said. "And next time they come in number."
A low murmur rippled through the group.
"We need weapons," Sophus said.
Arete's eyes lifted instantly.
Not excitement.
Recognition.
"Not sticks," Sophus continued. "Not stones. Something that endure."
Arete stepped forward. "Metal."
Sophus nodded.
"The forge," she said quietly. "It is ready."
Thalara frowned. "We risk fire and time."
"We risk death without it," Polemos said flatly.
Sophus looked to Arete. "Can you do it."
Arete did not hesitate. "Yes."
That was all she said.
….
The forge pit came alive before midday.
Fuel was gathered. Stone arranged. Clay packed and smoothed. Bellows fashioned from hides were set in place. The fire burned hotter than it ever had before, fed with purpose instead of chance.
Arete worked without pause.
She tested scrap metal, melting it, discarding impurities, hammering it into rough shapes, then breaking them apart again when they failed her standards.
"This one wrong," she muttered after one attempt shattered under a strike. "Too brittle."
She adjusted the heat.
"This one wrong," she said again when another warped unevenly. "Metal not listening."
Hours passed.
Sophus watched from a distance, leaning against a post, his breathing slow and controlled. His body felt heavy, compressed, as if everything inside him had been packed tighter than before.
Wisdom observed quietly.
Arete was not forging for glory.
She was forging because the world demanded it.
Chronicus sketched the forge in obsessive detail, noting the heat, the hammer angle, the way Arete paused to feel the metal with her palm.
Alexios hovered nearby, ready in case the heat claimed flesh.
Polemos paced like a caged animal, eager and impatient.
Valerius watched silently, calculating.
Thalara kept the tribe back, enforcing order with sharp words.
By late afternoon, Arete stopped.
The metal in her tongs glowed a dull orange. She laid it across the stone and struck.
Clang.
The sound rang out across Firsthaven.
People froze.
Clang.
Again.
Clang.
Each strike was measured. Precise. Controlled.
She heated the metal again. Struck again. Let it cool. Struck again.
Slow.
Relentless.
The shape emerged gradually.
A spearhead. Rough. Uneven. But solid.
She quenched it briefly, steam hissing into the air, then reheated and refined it again.
"This is not beauty," she muttered. "This is survival."
As the sun dipped lower, she bound the spearhead to a hardened wooden shaft, securing it with leather strips soaked in resin.
She tested the bindings, tugging hard.
They did not shift.
She stabbed the spear into a slab of hanging meat. It pierced cleanly and did not bend.
Arete exhaled slowly.
"It will not fail easily," she said.
Sophus approached.
The tribe parted instinctively.
Arete held the spear out to him.
"This is best I can make now," she said. "Crude. But honest."
Sophus took it.
The moment his hand closed around the shaft, his body reacted.
Not with power.
With familiarity.
The weight was right.
The length was right.
The balance matched his instincts perfectly.
He rotated it once, slowly.
The air parted.
Sophus nodded. "Good."
Arete studied his grip. "It fit you."
"It had to," Sophus replied. "It made for this world."
He did not name it.
He did not raise it.
He rested the butt against the ground and let it stand there between them.
Polemos let out a breath. "Now that is weapon."
Valerius nodded. "Simple. Strong."
Thalara studied it carefully. "It change how we fight."
Sophus met her gaze. "Yes."
….
Training resumed that evening.
Not formal. Not structured.
Sophus simply used the spear.
He moved with it naturally, practicing thrusts, blocks, and sweeps against the air. The motions flowed as if the spear had always been part of him.
The tribe watched in silence.
This was not a demonstration.
This was adaptation.
Sophus felt the difference immediately. The spear extended his reach. Focused his intent. Allowed him to conserve energy instead of expending it recklessly.
His body welcomed it.
Not as something new.
As something overdue.
Beyond the walls, the wolf watched again.
It sensed the shift instantly.
Humanity had taken another step.
Not toward divinity.
Toward resistance.
The wolf did not howl.
It waited.
….
Night fell.
Sophus cleaned the spear carefully, wiping away soot and residue. He inspected the bindings, tightened them once more, then leaned it against the wall beside his resting place.
It remained unnamed.
It remained mortal.
It remained necessary.
Sophus sat beside it, breathing slowly, feeling the pressure in his body ease slightly for the first time since the previous day.
Not because he had grown stronger.
Because he had adapted.
Wisdom whispered faintly.
Tools are extensions of will.
Will must endure before it can rule.
Sophus closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, the beasts would test them again.
Tomorrow, the spear would meet flesh and bone.
Only then would it earn more than shape.
Only then would it deserve a name.