"A mold?" Aldric frowned at the blacksmith. "What for?"
Hanwei swallowed his skepticism, trying to sound respectful. "My father taught me that the first step in forging a blade is to carve its shape into stone or packed sand. You pour the molten iron into the mold, wait for it to cool, and then you have your sword blank."
Aldric quickly processed the information. That's not forging. That's casting.
In his "Memory Palace," the metallurgical knowledge was clear: casting a sword was a terrible idea. The rapid, uneven solidification of the liquid metal created microscopic defects and air pockets. The resulting blade would be brittle, lacking the density and tensile strength required to survive a real parry. True weapons were forged—heated, hammered, and folded repeatedly to align the grain of the steel.
But Aldric didn't mock the boy. A village blacksmith at the edge of the world couldn't be expected to know Valyrian or Qohorik folding techniques.
"In my homeland, there is a better way," Aldric said gently. "Do you have a long iron poker?"
"Of course." Hanwei fetched a heavy iron rod from the corner. "What are you going to do with it?"
"Take the bellows," Aldric instructed. "Keep the fire hot. Kevin, use the tongs to steady the crucible."
Aldric took the iron rod and plunged it directly into the blindingly hot molten metal. He began to stir.
"Just as you stir a stew to mix the spices, you must stir the iron to burn out the weakness," Aldric explained, his powerful arms turning the heavy liquid with surprising speed. "This is an old technique. We call it puddling. The stirring exposes the carbon and impurities to the air. They burn off as gas, leaving behind purer wrought iron."
Hanwei pumped the bellows, his eyes wide.
"But," Aldric cautioned, "pure wrought iron is soft. It will bend against armor. So, at the right moment, we add pieces of pig iron back into the mix. It raises the carbon content just enough to give us high-carbon steel. Hard, but flexible."
Aldric used terms Hanwei had never heard, but the young smith didn't dare interrupt. He memorized every movement, every word, recognizing that he was witnessing a masterclass that guild smiths in King's Landing would kill for.
After an hour of grueling stirring, Aldric added a handful of specific scrap pieces back into the crucible. Once they melted, he gave it a final, vigorous stir, and then poured the glowing liquid into three rectangular ingot molds.
As the blinding white heat faded to a dull, angry cherry red, Aldric grabbed a heavy pair of tongs. He didn't wait for them to cool. He hauled the largest ingot onto the anvil, grabbed his hammer, and struck.
Clang!
The rhythm was hypnotic. Aldric hammered the thick block into a flat strip, folded it over itself, and hammered it flat again. He repeated the folding process four times, driving out the last of the slag and aligning the steel.
He switched to a lighter hammer. With precise, ringing blows, he began to draw out the edges. Slowly, the glowing metal took the shape of a willow leaf—a blade roughly three feet long. He hammered out a narrow tang at the base, then set the blank aside to cool.
While the steel cooled, Aldric mixed a paste of charcoal dust, iron powder, and wet clay.
Once the blade was dark, he used a coarse whetstone to roughly establish the edge. Then, he carefully painted the thick clay paste along the spine of the sword, leaving the sharp edge exposed.
"Clay-tempering," Aldric muttered. He had to build a long, narrow trench fire in the yard, as Hanwei's furnace was too small. He buried the blade in the blazing coals until it glowed a translucent orange.
With a swift, fluid motion, Aldric pulled the sword from the fire and plunged it directly into a trough of water.
A massive hiss of steam erupted. The rapid cooling hardened the exposed edge to a diamond-like sharpness, while the clay-insulated spine cooled slower, retaining its flexibility.
By the time the steam cleared, the sun was setting. Aldric was exhausted. He left the rough blade with Hanwei and took Kevin back to the tavern.
The next morning, they returned to finish the work.
Three steps remained: tempering, polishing, and fitting.
Aldric heated the blade gently over the coals for two hours to relieve the internal stress of the rapid quench. Then came the grinding. Using increasingly fine whetstones, Aldric spent hours polishing away the forge scale until the steel gleamed like a mirror, the edge sharp enough to shave hair.
For the hilt, he didn't waste time on aesthetics. He hammered a piece of scrap into a simple, functional oval guard, slipping it over the tang. He carved a grip and a scabbard from a block of seasoned oak, wrapping the handle in tight leather cord.
Aldric stepped into the yard. He gave the sword a few practice swings. It hissed through the air, perfectly balanced. Almost as good as the 'Blade of the Unquenched', Aldric thought, genuinely impressed with his own work.
He flipped the sword, offering the hilt to Kevin. "Try it."
Kevin took the weapon reverently. He stepped back and swung. His eyes widened. It didn't feel like the clunky, tip-heavy iron he was used to. It felt like an extension of his own arm.
As the son of a knight, Kevin knew quality steel. This was a lord's weapon.
"Ser," Kevin panicked, trying to hand it back. "This... this is too precious. I am not worthy of it. It belongs in the hands of a master."
Aldric laughed. "I made it from pirate scrap in two days. I can make a dozen more. Stop being polite. Go chop a log and test the edge."
Kevin hugged the sword to his chest, shaking his head rapidly. "No! My father taught me that axes are for wood and swords are for flesh! You don't chop logs with good steel!"
"You're a stubborn kid," Aldric sighed. He snatched the sword back. "Watch."
Aldric grabbed an arm-thick piece of firewood, jammed it upright into the dirt, and swung the sword in a casual, one-handed diagonal arc.
Shhhk.
There was almost no resistance. The top half of the log slid smoothly off the bottom half, landing in the dirt.
Aldric handed the sword back to a stunned Kevin. "See? It's just a tool. Stop treating it like a holy relic. Are you going to marry it?"
Aldric inspected the cut on the wood. It was as smooth as glass. In Azeroth, this would be a high-tier Blue drop, he thought proudly. The physical memory of the Grandmaster Blacksmithing skill was flawless.
He tossed the wood aside. "Play with it later. We have more work."
He turned to the smithy. "Hanwei, do you have any... what's wrong with him?"
Hanwei was crouched in the corner, his eyes closed, his hands over his ears, rocking back and forth.
"...stir like stew..." Hanwei muttered feverishly. "...fold four times... clay on the spine..."
Aldric smirked. The kid is reviewing his notes. Good.
"Hey, brother," Aldric tapped Hanwei's shoulder. "Do you have any round iron stock?"
Hanwei snapped out of his trance and scrambled to find a thick iron bar. "Master! Here!"
Aldric spent the afternoon forging two spearheads—one for himself, and a shorter one for Kevin. They were simple, leaf-shaped daggers with hollow sockets for wooden shafts.
When it was time to settle the bill, Aldric noted he had used far more coal and iron than anticipated. He reached for his coin purse.
"No, Ser! Please!" Hanwei waved his hands frantically. "You let me watch you fold steel! You explained the puddling! Guild masters guard those secrets with their lives! I owe you gold for the lesson!"
Aldric considered this. Knowledge was indeed priceless.
"Alright, Hanwei," Aldric said. "If you can provide two solid ash shafts for these spears... the piston bellows is yours to keep."
Hanwei looked at the mechanical bellows as if it were a chest of gold. He nodded eagerly.
That night, Kevin slept with his new sword, spear, and tailored leather armor resting beside his hay bed.
Before drifting off, Aldric called out in the dark. "Wake up early tomorrow, Kevin. We need to handle your apprenticeship ceremony."
The next morning, as the dawn mist clung to the village, Aldric polished his golden armor until it gleamed. He walked out of the tavern to find Kevin standing at rigid attention in his new leathers.
"Good morning, Ser!" Kevin saluted.
Aldric smiled. The boy had dark circles under his eyes; he clearly hadn't slept a wink. "Come on. Let's go to the river."
A crystal-clear stream ran just outside Stoneyard's palisade. The morning air was crisp and silent.
Aldric found a large, flat boulder near the water and sat down. He looked at the boy. "We begin."
Kevin immediately dropped to one knee. He pulled a wooden cup from his pack—borrowed from Gabry—and carefully filled it with strong, dark ale. He offered it to Aldric with both hands bowed.
"Ser," Kevin said solemnly. "I offer my service."
Aldric took the cup and drained it in a single swallow. He stood up, towering over the boy. He drew his newly forged short sword from Kevin's scabbard.
Aldric tapped Kevin's right shoulder with the flat of the blade, then the left. A blend of Westerosi tradition and his own personal oath.
"By the Light of the Sun, I accept your oath," Aldric's voice resonated in the quiet morning. "From this moment until the end of our days, you are my apprentice, and I am your master. I will teach you to survive, and you will honor the code."
He sheathed the sword and offered his hand, pulling Kevin to his feet.
"It is done," Aldric smiled. "You don't need to call me 'Ser' anymore. That's for the lords. Call me Master."
Kevin's eyes shone. "Yes, Master!"
Aldric handed the sword back to the boy. "This blade is my gift to you. A warrior's soul is tied to his steel. You should give her a name."
Kevin hugged the scabbard tight, his cheeks flushing a bright, sudden red. "I... I already have a name. Her name is Aellie."
Aldric raised an eyebrow. "Aellie? That sounds like a girl's name."
Kevin stared at his boots, embarrassed. "She... she was a girl from the neighboring village back home. I liked her a lot."
Aldric stared at the boy. He really is going to marry the sword.
Aldric threw his head back and laughed, clapping the boy on the back. "Aellie it is, then! May she keep you safe in the storms to come."