The forge was a cavern of orange heat and rhythmic thunder. Stephen stood before the anvil, the Grimoire of the Magical Forge open on a nearby stone plinth. He wasn't relying on a menu; he was reading the archaic script, his eyes tracing the complex diagrams of thermal conductivity and soul-binding. The knowledge felt heavy, a physical pressure behind his eyes as he internalized the art of the Master Smith.
He approached Krag, the master smith, and laid the Novigrad Crowns on the table. "I need your fire and your anvil," Stephen said, his voice raspy from the soot. "I'll pay for the charcoal and the space."
Krag grunted, looking at the human's soft hands. "Dwarven steel is the finest in the North, lad. You're more likely to melt your boots than beat out a decent blade."
"I have my own methods," Stephen replied.
Krag stepped aside, gesturing to the corner hearth. "The forge is hot. Try not to lose a finger."
Stephen stripped to his undershirt and began the grueling labor. For hours, the settlement echoed with the bone-deep thud of his hammer. He worked the steel with a tireless endurance, manually folding and shaping the plates of a Full Suit of Knight Armor. It wasn't the clunky plate of a common soldier; it was fluted, reinforced at the joints, and polished to a mirror finish.
Krag stopped his own work, watching the human work the bellows. "No apprentice? You're shaping plate like it's clay, lad. That's a master's rhythm."
Then came the silver. Stephen took a bar of pure silver—a metal usually too soft for a blade—and began the delicate process of alloying it. He melted the bars in a specialized crucible, whispering the runes of binding as the liquid metal turned a blinding, ethereal white.
He forged a Rapier. It was thin, needle-sharp, and possessed a lethal flexibility. As the metal cooled, it retained a crystalline shimmer. Holding the red-hot blade, Stephen began the Enchantment. He didn't just cast a spell; he etched the runes of Light Magic directly into the fuller of the blade, pouring his mana into the grooves.
The rapier erupted in a soft, golden radiance—a Blessed Enchantment that hummed with a holy frequency.
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[ ITEM CREATED: RADIANT SILVER RAPIER ]
Properties: Solid Silver Alloy (Durable).
Enchantment: Blessed Magic (Deals bonus damage to Undead and Abyssal).
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Stephen exhaled, his lungs burning. The forge went silent as he quenched the blade. Krag walked forward, his thick fingers trembling. "I've worked the bellows for eighty years," the dwarf whispered. "I've seen Kings' blades. But a solid silver edge that rings like true steel? And that light... it's not a glow, it's purity."
He looked up at Stephen with genuine awe. "May I... may I examine it, lad? To feel the balance? I've never seen such smithing from a man."
Stephen wiped the soot from his face and offered the hilt with a humble nod. "Of course, Master Krag. I'm just a student of a different school."
Krag took the rapier as if it were a holy relic, his eyes widening at the impossible lightness and the humming power vibrating through the silver hilt.
******
Krag held the silver rapier as if it were a holy relic, his thick fingers tracing the needle-thin fuller. He didn't just feel the magic; he felt the craftsmanship. The balance was perfect, the taper professional, and the metal—though pure silver—was as rigid and springy as the finest gnomish steel.
"Tell me," Krag whispered, his voice thick with a smith's obsession. "How did you do this? To forge silver into a combat blade... it should have shattered under the first ten strikes of the hammer. There's no spell for this kind of temper."
Stephen leaned against a soot-stained pillar, wiping the sweat from his brow. "It's not magic, Master Krag. It's Metallurgy. The Grimoire of the Magical Forge isn't just about spells; it's a manual on how to fold the grain, how to manage the carbon, and how to quench the silver in exactly the right sequence. It's about knowing the metal better than it knows itself."
Stephen looked at the Full Suit of Knight Armor he'd just beaten out by hand. "The Enchantment came last. The Blessed Magic I placed on the rapier only works because the sword itself is a masterpiece. To an undead or a creature from the Abyss, this light is like acid. It bypasses their hides and burns them from the inside out."
Krag stared at the glowing runes he couldn't read. The realization hit him like a warhammer: this human had just rewritten the laws of the forge. Without a word, the barrel-chested dwarf dropped to his knees, his forehead nearly touching the ash-covered floor.
"Master Smith," he choked out. "Forgive my arrogance. I've spent my life thinking I knew the limits of the hammer. You've brought the sun into my forge. Please... enchant my stock. Every blade, every axe in this shop. If my kin had weapons like this, the mines would never fall again."
Stephen jumped back, nearly tripping over a bucket of quenching oil. "Master Krag, stand up! Please, there's no need to touch my feet. I'm just a traveler with the right books." He reached out, hauling the heavy dwarf back to his feet. "I'm more than willing to help. You gave me the heat; I'll give you the light."
Stephen looked around at the racks of mundane dwarven axes and steel lances. "I should warn you, though. My knowledge of the arcane is specific. I only know the secrets of Fire Magic and Light Magic. Any enchantment I place will be bound to those two. I can make a blade burn or strike with the purity of the stars, but I can't give you frost or poison."
Krag wiped his eyes with a soot-stained sleeve, a wide, manic grin spreading through his beard. "Lad, in these mountains, fire and light are all we ever pray for. It's more than enough. It's a miracle."
Stephen nodded and picked up his diamond-tipped scribe. For the next several hours, he moved from weapon to weapon. He didn't use hammers anymore—now he used his mind. He etched runes of Ignis Calor into the heavy axes to allow them to melt through armor and imbued the dwarven spears with the essence of Ghost Light so they would never flicker out in the deep.
By the time the moon rose, Krag's shop wasn't a dark hole of iron—it was a shimmering armory of radiant, humming steel.