The forge lay at the end of a road that most maps chose to forget.

It was not hidden, exactly—one could see the chimney from half a valley away—but the land around it had a way of discouraging visitors. The stones underfoot grew warm without warning, the air smelled faintly of iron and rain, and the birds fell silent long before the doors came into view, as if even they knew better than to comment.

The hero arrived just as the hammer fell for the final time.

Clang.

The sound rang out, deep and resonant, like a bell struck in the bones of the world. It echoed off the blackened rock walls and rolled into the hills, where it faded reluctantly, as though it wished to linger and listen.

Inside the forge, heat breathed like a living thing.

The blacksmith stood at the anvil, sleeves rolled to the elbow, beard singed in places where sparks had kissed it too often to count. His hammer rested loosely in one hand, and in the other he held a blade fresh from the fire—white-hot, glowing with a light that was not entirely fire.

Star-iron from the high elven observatories formed the spine of it, faintly luminous even beneath the heat. Along its fuller ran veins of deep-set dwarven gems, ground fine and folded into the metal until they caught the light like trapped constellations. Runes—old ones, patient ones—slowly dimmed as the forging came to its end.

The hero stopped short of the threshold.

“Oh,” he said, because it seemed the right thing to say when one was witnessing history being completed.

The blacksmith did not look up.

“You’re late,” he said mildly.

“I—” The hero glanced at the blade, then back at the blacksmith. “I was told I might catch you before you finished.”

“You did.” The blacksmith turned at last, and smiled in a way that suggested he rarely wasted smiles. “That’s the last hammering done.”

He crossed the forge to a heavy stone basin set into the floor. The basin was dark, its surface thick and still, and the smell rising from it was sharp and metallic, with something older beneath it—something like smoke and storms.

Dragon’s blood.

The hero swallowed.

Without ceremony, the blacksmith plunged the blade into the basin.

There was a hiss—not loud, but deep, like a great creature sighing in its sleep. Steam rolled up in red-tinged curls. The runes along the blade flared once, brilliant as a sunrise seen through closed eyes, and then settled into a steady, confident glow.

The blacksmith held it there until the blood stilled.

When he lifted the sword free, it was… beautiful.

Not ornate. Not delicate. Beautiful in the way mountains were beautiful, or rivers that refused to be bridged. The blade drank the light around it rather than reflecting it, and its edge seemed impossibly sharp without appearing cruel.

The hero found his knees bending before he noticed he was doing it.

The blacksmith wiped the blade on a folded cloth and turned, holding it out across both palms.

“Well?” he said.

The hero stepped forward, reverent as one approaching an altar. “It’s… everything the songs said it would be.”

“They usually exaggerate.”

“Not this time.”

The blacksmith snorted softly.

The hero reached out, hesitated, then took the hilt. It fit his hand as though it had been waiting there all along. He felt steadier for it, heavier in the right way.

He lifted the sword, testing the balance. The air seemed to part for it willingly.

“This will end the war,” he said quietly.

“It might,” said the blacksmith. “Or it might start a worse one. Tools don’t get much say.”

The hero nodded. Then, remembering himself, he looked up with a grin, eyes bright. “So. What is it called?”

The blacksmith began cleaning his tools.

“What?”

“The sword,” the hero said. “Its name. Every blade of legend has a name.”

The blacksmith set the tongs down carefully. “Aye. That it does.”

“Well?”

He turned, hands on his hips, and regarded the hero with an expression that had weighed kings and found them wanting.

“Its name,” he said, “is Greg.”

There was a silence so complete it felt deliberate.

“…Greg,” the hero repeated.

“Yes.”

The hero laughed, then stopped when the blacksmith did not.

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“But—” The hero gestured helplessly at the blade. “It’s forged of star-iron. Quenched in dragon’s blood. It’s meant to be sung about.”

“Oh, it will be,” said the blacksmith. “Songs are remarkably flexible.”

“But Greg?”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s just—” The hero tried again. “What about Starfall? Or Dragonsbane? Or Aelthirion, that’s an old elven word for—”

The blacksmith shook his head once.

“No.”

“What about Oathrender?”

“No.“

“The Blade of—”

“No.”

The hero lowered the sword, frowning. “Surely it deserves something… grander.”

The blacksmith leaned against the anvil, folding his arms.

“A name,” he said, “should fit comfortably in the mouth of the one who must cry it in fear.”

The hero opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Picture it,” the blacksmith went on. “Mud up to your knees. Blood in your eyes. Your shield gone. Your friends screaming. Something large and angry charging at you.”

He nodded toward the sword.

“You don’t want poetry then. You want something you can shout without thinking. Something that comes out even if your courage doesn’t.”

The hero looked down at the blade.

“…Greg,” he tried, softly.

The blacksmith smiled, just a little.

“Louder.”

“Greg!” The word rang oddly solid in the forge.

The blacksmith nodded. “See? Reliable. Doesn’t get stuck on the tongue.”

The hero exhaled, a laugh bubbling up despite himself. “I suppose the enemy won’t care what it’s called.”

“Exactly.”

He sheathed the blade, feeling its weight settle at his side like a promise.

“Well,” the hero said, heading for the door, “Greg and I have a war to finish.”

The blacksmith returned to his tools. “Bring him back for sharpening when you’re done.”

The hero paused at the threshold. “When?”

“When the songs are over,” said the blacksmith. “Swords don’t care for applause.”

Outside, the birds began to sing again.