The forge glowed with the dull orange light of the coals, heat rolling off the stone hearth in waves that made the air shimmer. The rhythmic clink of hammer on metal had just ceased when Master Alric, the village blacksmith, wiped his soot-streaked brow and leaned on the haft of his hammer. The anvil stood cooling, the scent of scorched iron mingling with the heavier perfumes of smoke, sweat, and horses from the stables next door.

Word had gone out that he sought a new apprentice. Three lads arrived at dawn, each nervous, each with his own tale.

The first, Joran, was the son of a fisherman. He smelled faintly of salt and riverweed, his hands calloused from ropes and oars. He bowed awkwardly before the anvil.
“You’ll find I’m strong, Master,” he said, voice steady though his eyes flicked anxiously toward the roaring forge. “I’ve hauled nets twice my weight.”

Alric gave a curt nod. “Strength is a beginning. But strength alone makes poor steel.” He handed the boy a set of tongs and a length of dull iron. “The test is the same for all: draw this into a bar straight as an arrow, no bends, no twists. You’ll have but ten strikes. Show me your judgment.”

The boy worked quickly, perhaps too quickly, hammer falling like waves breaking against a hull. The sound rang sharp and erratic. When he set the iron down, it was longer, yes, but crooked—curving like the ribs of a boat. Joran’s shoulders sagged.

“Back to the river, lad,” Alric said, not unkindly. “Your skill lies where the tide is.”

Next came Lethar, son of a merchant. His clothes were finer, though sweat already spotted the linen at his collar. He smiled too easily, spoke too quickly.
“My father says I’ve a keen head for value, Master. I can count weights and measures faster than most can lift a hammer. I’ll bring profit to your forge.”

Alric grunted. “Then profit you must make with iron.” He gave him the same bar, the same charge.

Lethar tapped cautiously, like a man afraid to bruise an apple. His strikes rang thin and hesitant, each pause longer than the last as he studied the glowing metal. When his ten blows were spent, the bar was barely altered, edges puckered with indecision.

“A smith’s hand must decide,” Alric said. “Hesitation is worse than error. You’ll suit the market better than the forge.”

Last came Bren, son of a horse keeper. His tunic smelled of hay and leather, his arms lean and wiry. He bowed with the easy humility of one used to mucking stalls and currying hides.

“Not much to me, Master,” Bren admitted. “But I’ve learned to watch the beasts—when to push, when to hold. A horse’ll tell you what it needs if you listen.”

Alric passed him the iron. “Then listen to this.”

Bren set to work. His strikes were not hurried nor timid, but steady, timed with the faint hiss of the metal cooling. The hammer rose and fell with a rhythm almost like hoofbeats on a road—firm, sure, patient. When he set the iron down, it was near-perfect, straight and even, each blow purposeful.

Alric studied the bar in silence, then met the boy’s gaze. The fire cracked behind them, showering sparks like fleeting stars.

“You’ve sense in your hands,” the blacksmith said at last. “And patience in your swing. Both rarer than strength or cleverness.” He turned to the other lads, dismissed them with a nod, then clapped Bren on the shoulder, soot-dark hand leaving a mark.

“Stay. The forge will teach you the rest.”

Bren blinked, stunned. “Me, Master? Why me?”

Alric’s mouth curved into the faintest smile, hidden beneath his beard. He turned back to the fire, feeding it another shovelful of coal.

“Because,” he said, voice low with satisfaction, “I’ve been looking for a stable hand.”