His choice or theirs, I wonder.
I find him sitting apart, methodically cleaning his weapons. His movements are economical, practiced. Each stroke of the whetstone follows the blade's edge with mathematical precision.
Mountain-steel. I can see it in the way the metal catches firelight.
Different from our forged iron. Harder. More flexible.
How?
"Come with me."
He looks up from his blade, considering. The request carries implications we both recognize as trust offered, boundaries crossed, secrets shared.
Dangerous territory.
For both of us.
But he sets aside his weapons and follows me away from the main camp, through a series of switchbacks that lead towardthe valley's eastern wall. The path is narrow, barely visible in starlight, marked only by occasional cairns that could be natural rock formations to untrained eyes.
Family secrets. Vaelmark techniques passed down through generations.
Mother would disapprove.
Mother's dead.
The entrance lies hidden behind a screen of loose boulders that seems randomly placed but actually forms a sophisticated camouflage system. I move them aside with practiced efficiency, revealing a natural cave mouth reinforced with stonework and sealed with a heavy iron door.
My refuge. My workplace. My rebellion.
Inside, the forge burns with volcanic heat drawn from deep earth channels that tap into the mountain's molten heart. The air shimmers with supernatural warmth, and the walls glow with embedded ore veins that pulse like arteries carrying liquid fire.
Vaelmark inheritance. Built by ancestors who understood that true power comes from mastering elemental forces.
Not commanding armies.
Kaelgor steps inside and stops, his breath catching as he takes in the sophisticated metalworking setup spread before us. Anvils positioned to catch maximum heat distribution. Hammers and tongs forged from materials that can withstand temperatures hot enough to melt lesser metals. Quenching pools fed by underground springs that run cold even in summer.
This is what we were. Before politics. Before military ambition.
Crafters. Creators. Masters of flame and metal.
"Volcanic ore," he says, recognition coloring his voice.
"You know it?"
"Mountain clans trade for it. Sometimes. When relations permit."
Which isn't often.
I move to the forge's heart, where ingots of raw volcanic ore wait for transformation. The metal gleams with an inner light that has nothing to do with reflected flame. It holds fire in its molecular structure, captured during formation in the earth's deepest furnaces.
Dangerous to work with. Unforgiving of mistakes.
Perfect for weapons that need to cut through anything.
"This is what makes Vaelmark steel superior," I explain, lifting an ingot with specialized tongs designed to handle superheater materials. "The ore bonds with iron during forging, creating an alloy that's both harder and more flexible than either component alone."
"Your House secret?"
