The forge was cold. Extinguished. The room lacked its usual clatter. Aura breathed in the air, thick with tension and heat, as her heart raced.
Ever since Brenn’s visit, the forge never stopped. Multiple people had come to help Bert out, so that he could focus solely on his craft.
And yet, the smithy stood empty. It was time for a different process of creation. Her process.
She glanced at Bert, his broad shoulders hunched over the anvil. Next to him, on a workbench, stood a bucket overflowing with earth dust.
“Ready?” Bert’s voice was steady, his eyes warm as he looked at her… but the weight of the task ahead was evident in the tightness of his jaw.
Aura nodded, gripping the small vial of frostfire in her trembling hands. The substance inside in turmoil, a constant struggle between elements.
“You’ll need to work your fastest” she said, her voice firm. “I’ll stabilize it and keep it that way… but not for long.”
Bert grunted in acknowledgment, already turning back to the anvil where a sword made of purified iron waited.
It gleamed unnaturally, a result of their painstaking efforts to strip it of every addition. Wrought iron, alchemically purified to perfection. A soft material, poor choice for a blade, but one that could be freely infused.
Aura gave Bert the vial, her hands moving to the container of earth dust, so painstakingly created.
The dust was vibrant green, unassuming compared to the frostfire, but it was just as crucial. Without it, the volatile frostfire would destroy anything it touched, taking them and the smithy with it. Such was the risk of mythical materials.
Bert took his stance, One hand on the vial, the other gripping the hammer. Sweat gathered at his temples, but he didn’t falter. He was ready.
“Here we go,” she murmured, dipping her hands in the dust. Mana gathered with such intensity that the whole container started to glow, to crackle.
She threw a fistful of powder over the anvil, forming a heavy mist. Stability zone.
The green sheen stopped mid air and Bert submerged the vial in it. With a quick motion, he poured frostfire onto the form.
The metal shrieked as the substance assaulted the potent base. Its surface erupted in blotches of hot and cold and the sword shattered into pieces, unable to bear the strain.
“Now,” Aura said
Bert was already raising his hammer. He brought it down with a precise strike, shaping the glowing lumps into the beginnings of a new blade.
Aura worked quickly, infusing the powder to then sprinkle it over the metal after each strike. The dust absorbed the excess energy from the frostfire, preventing the metal from destabilizing too much, but just enough to keep it malleable.
The process was far from safe. Each strike sent tiny sparks flying, all of which had to be contained by her.
Frostfire was not a material that could exist naturally in the mortal realm and even the briefest contact could spell disaster.
“Don’t stop,” she said through gritted teeth, her eyes fixed on the shifting hues of the metal. “It’s holding for now, but if we lose momentum—”
“I know,” Bert interrupted, his hammer rising and falling in a relentless rhythm. The clang of metal on metal reverberated through the smithy, each strike a step closer to either success or disaster.
The sword was rejoined, shattered pieces now made one, but still a far cry from a proper blade. The glow faded. The fire snuffed out, the frost dulled.
“Aura! Too much!” Bert barked.
She overdid it. She was killing it. The metal pulsed under Bert’s hammer—too rigid, unyielding. If it stabilized now, the entire blade would be ruined.
“I see it!” Her hand reached into the green mist, and she siphoned some of the mana back, trying to weave it back into the container. The zone weakened, material flaring back up with energy.
Bert’s arms trembled with exertion, his strikes becoming more forceful. His tongs grabbed the blade, turning it over. The tension in the room was suffocating. Aura’s hands were raw from the speed at which she had to channel mana into the container, her breathing ragged.
“Almost there,” Bert ceded through clenched teeth, his voice strained. He shaped the edge of the blade with deliberate precision, his movements never losing their flow. They were both growing exhausted.
Aura kept her focus on the frostfire’s glow, adjusting her application of dust with each change in its rhythm.
Her mind was a blur of calculations, her body moving on instinct. She had already made many mistakes, forcing her to brace too much mana with her own body. She could feel herself slowly losing consciousness. But she couldn’t stop yet - just a tiny bit longer. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
With one final strike, Bert stepped back, his hammer falling to his side. The sword lay on the anvil, gleaming. But the zone around it started to weaken.
She heard a shout “It’s done Aura, end it! Now!” And she tried to.
She poured her all into the container. The last addition of dust to cross the threshold, but she was growing weak. She needed a simple burst of mana, yet couldn’t gather it.
A second presence. A shift in the flow. A hand—not hers—plunged into the dust. Bert? No. Aura barely registered it. Mana surged as if a dam broke. Then she knew. Marco.
Her heart leapt. It was too dangerous for him! But she couldn’t stop now, they had to finish the blade or die.
Using his capacity, she finished preparing the last fistful of dust. She threw it, the particles brushing against her inflamed skin.
With the grains dissipating into the air, the zone flared a vibrant green, almost solid, condensing over the volatile sword. Pacifying it.
The process was complete.
All three stood there in silence, their chests heaving as they stared at the finished blade.
Patches of frost and fire danced along its surface, interweaving, illuminating the room.
It wasn’t perfect, especially since the quality of frostfire was lacking due to her previous failure, but it was theirs.
A sword made of myth, an artifact born from sweat, skill, and no small amount of risk.
Aura tried to smile. To speak. But darkness washed over her like a wave. The last thing she felt was strong arms catching her as she fell.

 
In the aftermath, Bert and David moved Aura to bed and cleaned up the smithy. A single success hasn’t suddenly excused them from the rest of work.
Bert went back to smithing spearpoints, but David lingered a while, observing the volatile surface of the artifact.
He felt inspired, and it just so happened, that he had an artifact of his own to experiment with.
He went to grab his things.

 
David sat cross-legged on the grass beyond a hill, out of the village’s sight. Far enough for loud sounds to not reach. It was only a matter of time before the coiling ivy would start bothering him, but he had no time to waste on looking for cyan trees.
He held Calland’s amulet in his hands, its faint glow pulsing softly. It had been an unexpected gift from his enemy, but now, it was his to understand.
His fingers traced the intricate runes, feeding a trickle of mana into the amulet. The reaction was instant—force rippled outward, carving a perfect circle in the dirt.
Yet, somehow, it passed through him harmlessly. His eyebrows shot up.
“It might be attuned to the user, to somehow ignore him.” he murmured, planning the next experiment. “That’s why it didn’t blow Calland to bits but made the predator fly.”
He placed the amulet inside a shallow dish filled with a mana-holding liquid.
Slowly, the liquid began to glow as it released its stored energy into the amulet. Again, the shockwave pulsed outward, shattering the dish, uprooting the grass, but harmlessly passing through him as he stood where he thought the edge would be.
His mind raced. Attuned to mana, then.
His thoughts turned to the predator – how it deftly avoided the range of the artifact or swatted projectiles out of the air.
Fighting against a nimble opponent was tricky - you had to hurt it, not just prevent it from hurting you.
Not only that, but if it doesn’t die once and for all, all their lives would be forfeit sooner or later. He had some knowledge and an artifact… But how do you use something created for protection offensively?
Shockwave... pressure... expanding force?
The idea struck him like lightning. Something that combined magic and physics and played into the monster’s quirks. He frantically stuffed his things into the satchel and dashed home, straight to the alchemical shed.
Once he was there, he made sure no one saw him enter. He locked the doors behind him and breathed in. Let’s do this.
His hands moved almost on instinct, gathering materials from the shed. A thick, hollow metal cylinder—a discarded canister from one of Aura's experiments—became his centerpiece. He scavenged nails, bits of scrap metal, and even fragments of broken tools, piling them carefully into the canister.
In the center, he positioned the amulet. Over it, he placed a small glass vial of mana-holding liquid, nearly overloaded with energy. Too much force and it will detonate right now. He secured it to the amulet with wire, his fingers shaking from adrenaline. Finally, he fastened the lid, then delicately locked it in with a hammer and nails until it was sealed shut.
“This,” he muttered, stepping back to admire his work, “is going to be messy.”
He had calculated the timing meticulously, based on his experiments. Striking the lid with enough force would puncture the glass vial, releasing the mana-holding liquid. The amulet would absorb the energy and trigger the shockwave after about two seconds. The reinforced container would try to hold it all in, but the pressure would rip it apart, sending the nails and scraps flying in all directions.
David’s hands shook as he looked at the crude, inefficient frag grenade. The excitement of discovery warred with the nagging doubt at the back of his mind.
This could work. Or it could kill me and everyone in vicinity. Frankly, he had no idea how much power it would pack. He was a materials engineer; How was he supposed to calculate a TNT equivalent of some magical artifact.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. If he understood the monster’s behavior correctly, it would all work. That was a tall if. But David believed – he was spared for some reason, as if he was insignificant to the conflict itself. Below the predator’s notice. We’ll see how you like a taste of this.
He chuckled to himself, but his mood quickly faded. Would it work against that fox? Not a chance. He shook his head. Let’s not demand the impossible.
He leaned back against the wall, still staring at the improvised explosive. It wasn’t perfect. It wouldn’t solve everything. But it was something.
His mind flitted to the frostfire sword Bert and Aura had forged—how their craftsmanship was precise and calculated.
His invention? Chaotic. Reckless. A brute-force solution…
A last resort; If he used it and it failed, he wouldn’t be around to regret it.
It was a gamble, but it was within his grasp. His way of standing tall against the odds, of getting back at those who would underestimate him.