Sam awoke to the smell of straw and the distant peals of ringing metal. Motes of dust floated in a beam of sunlight that pierced the gap between heavy fabric curtains. He rolled over and groped for his phone, nearly falling off the small cot. He caught himself before he hit the floor, eyes straining in the room’s dim light.

  Oh, right. For a brief moment, his mind had been convinced he was back in his apartment, the ringing metal coming from one of the city’s never-ending construction sites. Instead, his hand braced against rough-hewn wooden planks, the ragged stump of his pinky throbbing from the sudden jolt.

  He sat back up in the cot, trying to remember how he’d got there. The straw mattress beneath him bunched awkwardly, and his back protested the movement—it was the first of many offended parties.

  His entire body ached; a deep, persistent ache that radiated from his bones. His legs and arms bore the worst of it, and he pulled back the thick wool blanket to see that someone had changed his bandages. Clean, white linen covered the majority of his body, and he was shocked to see just how widespread the damage was.

  As his eyes adjusted, he began to get a sense of his surroundings. The small cot occupied the bulk of the single room, with the rest of the space taken up by a large workbench. A series of half-completed leatherworking projects littered its surface, and he could make out a pair of bracers sitting on a small rack, dull metal buckles catching the light.

  He took a deep breath and steeled himself as he moved his eyes to focus on the timer that hung on the edge of his perception.

  [Ring Purge Initiates in 48:02:13:22]

  His breath quickened as he watched the clock tick down with a relentless inevitability. The ceremony had begun at noon, which meant that he’d lost almost an entire day. The memories of arriving at the forge the night prior were hazy, but he vaguely recalled Arther helping him to the cottage and out of his bloodstained rags.

  He swung his legs over the side of the cot and made it about halfway up before they gave out, sending him sprawling onto the bed. He gasped at the sudden pain and bit his lip to stop himself from screaming. He’d known the wounds were nasty, but adrenaline and sheer force of will had kept the worst of it at bay during the ceremony and the ensuing trek through the city.

  He could have lain there for hours, wallowing in the pain—but the timer hung over him like a cloud. He swore he could still see it when he closed his eyes, though he knew it was only his imagination. In the end, it was his bladder, not his anxiety, that forced him to take a second crack at standing.

  Groaning, he managed to make his way to the door and the set of fresh clothes that hung from a wooden peg. The long, grey shirt went on easily enough, but the pain in his legs nearly made him forgo the pants entirely. Only his intense desire for modesty got the thick black trousers over his bandages.

  Pants are one-hundred percent happening. There is absolutely no way I’m Pooh Bearing it.

  A welcome surprise was a pair of bright white crew socks, which he gratefully pulled on before sliding into his well-worn leather boots. The belt with his knife went last, and he was impressed by how natural it already felt on his hip. Lastly, he gripped the walking stick, which lay propped against the end of the bed, and eased his way out into the crisp morning air.

  The cool breeze brought with it the scent of flowers, and the sound of striking metal grew more pronounced. He found himself at the edge of a large courtyard, centred around an ancient stone well. The hard-packed dirt beneath his boots gave way to rows of neatly organized vegetables, interspersed between beds full of brightly coloured blooms. A squat stone house dominated one side of the square, with the other being home to a sprawling, open-air forge. Sam’s cottage sat between them, and across the way, the ground sloped gently downwards, ending at the bank of a small lake.

  The water’s surface rippled in the wind, waves catching the morning light. A wooden dock protruded from the shore, and he could make out a dinghy moored beside it. In the distance, the lake dissolved into rolling hills, which eventually climbed to meet the vast forest at the base of the cliffs.

  Next to the cottage was a neat path that led away from the square, and Sam followed it towards an outhouse—pleasantly surprised when he discovered that it contained a shower and indoor plumbing. The space was large and bright, built down into the rock and decorated with an intricate mosaic of brightly coloured tiles.

  After relieving himself and splashing some water on his face, he made his way over to the forge. Each painful step made him more grateful for the Warden’s foresight in leaving him the walking stick.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Arther was deep in concentration when Sam approached, the frenetic cadence of the hammer a sole exception to the morning’s pervasive calm. The Smith wore a thick leather apron, and his face was marred with soot; his long hair tied back in a loose bun.

  He moved with practiced motions, every step and strike part of a calculated dance. The bellows seemed to move of their own accord as he shoved a wide, flat piece of metal into the coals.

  After a few moments, he removed the heated steel with a set of tongs and swung it through the air, the brilliant orange a stark contrast to the relative darkness of the forge. He repeated the process a few times before finally quenching in a large barrel of oil, flames rippling across the murky black surface.

  Arther flashed Sam a grin as he pulled the tongs from the barrel, revealing a large spearhead. The head had flowing, leaf-like blades that tapered to a wicked point. Sam noticed one side had subtle serrations, and could imagine the damage they'd do being pulled out of an enemy.

  As if sensing the perfect opportunity for weirdness, his stomach took that moment to unleash a long rumble. Arther cocked an eyebrow at him as he set the spearhead down on a low bench.

  “Suppose that's as good a sign of recovery as any. You had me worried last night. I hadn't appreciated the extent of your injuries. You're lucky to be alive, that [Rodent’s Resilience] of yours is nothing to scoff at.”

  “To be fair, I've literally only eaten rat since I've been here,” Sam replied, gently lowering himself onto a stool.

  Arther grimaced and shook his head. “Well, let's change that, shall we? How do you take your tea?”

  “With milk, I guess? I’m more of a coffee drinker.”

  “Aye, you're not the first to say it, but I can't stand the stuff. Tea is a proper drink in the morning, good for digestion.” Arther set off towards the main house, leaving Sam sitting by the forge, enjoying the ambient heat still radiating from the glowing coals.

  It wasn't long before Arther returned, balancing a tray laden with food and drink. Sam spotted what appeared to be a fresh loaf of bread, surrounded by sausages, tomatoes, and, strangely, a bowl of mac & cheese. He frowned as Arther set down the tray on a long table and began loading food onto his plate.

  “We don't have cheese like you’re used to,” Arther called. “I've been here over five hundred years, and somehow the gods have never deigned to give us cows. This is from a Sylvan beast which looks nothing like one, but the milk is nearly identical.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow, but joined Arther at the table, shoving aside a pile of files and scrap metal. “Sylvan?” He inquired, spearing a sausage with a fork and taking a bite, not even bothering with the knife.

  “Uh, pointy-eared, stuck up as all hell.”

  “Oh, the elves?”

  Arther flinched, checking over his shoulder at the deserted field behind the forge. “Don't ever let them hear you call them that. Ever since that film about Santa Claus came through a few years back, they've been on the warpath. Little men in green suits? Oh, I've never seen them so united in their hate. One of the bloodier cycles we’ve seen in recent memory.”

  “Wait, you have movies here?”

  “It's complicated. Technology works differently between rings, and when the gates open before every war, new things just sort of pop out. Humanity was behind for a while there, but supposedly has made some pretty impressive progress in the last century.”

  “That's an understatement,” Sam said through mouthfuls of food. “The Internet changed a lot. Having the entirety of human knowledge at your fingertips at all times has been…interesting.”

  “I can imagine,” Arther replied, looking thoughtful. “Suppose that must mean you have poverty and famine pretty much in hand, then, if you’re able to develop such incredible inventions. Things must look very different from when I was selected.”

  Sam gritted his teeth, trying and failing to figure out how to explain the nuance of Earth’s current global geopolitical situation. “When exactly were you selected?”

  At that, Arther’s face darkened, eyes going vacant. “I honestly can't remember the exact date. The pestilence had raged for years; people died by the thousands. Chaos and confusion were all we knew, as neighbour turned against neighbour…” his voice trailed off, then he shook himself, ripping off a large chunk of bread. “Thank goodness times are different now.”

  Sam winced, “You’d be surprised.”

  Arther cocked an eyebrow, but Sam just shook his head, turning to look back into the forge.

  “So what exactly were you making? It looked like a spearhead, but not like any design I've ever seen.”

  Arther grinned; the melancholy instantly dispelled by talk of his trade. “I'd be shocked if you had. It's a Var design, from before The Fall. They had the best metalworkers of any of the seven races, though the Dalith will argue otherwise.”

  He paused and took a sip of tea. “I figured we’d start you off with the basics: spear and shield. From there, we can see what works and what doesn’t. We’ll try out a few options and see what's comfortable. I want you at least to be familiar with most weapons. If you should find something powerful on the climb, I want you to know how to use it.”

  Sam nodded, not arguing with the logic. “I won’t lie, when I thought about what kind of weapon I wanted to use, I figured it would be a sword. Something big that would give me plenty of reach.”

  Arther grunted dismissively, using a toothpick to dislodge a stubborn piece of gristle. “Aye, most warriors figure a sword will do 'em well. But in untrained hands, a sword is as likely to cut friend as foe. I'm not saying you can't learn, but I'd much rather you learn to swing a hammer first.”

  “Fair enough,” Sam replied, feeling a little put out. Arther seemed to sense his mood, because he smiled mischievously.

  “Don't worry, lad, we’ll get you there soon enough. In fact, I’d say it's about time we start.”

  not appreciate how much ratings seem to impact things.

  system. Hint: if you enjoy Skyrim esq constellation skill charts you're going to feel right at home. We'll get back into the action soon, I swear. And then it... Literally doesn't stop for like 40k words.

  Paul