The constant pound of hammers filled the hot suffocating air. Dozens of slaves worked in this forge, creating the chains and shackles that would soon hold others.
A single slave worked tirelessly, mindlessly shaping the steel before him. His deep burning hate for the slavers filled him. The flames of his rage fed those of the forge. They had taken his freedom, his family, and even his name, he couldn't stand these men.
Once he was Trake, a happy 12 year old, without sadness or fear, but that was six years ago. Now his hands sweating in think leather gloves while the rest of his body lay bare except for his small clothes.
Other slaves near Trake saw what was taking shape under his hammer, A Sword as long as a mans arm with a leaf blade shape. The Hilt was unfinished, ending in blackened metal. The sword glowed red from the heat of the forge.
Soft foot steps and the ruffle of cloth caught Trake's attention. He turned his head and saw three hunched over figures, cloaked in rough gray robes. From their sleeves they brought forth hammers and chisels. they surrounded the sword and began to chip at it, while singing.
"Forged from the sun and shadow."
"Cooled in the blood of enemies"
"Held by a heart of fire"
"Wield by a soul of ice"
"Born to rid an evil unleashed"
"Created for peace in a time of war"
"Dawn's Shade has come!"
"Dawn's Shade has come!"
As the last words faded in to silence, the hooded figure's took a single step back from the sword. A sudden gust of wind blew through the forge, stirring up dirt and ash. When the dust had settled the men were gone, the strange markings they had craved on the sword remained. Trake took the hot sword in his gloved hand admiring its shape.
"Get that goat born bastard!"
Trake twisted his body around, where four men stood just inside of the entrance way. The first of the men came at Trake like a charging bull, club at the ready. Trake moved like a graceful dancer, relieving the man of his head. Dawn's shade cauterizing as it sliced.
Two other slave guards came at him as a pair. Trake lowered his stance, cutting through the legs of one man turning to the other an plunging the sword in to his chest. The last of the men stood trembling in the door way, his weapon lay on the ground. Trake walked forward towards his freedom. As his shadow fell across the slaver's face, his eyes bulged and he fell at Trake's feet.... dead.
The cool night's breeze welcomed Trake to freedom. A full moon, unobstructed by clouds, shown with a purifying glow, it's lunar beams giving life to shadows and betraying bats in their silent feast.
Trake made for the forest that enclosed the slave camp, as the guards raised the alarm.
