Who Gives The Right To Take Lives?

The Night Sky

The street buzzed with warriors, some collecting their first weapons, others veterans seeking to maintain or upgrade their gear. The sun beat down heavily, but it wasn't just the day's heat that hung thick in the air—it was the glow of molten metal from the countless forges lining the street, each blacksmith hard at work.

Luke's gaze fell on one forge in particular, larger and darker than the rest. The brick walls were blackened from years of exposure to heat, supported by wooden beams that looked as though they had already begun to char. The door stood tall, still brown beneath rows of steel reinforcements, a testament to the strength required to protect what lay inside. Above the entrance hung a sign, written in a messy yet legible script: "Durin's Forge."

Pushing open the heavy door, Luke was immediately met by a wave of heat that felt thick and almost suffocating. Sweat formed instantly on his brow as he stepped inside, the air prickling his skin. The interior was even more charred than the exterior, the walls darkened by the constant blaze. Yet, it was lined with weapons of every kind—swords, spears, halberds, daggers—many that Luke could name, and many more he couldn't.

At the far end of the room, an anvil rested near a quenching tub, while the furnace roared to life beside it. Tools Luke didn't recognize hung on the walls—gloves, tongs, hammers of all shapes and sizes, each meant for crafting some specific part of the deadly arsenal on display.

Standing before the furnace, hammering away at a red-hot piece of steel, was a dwarf. His long beard swayed with each stroke, and goggles covered his eyes. The rhythmic sound of his hammer echoed through the room, filling the space with the raw power of creation. Despite the sweat dripping from his forehead, the dwarf remained unbothered, fully immersed in his work, so focused that he hadn't noticed Luke enter.

Luke narrowed his eyes as he stood in front of the dwarf. He didn't want to interrupt the man mid-swing, but with the sun lowering, the urgency to find a place to stay before dusk was growing.

"Excuse me," Luke called, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the rhythmic clang of metal. The hammering didn't cease, and the dwarf didn't even glance up, his focus locked on his work.

After a tense pause, the dwarf finally spoke, his voice gruff and dry, barely cutting through the noise. "What do you want, kid?"

"I want a new weapon. Can you make it?" Luke's tone was rude and urgent.

"You want a weapon? What type? Be more specific. I can't randomly forge you a weapon without knowing what you want, boy!" The dwarf was grumpy since a human had just walked into his forge requesting a weapon without even specifying what he wanted.

"A sword." Luke hesitated, knowing he was a novice with the blade, his past experiences telling him he was useless in swordplay. Yet, the lightning that had sparked during his fight with the minotaur gave him hope—a flicker of belief that Kelly had been right, that he might just be a late bloomer. "Something light and swift." He unveiled the horn of the minotaur, still covered in tattered cloth.

The dwarf's expression shifted from surprise to delight as he examined the horn, his eyes gleaming with keen interest. "A rare breed! A northern and southern minotaur mix!" His voice carried an almost reverent tone as his fingers traced the jagged edge of the horn. "How is this possible?" he muttered, more to himself than to Luke, his brows furrowing in thought.

"Mysterious, mysterious... Mysterious indeed," he continued, now fully absorbed in his own musings. His calloused fingers ran along the length of the horn, his gaze distant as if lost in the depth of some hidden knowledge. The rhythmic clang of his hammer had ceased, replaced by a contemplative silence, broken only by the dwarf's quiet muttering.