Chapter 5: The Blacksmith's Wisdom

The midday sun beat down on the tournament grounds, casting long shadows and drawing beads of sweat from every person present. Alaric’s heart still pounded from the maze challenge, and his legs ached from the run, but he couldn’t afford to rest. Sir Cavan’s parting words echoed in his mind, a reminder that his trials were far from over.

Jarek, the young man Alaric had saved, sat nearby, massaging his ankles and looking as though he couldn’t quite believe he was still alive. “You really do thrive under pressure, don’t you?” Jarek said with a nervous laugh, his admiration genuine and almost childlike.

Alaric forced a smile. “It’s a learned skill. And it looks like you’re not too bad yourself.” In truth, he was still wary of trusting anyone here, but he couldn’t deny that Jarek’s eagerness to help had made the challenge a bit easier.

The crowd was starting to disperse, drifting toward the marketplace that had sprung up just outside the arena. Merchants called out their wares—roasted meats, woven cloths, glistening jewels—and children darted between the stalls, laughing as they played games. For a moment, the scene felt almost normal, and Alaric let his guard down just a fraction.

“Come,” said a voice behind him. He turned to see Lady Seraphine, her expression as unreadable as ever. “Sir Cavan has allowed you a brief respite, but there are still questions that must be answered.” She glanced at Jarek. “You, too.”

Jarek’s eyes widened. “Me? But I’m just a stable hand—”

Seraphine’s gaze softened. “And yet you found yourself in the heart of the maze, proving your worth. You are no longer ‘just’ anything.”

Alaric exchanged a glance with Jarek, who looked equal parts terrified and honored. Together, they followed Seraphine through the marketplace, weaving between merchants and performers. The air smelled of grilled meats and fresh bread, but Alaric found he had no appetite. His mind remained on the Zeton, the relic that had upended his life and dragged him through time.

Eventually, Seraphine led them to a modest stone building with a thatched roof. The sign hanging above the door depicted a hammer striking an anvil. Alaric realized they were standing before the blacksmith’s workshop, and he wondered why Seraphine had brought them here.

The interior was sweltering, with the forge roaring and sparks dancing in the air. A muscular man with soot-streaked skin and a thick, braided beard hammered away at a piece of molten metal, the clang of his strikes echoing through the room. He paused when he saw them, his deep-set eyes narrowing. “What brings you here, my lady?” he asked, his voice like gravel.

Seraphine inclined her head. “Master Orlin, we seek your wisdom.”

Orlin snorted, setting his hammer aside. “Wisdom, is it? And what wisdom does a blacksmith have that knights and lords do not?”

Seraphine stepped aside, and her gaze fell on Alaric. “This traveler carries an object that defies understanding,” she said. “And you are the only one who might help us comprehend it.”

Alaric tensed as all eyes turned to him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Zeton, the metal disc glinting in the firelight. Orlin’s brows drew together as he stepped closer, his hands reaching out but not quite touching the relic. “Well, well,” he murmured. “That’s no ordinary trinket.”

Jarek leaned in, curiosity overriding his nerves. “What is it, Master Orlin?”

The blacksmith didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked to a table cluttered with tools and alchemical substances. He rummaged around until he found a pair of delicate, rune-etched spectacles, which he placed over his eyes. When he returned, he studied the Zeton through the lenses, his expression shifting from curiosity to something akin to awe.

“This metal,” Orlin said slowly, “isn’t of this world.”

Alaric’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

Orlin adjusted the spectacles, the runes glowing faintly. “I’ve worked with all kinds of metals—iron, steel, even the rarest alloys brought by traders from distant lands. But this…” He trailed off, running a finger over the Zeton’s grooves. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever encountered. The way it resonates, the energy it holds... It’s as if it were forged by the gods themselves.”

Alaric exchanged a glance with Seraphine, who looked thoughtful. “Can you tell us anything more?” she asked.

Orlin hesitated, his eyes narrowing. “Perhaps. But first, I need to know where you got this, traveler.” His voice carried a hint of suspicion, and Alaric knew he had to tread carefully.

“I found it during my travels,” Alaric said, choosing his words with care. “It’s been in my possession ever since, and it’s... complicated, to say the least.”

The blacksmith studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Aye, I imagine it is.” He set the Zeton on the table, tapping one of the grooves. “These markings—they’re runes, but not like any I’ve seen. If I had more time, I could try to decipher them. But I’ll tell you this much: whatever this artifact is, it’s not meant to be wielded lightly.”

Alaric frowned, the weight of Orlin’s words pressing down on him. “Not meant to be wielded lightly? What does that mean?”

Orlin’s gaze grew solemn. “I’ve heard legends, old tales whispered by travelers and traders. Stories of artifacts that bend the rules of the natural world—artifacts that can bring both wonder and ruin. If this Zeton is one of those relics, then it has the power to change the course of fate itself.” He met Alaric’s eyes, his expression grim. “And power like that always comes at a cost.”

A heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the crackling of the forge. Alaric’s mind raced, trying to make sense of what he had just learned. The Zeton had already pulled him through time, upending his life in ways he could barely comprehend. And now he was being told that its power could reshape fate?

Jarek shifted uncomfortably. “So... what do we do?”

Before anyone could answer, the door to the workshop burst open. A young squire stumbled in, out of breath and wide-eyed. “Lady Seraphine! Sir Cavan sends word—a band of raiders has been spotted near the eastern woods. They’re moving toward the village!”

Seraphine’s eyes narrowed, and she turned to Alaric. “You’ve had your respite, traveler. Now it’s time to prove yourself once more.”

Alaric’s stomach twisted. He had barely survived the maze, and now he was being thrown into another life-or-death situation. But he knew he couldn’t refuse. Not if he wanted to stay in these people’s good graces long enough to figure out the Zeton’s secrets.

Orlin removed his rune-etched spectacles and handed the Zeton back to Alaric. “Be careful, traveler,” he said, his voice low. “Whatever fate has in store for you, it won’t be kind.”

Alaric nodded, tucking the Zeton into his pocket. “Story of my life,” he muttered.

The village was a whirlwind of chaos and fear. Women herded children into the safety of their cottages, while men armed themselves with whatever weapons they could find—pitchforks, clubs, and rusted swords. Sir Cavan stood at the center of the commotion, barking orders and trying to rally the villagers.

Alaric could see the tension etched into everyone’s faces, the collective fear of a community on the brink of violence. He had witnessed scenes like this before, in different times and places, but the raw emotion never grew any easier to watch.

“Traveler!” Sir Cavan called, his eyes narrowing. “We’re short on fighters. You’ll take a place on the eastern road and hold the line. Prove your worth.”

Alaric forced down his anxiety and nodded. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Jarek, who was pale but determined. “I’ll fight with you,” Jarek said, though his voice wavered. “You saved me once, so... let’s make it even.”

A reluctant smile tugged at Alaric’s lips. “I suppose I could use the company.”

They moved to the eastern road, where a makeshift barricade had been erected. The forest loomed beyond, dark and foreboding, and Alaric could feel the tension in the air, a taut wire ready to snap. The Zeton pulsed once in his pocket, and he wondered if it was trying to warn him—or if it was simply a reminder of the impossible task he faced.

The raiders emerged from the trees moments later. They were a motley group, clad in leather and furs, wielding axes and crude weapons. Their leader, a tall man with a cruel grin and a scar running down his cheek, raised his weapon and bellowed, “Take the village! Leave nothing behind!”

Fear prickled at the edges of Alaric’s mind, but he steeled himself. He had faced impossible odds before, and he would do it again. “Stay close,” he whispered to Jarek, raising the sword he had borrowed from the blacksmith. It wasn’t his usual style—subtlety was more his thing—but he would make do.

The raiders charged, and the battle began. Alaric fought with everything he had, weaving between blows and using his agility to his advantage. Jarek swung his weapon with wild determination, and together, they managed to hold the line, if only barely.

Amid the chaos, Alaric felt the Zeton pulse again, stronger this time. His vision blurred for a split second, and he had the eerie sensation of being watched. But there was no time to dwell on it. He had a battle to survive and a village to protect.

One problem at a time, he told himself, gritting his teeth as he deflected another blow. Just one problem at a time.