The weight of steel

The blue flame flickered violently in Adam's palm before sputtering out, leaving his skin red and raw. Across the training chamber, Cassian grunted and tossed him a water skin.  
"Again," Cassian ordered.  
Adam wiped sweat from his eyes, ignoring the blisters forming on his palm. He focused on the heat building in his core, willing it forward—  
"Enough." Cassian's calloused hand gripped his shoulder. "You'll burn yourself out before supper."  
The house smelled of rosemary and slow-cooked rabbit when they entered. Elowen stirred the iron pot hanging over the hearth, her wooden spoon scraping against well-worn metal.  
"Sit," she said without turning. "Food's ready."  
Adam collapsed onto the familiar bench at their oak table, its surface scarred from years of use. Storm immediately shoved his snout under Adam's elbow, sniffing for scraps.  
"Tomorrow," Cassian said between bites of stew-soaked bread, "we go to town. You'll need your own steel."  
Adam's spoon froze halfway to his mouth. "A real sword?"  
"Short blade first. Then we'll see how you handle it." Cassian pointed his bread at Adam's still-reddened palm. "Better control than you showed today, hopefully."  
That night, Adam lay awake staring at the ceiling beams. His fingers twitched at his sides, still feeling phantom flames. Storm's warm weight pressed against his legs, the drake's breathing slow and even.  
Dawn came too soon.  
The market square erupted with noise as they arrived—shouting merchants, clattering carts, the rhythmic clang of Borin's hammer from the smithy. A garishly dressed man suddenly blocked their path, his gold-ringed fingers reaching toward Storm.  
"Magnificent drake! Thirty silver!"  
Adam yanked Storm back by the scruff. "He's not for sale."  
The merchant licked his lips. "Forty then! Every beast has"  
Cassian stepped between them, his shadow swallowing the smaller man whole. "You heard my son."  
Borin's forge blazed like a second sun. The blacksmith took one look at Adam and grinned. "First steel, boy?" He pulled a short sword from the rack—unadorned, practical, deadly.  
The blade balanced perfectly in Adam's grip. He swung it experimentally, marveling at how the steel caught the morning light.  
"Twenty silver," Borin said.  
"Fifteen," Cassian countered.  
While they haggled, Adam studied his reflection in the polished steel. The boy staring back looked different somehow older, harder. More like his father.  
Pell's Leatherworks smelled of tannin and oil. The old craftsman wrapped measuring cords around Adam's forearm, muttering about dragonhide bracers and proper stitching.  
When they stepped back into the square, Cassian turned toward the eastern road instead of home. "One last stop."  
The abandoned watchtower stood crumbling on the hill, its stones weathered by generations of wind and rain. Cassian placed a hand on the sun-warmed rock.  
"Your grandfather held this post during the border wars," he said. "Not for glory. So they owe us a favour.  
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Adam adjusted his new sword at his hip. Not a noble's ornament, but a tool. Like his fire. Like his hands. The path ahead stretched far beyond market stalls and training yards and for the first time, he felt ready to walk it.