“As with all art, there are times when the needed effort meets only the barest minimum,” his master explained as he pumped the pedal that pushed air into the forge. “But there are times when I put a piece of my soul into the work. Times when the work is vital, and necessary, and the care and effort must rise to meet that need. Today, I craft you your weapons, Cyrus. They will be a part of me, and they will become a part of you. You will know them like you know your own fingers. They will connect to you as your own bones. Watch silently, young man. I ask only that you bear witness to the art, so you might appreciate its beauty when I gift you these blades. But first…”

He reached into the deep pockets of his apron and pulled out two sword hilts. They gleamed with silver, and their expertise was immediately apparent. Cyrus accepted them graciously, eager for a closer look. They were wrapped in soft black leather, and somehow they seemed perfectly crafted for his fingers. While their cross guards were similar, their bases were not. One was cut into the head of a roaring lion, while the other, the unfolded wings of a butterfly. Their details were formed of little indents and swirls cut into the metal, and Cyrus wondered how he’d never seen his master working on the two hilts before when they clearly had taken countless hours to make.

“They… they’re better than I deserve.”

“And yet exactly what you need,” Thorda said, and he gently took them back. “Find yourself a seat. While I seek to instruct in all things, in this I must apologize. This task is beyond your capabilities. Whatever questions you have, save them for the dinner table. Until then, do not break my concentration. Do not speak. Observe, and appreciate the art.”

Cyrus bobbed his head up and down.

“Yes, master,” he said, beyond eager to witness the man at his forge.

The folding of the steel took hours of sweaty, back-breaking labor, yet Thorda showed not a hint of exhaustion. Amid that forge he was as tireless as the march of seasons. Cyrus watched without saying a word, for he could feel something special happening, a magic far beyond his understanding. These swords… Thorda hadn’t been exaggerating. A piece of his soul was going into these weapons. His concentration never broke for an instant. Come nightfall, he set the worked steel aside and spoke for the first time in hours.

“We finish tomorrow.”

The next day, and an additional ten hours later, he declared the swords complete. For the final cooling, he poured a mixture of oils and petals into the water trough. “Trade secret,” he said, as if sensing Cyrus’s unspoken curiosity. The hiss of heat and steam was deafening in the twilight hour.