The Dagger-Blade Forge

To thee, who read these words of elder days, be it known: in the age when men knew not yet the weight of kingdoms, but only the toil of hand and hearth, there dwelt a smith by the river’s bend. His hall was low of roof, blackened by smoke, and ever rung with hammer-song.

He was called Eadric, son of no lord, yet master of the fire. With stone hearth and bellows of hide, he wrought iron from earth’s hard veins. Oft he spake that a blade is not born of fire alone, but of patience, and of the strength of him that shapes it.

One winter’s morn, he set himself to forge a dagger, not for show, nor for the pride of battle, but for need. The fields lay barren, and men hungered; thus a keen edge was sought for the chase, that game might be won.

He drew the bar, red as dawn, and with each stroke of hammer did give it form. Long he labored, sweat and ash upon his brow, till the steel lay straight and true. Then he quenched it in the river’s flow, where steam did rise like ghostly breath.

At last the blade was ground, sharp as frost, and bound with a hilt of ash-wood. No gold, nor gem adorned it—only the mark of the smith’s hand, plain and steadfast.

So was the dagger made: not for kings, nor for songs, but for the life of simple folk. And though the years have worn away his name, the work of his fire abideth, whispering of an age when craft was honor, and the forge was man’s first stronghold.