The Matric Blade Forge

In the elder days, when the world was yet young in labor but rich in toil, there stood a hall of stone, set deep within the vale of Dunric. There, men of hand and hammer gave rise to the Forge of Matric, so named for the first anvil set upon its hearth.

The forge knew no charms nor woven spells, but only the fire’s breath, the sweat of brow, and the ring of iron on steel. Day by day, sparks leapt like stars cast down, and the sound of hammering shook the rafters like thunder.

Among those who wrought within was Eadric, son of Oswin, whose arm bore both strength and patience. He was chosen to fashion a blade not for kingship nor for war of conquest, but for oath and duty. The blade was hewn of ore dug from the black vein of the mountain, tempered with water drawn from the clear brook that ran at the hall’s foot.

Long was his labor, for he sought not swiftness but truth in the steel. The others spake of weight and sharpness, yet Eadric spake of balance, of a blade that should not falter in hand nor break in trial. And when at last it was wrought, fair of edge and steadfast of spine, it was named the Matric Blade, in honor of the forge itself.

Men bore it into battle, yet its fame came not of slaughter, but of steadfast defense. It guarded the bridge at Fenlow, it kept the gate of Harlowe, and in the hands of worthy men it turned strife aside. Though the years wore on and kingdoms fell to dust, the memory of the Matric Blade endured—not as a relic of enchantment, but as a testament to the craft of mortal hands and the will of men who wrought with fire, iron, and faith alone.