A hint of distrust toward the blacksmith stirred within him. "Is there a way to test him?" Thoughts swirled in his mind as he considered how to confirm his suspicions. "Right, everyone here loathes it when someone insults Solaren. A subtle provocation might do the trick."


    "Frankly, I''m getting tired of this blind faith in the so-called benevolent god Solaren," he muttered quietly, his gaze fixed on the blacksmith. "How can the townsfolk justify such behavior in the name of the god of light and purity? Maybe it''s time to cross him off the list of orthodox gods altogether."


    Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the old blacksmith intently, gauging his reaction. "Please, let there be no change." To his relief, Bartho''s expression remained unmoved, as though he hadn''t even registered the words.


    "You might have a point," Bartho replied thoughtfully, his eyes distant. "But keep in mind, just because they act poorly doesn''t mean Solaren shares their views."


    "Do you believe in Solaren?" Azrael asked, his curiosity piqued as he studied the old blacksmith.


    A booming laugh burst from Bartho. "No, not at all! My faith lies with the Eternal Flame, the Ember of the Heart, the god of smiths, Drain."


    Azrael lowered his gaze, fidgeting with his hands as he pondered. "I''m not very familiar with the gods. My parents always thought it was important to keep me away from such topics. But now that they''re gone, and I''m no longer a child, I want to learn more."


    "Well, someone seems curious," Bartho remarked with a gentle smile that softened his weathered features. "Let''s start with the orthodox deities. There are six of them—though that''s not entirely accurate. There''s another deity, one that''s tolerated. Perhaps you''ve noticed that people don''t always describe the gods in the same way? That’s because there are different ways to refer to them.


    "For instance, with Solaren, you’ll often hear descriptions like ''the radiant light,'' ''the illuminated path,'' ''the embodiment of purity,'' ''the enlightenment of the soul,'' and so on."


    Bartho leaned back, his gaze growing distant as he revisited the stories of his childhood. "As you can see, it’s a form of worship that helps people understand their relationship with the gods. The qualities we attribute to them act like a mirror, reflecting what we seek within ourselves."


    Azrael nodded, his curiosity deepening with every explanation. The conversation awakened a desire within him—a yearning to learn more about the world around him and the secrets still waiting to be uncovered.


    "Ah, I see. That’s why you speak of the Eternal Flame—it represents the forge," Azrael interrupted, his interest sparkling in his eyes.


    "Exactly! But let’s move on to the gods themselves. Do you already know their names and titles?"


    "No, only Solaren," Azrael admitted, furrowing his brow.


    Bartho shook his head, his expression serious. "By the way, calling the god of purity simply ''Solaren'' is considered an insult. You should remember that, or it could come back to haunt you one day."


    Azrael''s eyes widened as he imagined the consequences of his ignorance. "I’ll have to keep that in mind. Otherwise, I might end up hanged for ignorance," he muttered, half amused, half concerned.


    "Alright, let’s begin," Bartho started, gathering his thoughts. "There’s the god of the Eternal Flame, Drain. He is worshipped primarily by smiths, though many other craftsmen find solace in his embers.


    "Then there’s the gentle wind, Zephyros. Some nature-bound peoples, revere him. But you should know that cities often have diverse beliefs."


    He paused, his voice taking on a reflective tone. "Faith is a complex landscape. Each person carries their own convictions, often shaped by their region and traditions. It’s fascinating how the gods influence people’s lives and shape communities."


    "Now, let’s move on to the Keeper of Life, Gaia. She is especially revered by those who place great value on agriculture and the preservation of nature. Her followers find inspiration and care in her, often centering their prayers around blooming fields and fertile soil."


    Bartho paused briefly, allowing the imagery his words evoked to settle before continuing. "The coastal peoples, on the other hand, tend to worship the tides'' ebb and flow, Thalassa. They see her as the embodiment of the sea’s power, both as a giver and destroyer of life. The gentle waves and violent storms are, for them, expressions of their faith and their connection to nature."Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    "And then there is the Keeper of the Night, Naira," he added, his voice lowering, almost reverent. "Her followers are primarily those who love the night. They’re often… peculiar, let’s say. They might be the most enigmatic among the adherents of the orthodox gods."


    Bartho let a moment of silence pass before continuing. "Lastly, there’s the seventh god, Arek, the Flame of Slaughter. He embodies war and bloodshed, and his followers are in constant conflict. Because of his destructive nature, he is merely tolerated in society. Worship of Arek is often steeped in fear and unease."


    "As you may have noticed," Bartho explained, his gaze resting on Azrael, whose eyes gleamed with curiosity, "the local environment plays a significant role in determining which beliefs dominate here."


    Azrael nodded in agreement, signaling that this had indeed caught his attention. Bartho allowed a brief moment of silence, giving the boy time to absorb the wealth of information. The sound of melting metal and the crackling fire filled the forge, as the dancing flames cast flickering light upon the walls.


    "That’s enough for today," Bartho finally said, casting a scrutinizing glance at the glowing furnace. "The steel should be ready soon. We’ll need to heat it again. Then we can begin forging your sword."


    Azrael opened his mouth to reply, surprised, but before his words could escape, a loud commotion outside the forge window interrupted him. The noise sounded like excitement, perhaps even unrest, and it made Azrael’s heart skip a beat for a moment.


    "Hang the white-haired one, hang the white-haired one!" a chorus of voices roared, their words dripping with unbridled hatred.


    "What now?" Azrael muttered, his brow furrowing.


    "Seems like they''ve got a problem with you," the blacksmith observed dryly, turning toward the window.


    Cautiously, Azrael moved closer, his steps measured, as if trying to present as little of a target as possible. The furious shouts stormed into the forge like a violent gust of wind. "There, that''s him!" they cried in unison. A particularly angry boy even hurled stones in Azrael''s direction. Quickly, Azrael pulled his head back, his heart pounding faster.


    "There are ten of them. Unarmed, but they''re furious and fully convinced of their actions," he said to the blacksmith standing beside him. "What should we do?"


    Bartho considered for a moment before nodding decisively. "We’ll secure the building." Together, they bolted all the doors and windows. Massive oak beams were wedged into place, groaning under the strain as they fortified the forge. For a brief moment, the sense of immediate danger seemed to subside, but the angry voices outside refused to let Azrael find peace.


    "We''ll proceed as discussed. First, we’ll take care of your equipment. Even with axes, it would be hard for them to break into the forge. We''ll watch and respond accordingly."


    Azrael nodded, though an uneasy feeling gnawed at the pit of his stomach. What will happen if things escalate? The muffled shouts from outside seeped through the thick wood of the doors and windows, carrying the tense atmosphere into the forge.


    "Now, boy," Bartho said firmly, "it’s time for you to tell me exactly what kind of weapon you want. I can’t engrave any runes for you at the moment. You’ll need to awaken your gift first."


    Azrael had thought about this question for a long time. Now that the opportunity had come, there was no turning back. His mind raced, every thought like a shadow flitting over another.


    Agility was his top priority. He needed to move swiftly, especially across the uneven terrain he often traversed. At the same time, he couldn’t ignore his physical limitations; his youthful strength couldn’t match the raw power of a fully grown fighter.


    "The weapon should be light and easy to handle," he murmured, imagining a blade forming in his mind. "But it should also have enough length to complement my height."


    He pondered the shape of the blade. Should it be curved or straight? Single-edged or double-edged?


    "My sword should be as light as possible. I want it to sit snugly across my back so it doesn’t hinder my movements. It shouldn’t have a crossguard, just a pronounced ricasso to keep me from injuring myself when thrusting. The blade needs a gentle curve, with a finely sharpened, tapered tip. As for the material… it should be matte, to absorb light rather than reflect it," Azrael rattled off in one breath.


    His words echoed through the forge, every detail articulated with precision. Bartho listened intently, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Azrael’s heart raced as he outlined his weapon, almost as if it were an extension of himself.


    “Ha ha ha!” The blacksmith burst out laughing, his face lighting up with delight. "I see you’ve put a lot of thought into this. Very good—you''re not taking your companion lightly. But I have to ask... This doesn’t sound like a primary weapon. Were you thinking of a second one?"


    "Yes, I want a bow," Azrael replied without hesitation. "A heavier sword would restrict my movements too much. I need to take full advantage of my agility."


    "Not a bad choice," the blacksmith nodded approvingly, his eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. "I happen to have a bow down in my cellar. It belonged to a good friend of mine. It''s the only keepsake I have left of him," he added with a sigh, his expression turning pensive.


    "I want to entrust it to you."


    Azrael''s heart skipped a beat. "Are you sure about this?" The thought of holding the blacksmith''s memento in his hands filled him with respect.


    "Would I offer it if I weren’t?" grumbled Bartho, though a small smile lingered in his voice.


    "Then I accept it gratefully."


    "Take good care of it," Bartho warned seriously, but the trust in his eyes shone through.


    "I will, I promise," Azrael vowed, feeling in that moment a little closer to the world of combat.


    "I''ll show you my library now. If you''d like, you can read something there. With your level of knowledge, my collection will definitely be helpful." Bartho smiled gently as he spoke.


    "Thank you, for everything," Azrael replied, his voice barely more than a whisper. At that moment, he realized that even with fifty years of bellows work, he would never be able to repay all these gifts.