Kael placed the hammer in Hatim's hands like one might pass down a legacy—or a judgment. It was heavier than it looked. A long-handled brute of forged steel, unmarked by glyphs but radiating an undeniable presence. Its cold weight sank into Hatim's palms and down his spine like a stone dropped into still water, rippling doubt through his limbs.
"This is where you start," Kael said simply, his voice swallowed partially by the roar of furnaces and the hiss of quenching vats. Around them, the forge was alive with rhythm: clanging hammers, bellows groaning like slumbering beasts, metal shrieking under pressure. The heat was relentless, curling off the glowing anvils in waves that made the air itself shimmer.
Hatim's gaze dropped to the iron laid out on the anvil before him—an angry, radiant orange, like molten wrath held just barely in check. It pulsed faintly with Akar, but not the elegant flow he was used to. This was dense, gritty, and uncooperative.
"Hammer's song," Kael called over the din. "It's not just about strength. It's rhythm. Patience. Listening. You feel the iron—its defiance, its will. And you guide it. Not with force, but with intent."
Kael stepped forward and demonstrated. His body moved with a craftsman's grace—shoulders rolling, wrists loose, every motion fluid. The hammer arced, then slammed down with a resonant CLANG that shivered through the stone floor and into Hatim's bones. Sparks flared like fireflies fleeing from battle. The iron bent, flattened slightly, obedient to Kael's rhythm.
There was something subtle riding Kael's skin, too—a shimmer, like light dancing just beneath the flesh. It was the Sennari glyph at work, not flaring but humming—integrated, disciplined. His muscles glowed faintly as they moved in perfect accord with the heat and strain, more of a pact than a push.
"Your body is the hammer," Kael said, stepping back. "Your Akar is the flame. Shape reality with both, or you shape nothing at all."
Hatim swallowed. He stepped to the anvil. The hammer's grip was rough, already moist with his palms' sweat. He raised it awkwardly, mimicking Kael's stance, but everything about the motion felt wrong. His shoulder ached. His fingers slipped slightly.
He brought it down.
THUNK.
The hammer hit at an angle. Sparks burst like startled birds, but the iron barely shifted. The noise wasn't the clean, singing impact Kael had made—it was a graceless thud that seemed to mock him. Pain radiated up through his wrists.
"You're fighting it," Kael snapped. "Don't wrestle the hammer, Hatim. Don't challenge the metal. Lead it. Speak to it. Let it push back. Then answer."
Hatim adjusted, sweat already dripping down his brow, stinging his eyes. He raised the hammer again, his arms trembling from the strain. This time, he struck harder.
CLANG!
The hammer rebounded jarringly, nearly leaping from his grip. The blow was off-balance. His shoulder screamed in protest, a dull burn igniting through his joints and into his chest. The Veshan lines on his arms—normally warm and alive with Akar—were dim. Silent. The sensation was wrong, like reaching for a friend who refused to answer.
He'd spent weeks learning the fine control of glyphs, tracing their curves with care, coaxing Akar into shape like an artist with a brush. This was different. This was violence tempered by discipline. It was not drawing—this was carving with fire and muscle and sweat. And it was undoing him.
Frustration built in his chest like steam behind a sealed vent.
Again. He struck again. CLANG. Again. CLANG. But his motions lacked the confidence, the depth of Kael's. The iron remained stubborn. Hatim's palms blistered. His spine bent under the weight of failure. The other apprentices were sneaking glances now—none openly mocking, but their silence was worse. The kind of silence given to those who fall short of whispered legends.
He could feel the pressure building in his meridians, his core trying to offer him raw Akar, trying to help. In desperation, he let it surge.
But the release was wrong. Too fast. Too much.
Heat exploded inside him. His limbs trembled violently. His vision wavered, the forge swaying like a ship in a storm. He dropped the hammer. It hit the stone floor with a clatter that sounded like failure.
He stumbled back, reaching blindly for the water skin strapped to his belt. His throat was dry as burnt leather. He drank greedily, letting the water cool his inner fire, but the shame was a blaze all its own.
"Overheating already?" Kael asked, folding his arms. There wasn't cruelty in his tone, but there was judgment. "That Akar of yours is raw, undisciplined. You throw power around like a child with a torch. You don't channel it. You bleed it."
The words bit deep. Hatim stared down at his hands—blistered, trembling, smeared with soot and failure. He remembered the way Kander had looked at him after the Veshan shield. The pride. The belief. And now…
Now he was barely a boy holding a hammer, standing in the very heart of Embermark's might, trying to prove he belonged. His whole body hurt. His soul felt heavier.
Kael didn't offer sympathy. He didn't offer praise.
"Again," he said.
Hatim looked at the iron—unyielding, unshaped. Then at the hammer, lying where he had dropped it. His breath came slow, steadying. The heat was still there, in his blood. His arms still trembled. But there was no turning away.
He picked up the hammer.
And struck.