RE: Monarch

Given the choice between descending into what we expected to be a cramped, sweltering smithy and remaining above, Maya understandably chose the latter.
As the smith led me down the stairway into the smithy proper, I realized the store and upper portion—already impressively sized for a tradesman's establishment—was only about half of the total space. The place opened into a wide courtyard at its center, complete with stone flooring marked by grooves that led to various drains.
It was sweltering hot, but less than it should have been, thanks to a system of vents and mana fans overhead that shunted smoke and heat upward through a series of metal conduits to several chimneys rising to the surface.
"So 'e says, your work is trash. Gutter clump. An affront to the work of any 'real' craftsman and disrespectful to the generations of culture and effort that led to the establishment of these weapons today. And I says, I ain't trying to be disrespectful. Iff'n it weren't for all their efforts and the methods they established, I wouldn't be able to get anything done. Then he gets nasty, specific-nasty—the worst kind—and starts questionin' me on my methods, making it out like he's the minister of all things Elven and I'm some bratty pupil he 'ntends to bend over his knee. I tell 'im the only knee I'll be bent over is my motter's, and his likely ain't pleased with the way he's comportin' himself in a civil setting. He gets real red in the face at that. Says if I'm so confident I won't have a problem processin' something for him, offers to pay fifteen golden rod a stone."
"How many stones?" I asked.
"Ten. Paid half in advance."
I whistled. It was no small amount, even beside the obvious success he was already seeing. He clearly needed investors to expand, saw a hostile braggart with a loose purse as an easy mark, and ended up as the easy mark himself.
"What does he get if you fail?"
"The advance sum returned, naturally." His eyes slid to the side. "With… some interest."
"Of course." He nodded, ducking his head sheepishly.
The forges were impressive, and it was easy to see where the man had drawn his confidence. There were as many forges as fires, and alongside the complex deep copper conduits and markings typical of dwarven work were others I didn't recognize—some simple and workmanlike, others light and decorated with gold, gems, and precious metals.
"Quite the variety on display. Though I suppose that was always your thing." I switched focus, studying the central high-steel forge. A cobalt blue lump sat at its center, while the typically bright radiant metal of the forge seemed to have darkened. "Tell me about the metal we're processing."
"Right." The smith's eyes rested on the lump of metal, his expression slightly crazed in the shadow. "Didn't take long for one of my boys to figure what it was. Not a lot of metals look like that'un, and nothin' else that does has that high of a melting point."
"So it's a temperature issue?" I confirmed, growing more confident.
"Most likely."
I raised an eyebrow. "Don't hold out on me now."
"It's just—" The smith blew out air, eyeing the unprocessed ore with caution. "—often difficult to divine truth from legend in terms of resources and processes that have been around for centuries. 'Specially when those resources are sparse. Lowhil, for example, doesn't actually need to be melted down and forged underground. Far as I can tell, that little myth started in the early days, when after gods knows how long, some bearded bloke—either by desperation or extensive trial and error—tried to melt down some of that weird green metal in an underground forge. Dwarven integration of airflow has come a long way in the last century, let's put it that way, so even with considerable space, you probably couldn't run that thing too hot without baking yourself."
"Misattribution." I realized. "They thought it had to be processed underground, when really, it needed a lower melting point."
"Exactly." The smith agreed, his gaze still lingering on the mystery ore. "And to the stocky fellows' credit, they figured it out fairly quickly. Likely 'cause Lowhil is fairly common where they frequent. Yet the myth remains."
"And what is our little friend's associated myth?" I picked up the lump of ore gently, turning it over in my hands, not really expecting to divine much from handling. My knowledge in that field was limited. Still, I frowned. There was something odd about the weight. Beyond significant density, somehow, it didn't perfectly match the way I was holding it. Almost like despite being clearly and obviously solid, the internals were loose enough to shift ever so slightly.
"Entirely unbelievable." The smith coughed out a laugh. "Uh. Ye know anything about the tripartite nature of Elphion?"
I whistled. "Father-mother-daughter. And now we're traveling deep into theological weeds."
"Not for long. Actually tryin' to take a shortcut. Accordin' to the priests, he's all of 'em. Elphion is. The Father, The Mother, and The Daughter, all at the same time. Even though at some point the latter two didn't exist, once he created 'em, or divided off parts of himself to do so, or whatever, they always existed."
"Even though technically they didn't. Because Elphion's considered unbound by time." My brow furrowed. It was an overcomplicated distinction that functionally did little more than offer another topic for bored clergy denied the rites of matrimony to debate.
Instead of explaining further, the smith shoved an upward palm towards the ore.
I blinked several times. "It's—what?"
"Stellaryte. 'Exists as everything it's ever been and everything it will be, simultaneously.' That's the myth, anyway. There's a longer explanation apt to make yer nose bleed. Short version is iff'n at some point in the past or future it was or will be forged into a grand blade, it'll be easier to make into a sword. Same with an axe, or spear."
"That seems… impossible." I shook my head. "This chunk is clearly mined. It's never been anything before now. And while I've heard of weapons being melted back down for materials, it's not that uncommon. Most forged swords will remain as they are until they are eventually forgotten. And even then they do not reform into ore."
"Right. Well, from what we've looked into, Stellaryte's the exception there. Stellar meaning celestial." He pointed to the sky above. "Comes from fragments of rock that descend from the heavens. Obviously, that makes it rare, so the elves frequently reuse it. It's most valuable when it's been in circulation for a while, because the potential for past and future is there. When it's like this—fresh off whatever rock it rode down on—there's only future potential." He openly scowled.
"So you really were set up." I rubbed my temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache.
"I hope—really hope, otherwise this was a complete scam—" He muttered the second part under his breath. "—that all that's just part of the mythmaking. A lot of the documented trouble folks seem to have working with freshly acquired stellaryte seems to be related to temperature. Can't melt the metal if you can't get the fire hot enough."
"Right." I looked around at the various tools and forges, not sure exactly what I was looking for. "I'll need something capable of withstanding a lot of heat."
"Throw a stone in any direction." He shrugged.
"
more than average."
"This would be a lot easier if you'd tell me what method you plan to use."
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
"It's…" I hesitated. "It's not exactly a secret, but I prefer to keep a low profile."
"Understood. My boys and I can appreciate a trade secret. Though I admit that trepidation of yours has got me mighty curious." He grinned, showing the gold tooth again.
I snapped my fingers, more for effect than anything else, and summoned a violet spark.
His eyes widened, and his grin grew broader. "Aren't we full of surprises."
/////
It was both a relief and surprise that Sparkwright already knew what Dantalion flame was. Thankfully, he had the propriety not to ask
I had it, though the comments he did make made it obvious he was fully aware of the infernal association.
In retrospect, it was likely a case of stones and glass houses. He was a smith who specialized in nonhuman arms and armaments, and I was a mage whose magic wasn't entirely my own.
Still, once he realized what he'd be working with, he grew excited, and the excitement proved infectious.
Our forge fire grew from a single spark and kindling housed in a deep pit of obsidian stone. As always, the violet flame grew easily. Left unaltered, it would have grown out of control, amaranth fingers reaching toward the sky and consuming the cast, potentially damaging it. With effort I kept the flames steady, letting the intensity climb ever higher.
Sparkwright's son, the one with airs, watched nearby, wincing from the heat that radiated outward. "Gods. If that doesn't do it, nothing will. Da', if that does the trick, how are you even gonna get close enough to remove the impurities? It's a volcano in there."
The smith clapped his thick gloves together. "What do I always tell ya, boy. The right gear for the job." Still, as he fastened the straps at the edge of the gloves to secure them, his smile slipped a bit.
"Can't keep it from causing serious injury if you touch it, but I can limit the effects somewhat, keep everything you're close to cooler than the crucible itself." I offered.
"Are you sure?" The smith looked between me and the growing fire.
I made it dance for him, rippling at first, then growing higher and lower in segments, like some infernal vanity fountain.
His eyebrows shot up. "Guess we'll take your word for it."
It turned out to be slow going.
After nearly an hour of repeated attempts, our collective patience was running dry. Nothing worked. I'd raised the temperature to the very edge of what both of us could stand, then lowered it. The tabard I'd stripped down to was damp with sweat, loose threads blackened in multiple areas.
Sparkwright, who'd clearly been holding out hope up to that point, seemed to deflate with disappointment, increasingly weighed down by the gathering sweat on his brow that threatened to travel lower, stinging his eyes. "It's alright. Think my boy was right though, if this ain't doing it, nothin' will."
The stubborn part of me didn't want to let it go. In a puerile way, it seemed ludicrous to cede defeat to a rock. Even one as exotic as this. There was one last avenue to pursue—if I actually intended to take it that far. I glanced at the smith. "Completing the full order might be out of the question."
"Aye." He agreed glumly.
"There's something I'd like to try. It requires an absurd amount of mana, but if it works, you'd have at least an ingot's worth to waggle in his face and save your pride."
Hope lit in his expression. "Better than nothing."
"I'll need you to turn away."
I waited. Once the smith complied, and I was certain none of his sons were apt to suddenly burst through the door, I removed my left glove and rolled up my sleeve. It wasn't certain whether it would work. I'd mostly used it to alter organic material, first on freshly killed creatures, then living, eventually working up to deconstructing and reconstructing myself in a rather brutal method of short-form teleportation.
Reproduction was easy enough. I'd done it countless times now. Alteration was far harder.
After another glance to confirm the smith was still facing away, I leaned forward and lowered my left arm into the blisteringly hot crucible. My chitinous fingertips scratched against the stone, and rivulets of sweat formed on my forehead. Mana poured into the asymmetrical slag, violet flame paling, growing in intensity until it was a vivid, blinding white.
I pictured it. The stubborn metal losing form, turning from solid to liquid, crumpling into itself and spreading out evenly amongst heavy steam and smoke.
Mana left me quicker than it should have. Like the ore itself was drinking from me like a well, drawing beyond what I intended to offer to my deeper stores. Much longer and my vision would gray, leaving me tapped.
Then the feeling of touching something solid disappeared beneath my fingertips.
My eyes snapped open, and I removed my hand, yanking my sleeve back down in a hurry, verifying that I was actually seeing the molten cerulean liquid before I held the arm behind me. "Smith!"
He whirled, fire casting manic shadows over his face as he carefully leaned over the crucible and found the newly changed contents, then hollered in delight.
"Now what?"
"
I skim out the impurities and we see about getting it in a cast of some kind."
"What sort of cast?"
"Dunno." He grinned toothily. "Our scammy friend didn't specify. Only that the ore be processed. An axe of that color would be a work of beauty, would it not?" He turned from the crucible in a hurry, hunting for potential candidates.
I stared deep into the cerulean swirls, molten sapphires among wisps of shadow. It carried all the brilliance of a star-filled evening. The darkness represented impurities that would be imminently removed of course, but even then, something about it didn't feel like an axe at all. "What about a sword?"
"Mmm." The smith made an uncertain sound. "There's not enough in there for the one-sided curve the elves prefer. We'd have to melt down more, and you said just doin' that'un drained ya dry?"
I nodded confirmation.
"Then that's likely what we're workin' with for now." He eyed the crucible with consideration. "Maybe… somethin' like a hand and a half-er?"
"That could work—"
"—Oh shite!" The smith rushed forward to the crucible, nearly shoving me out of the way to reach the bellows. But the molten metal had already dulled, growing more solid by the second. Despite my low stores, I spared a little to assist, encouraging the flames to rise.
After a few more minutes of grim effort, the smith threw up his hands in frustration. "It can't be done. And now it's stuck in there."
"I can try to loosen it up enough for you to pour it out at least."
"No. I've taken enough of your time. And my time, for that matter." The smith glowered at the crucible. "I've got others. I'll just… leave it be for now." He tossed the cast to the ground next to a pile of the stubborn ore, staring at both in annoyance.
Something about the earlier appearance made me want to make another attempt. Maybe it was a trick of the mind, or wishful thinking, but for a moment, something about it radiated potential. That, or my old taste for aesthetics coming back to haunt me. It had truly looked beautiful. Almost hauntingly so.
"We can try again tomorrow?" I offered. "Perhaps early in the morning."
"No. No, no, no." He repeated, resigned. He tossed me a clean soft cloth from a shelf and grabbed another with which he dabbed his forehead. "This is a parable of pride waitin' to happen. I can see when I'm bested. Any tradesman takes a wash at some point or another. Comes with the territory. Figure I'll call it there, maybe close up shop early so I can take the boys out to the river with the rest of the town—I'll get the lady's staff worked on later tonight, back to you by morning once we've finished nursin' off the festival hangover. Seem fair?"
Right. It was the entire point of coming down here, though something about leaving the task unfinished didn't sit well with me. "That more than suits our purposes. And despite this collective… setback—" I made a vague gesture at the still burning-out dantalion flame, snuffing it. "—I'm impressed with how much you've grown in such a short time. Our agreement still holds, and I'll send some of my folk to you within the month."
"Aye." He smiled, seeming to shrug off some of the lingering disappointment. "Appreciate that."
As my mind struggled to move on from the disappointment of the sword-not-to-be, my focus returned to more pressing matters. Lucius had given me and Maya a house. The castle was grand, yes, but it was never truly mine. It belonged to Uskar, and carried with it a great deal of duties and responsibilities that made it more of an institution than a place to live. The house carried none of those burdens. Something about that was deeply refreshing.
It meant a great deal to both of us, in ways I couldn't fully explain. Turnabout was fair play.
Unfortunately, I was unlikely to find something fitting within these walls. As sitting duke of the once-town-now-city—and a quite wealthy duke at that—it was probably impossible to locate something suitable within these walls over the course of a single afternoon that had somehow escaped his purview. A better gift would come later, likely during my travels. I'd know it when I saw it.
For now, it was best to stick with the classics.
Once we returned to the shop, Maya handed over her staff with the slightest hint of anxiety as she watched him take it, looking it over once more.
"Yup." The smith said, examining it. "It'll serve you better in one piece. Should feel safer too, won't have to wince every time you go to block an overhead."
"It won't be nearly as portable as before, but having it snap in two at a critical moment would be a rather silly way to die." Maya agreed, her nose wrinkling as I went to stand by her side. "You reek of smoke."
"I'll tidy up before our dinner this evening." I shrugged my coat back on, taking a moment to straighten it before returning my attention to the blacksmith. "Where can we find a good bottle of wine around these parts?"
"Ah." He smiled toothily, smacking the staff's golden head into his palm like a scepter. "I know just the place."