"Before the final blades are tested," Arthur declared, his voice rolling across the arena like thunder, "there is sothing I must say."
The words struck like a hamr blow.
All motion ceased. The roar of the stands crumbled into silence. Smiths froze at their forges, soot-stained hamrs hanging limp in calloused hands. Judges paused mid-step, quills suspended above parchnt. Every eye turned to the raised platform where the king stood.
Arthur’s cloak stirred in the breeze as he swept his gaze across the sea of faces—competitors with sweat and ash still clinging to their skin, nobles leaning forward in their jeweled seats, commoners craning on tiptoe.
"The last five blacksmiths," he said, his tone deliberate, asured, "whose blades are yet untested... are not true contestants."
The words rippled outward like sparks flung onto dry straw. Gasps and murmurs surged through the stands. Smiths glanced at one another—frowns deepening, jaws tightening, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Not contestants?" a rchant muttered aloud.
"Then who in the forge’s na are they?" another whispered, voice trembling with intrigue.
The judges alone remained still, faces carved from stone. They had known this truth from the beginning. But for everyone else, the revelation struck with the sharp shock of steel shattering on an anvil.
Arthur raised his hand. Silence fell once more.
"They are not here as rivals," he continued, his voice cutting sharp and clean. "They are my smiths—blacksmiths of the royal forge. Apprentices who serve under my banner. For five days they have worked beside you—not as masters, not as nobles, but as fellow craftsn. Their purpose here was never to claim the prize..."
He let the pause linger, tension stretched taut as drawn wire.
"...but to prove sothing greater. To show what can be forged when new thods are taught. To show steel born not from tradition alone, but from innovation."
The crowd stirred again—not with outrage this ti, but with restless curiosity. Whispers rippled like wildfire.
Royal apprentices... innovation... steel...
Arthur’s gaze sharpened. His next words fell heavy, striking the heart of every smith.
"Though they are but apprentices, the swords they have forged in these five days will surpass the work of many here—even the blades of masters who have spent decades at the anvil."
Gasps erupted, swelling into cries of disbelief.
Arthur did not stop. His eyes swept over the foreign smiths, then the stands, where richly dressed envoys sat stiff and uneasy. "Yes. Even among you are fad blacksmiths of Keldoria. Even masters from Chronos, whose nas command respect across the seas. And yet... you shall see with your own eyes what these so-called ’apprentices’ have achieved."
A low rumble tore through the competitors. Pride flared like fire stoked too high.
"How dare he!" one master growled.
"Better than us? Apprentices?" another spat, knuckles white around his hamr.
The air trembled with tension, like a forge overheated and ready to burst.
Arthur, unshaken, raised his hand again. His voice thundered above the unrest.
"Do not mistake . This is not because of their talent or genius. No—these five are not prodigies. They are ordinary smiths, no different from many of you. What sets them apart is what they were taught and how they make the sword. Nothing more."
His words fell like molten steel poured into water—searing, hissing, cracking pride apart.
For the seasoned masters, this was more insult than reassurance. It stung deeper than if Arthur had praised his royal apprentices as prodigies. To say ordinary n had surpassed them was an affront to every hour, every decade, they had spent at the forge.
Yet among the crowd, not all wore scowls.
Apprentices and journeyn like Howen leaned forward, eyes blazing with anticipation. Even so masters, their pride tempered by curiosity, stayed quiet, waiting. They wanted to hear what the king truly ant.
What new thods could raise ordinary smiths above legends?
The question burned in every heart. Whispers rattled through the stands, apprentices and masters alike trading uneasy glances.
Arthur lifted his hand for silence, his voice steady and sharp. "I do not know if you noticed it—those who worked beside them, or those of you watching from the stands—but the five apprentices of the royal forge did not follow your ways. Their process... differs greatly from the tradition you have all inherited. Different from the thods passed down through every guild, in every kingdom."
His words struck like a hamr blow, and at once mories stirred.
Howen blinked, his mind racing back over the past five days. He rembered clearly now—the smith at the workstation beside his own. On the very first day, when every competitor labored to pack wrought iron into charcoal, sweating as they waited for the slow transformation into steel, that man had done no such thing. He had gone straight to the forge. No charcoal. No days of smoldering preparation. He had thrust the iron into the flas, pulled it out glowing, and hamred without pause—his anvil ringing loud while the rest of them toiled in silence.
At the ti, Howen had dismissed it as arrogance, or perhaps so oddity of habit. But now, with the king’s words echoing across the arena, realization struck.
And he was not alone.
Across the field, other smiths shifted uneasily, recalling the sa thing. Competitors who had worked near the royal apprentices now exchanged low, urgent whispers. Even in the stands, those who had co early on the first day were nodding vigorously, rembering the strange sight.
"Yes," Arthur said, his eyes gleaming as he scanned the crowd. "You saw it, did you not? While the rest of you spent a day, two days, locking wrought iron into charcoal to coax it into steel, these five went straight to hamring. Their forges roared while yours sat waiting. Their anvils rang from the first morning."
The crowd stirred again, nods rippling through both stands and smiths’ ranks. The murmurs were louder now, tinged with unease.
Arthur’s voice rose, cutting cleanly through the noise. "Now let ask you all a question—every smith here, every master, apprentice, and journeyman alike. Why? Why do you place wrought iron into charcoal? Why do you spend days at this task, locked in smoke and ash, before ever taking up your hamr?"
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