Arthur’s voice rose, cutting through the noise like steel shearing against stone. "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?"
The words struck the arena like a bell tolling at midnight.
Silence followed. Heavy, suffocating silence. It pressed down harder than the heat of a forge, thicker than the smoke that clung to their clothes. Masters with decades at the anvil shifted uneasily. Apprentices fidgeted, glancing to their betters for an answer. Even the most prideful smiths avoided Arthur’s gaze, waiting for soone—anyone—to speak.
In this dieval like fantasy world, everyone knew why they did it. Or at least, they thought they knew.
To bury wrought iron in charcoal was tradition as old as mory itself. Pure wrought iron was soft, pliable—good for nails and horseshoes, but not for blades. Everyone knew it bent, it dented, it failed in battle. But long ago, by chance or error, so naless smith had discovered that if wrought iron was sealed in charcoal and left to smolder, the result was harder, sharper.
And so it beca law, passed down from master to apprentice, from guild to guild. Yet few truly understood why.
The truth—that the charcoal carried sothing unseen, seeping into the iron and changing it—was knowledge no smith possessed. They did not even have a word for "carbon." To them, it was mystery, ritual, tradition. Nothing more.
Finally, after long monts of shuffling feet and hushed whispers, a lone smith raised his voice. His tone was steady, though tinged with doubt. "To harden the iron, Your Majesty. Pure wrought iron is too soft. It bends. It dents. So we let it drink the fire of charcoal, and it becos stronger."
A murmur of agreent spread across the rows. Heads nodded. Apprentices glanced at their masters, reassured by the familiar answer. It was what they all believed. What they had always believed.
Arthur let the murmur of agreent hang for a heartbeat, his gaze sharp, unblinking, cutting across the crowd as if he could see straight into their thoughts. Then, with a voice as steady as iron striking steel, he spoke again.
"That is correct. Charcoal hardens wrought iron into steel. You have all been taught this. You have trusted this for centuries. But let ask you—do you truly know why we bury it in charcoal? Why it must be charcoal, and not sothing else? Why nothing else works so well?"
His words rang out like a hamr blow on an empty anvil, sharp and jarring.
The silence that followed was heavier than before. The smiths shifted uneasily, exchanging uncertain glances. The proudest masters frowned, their brows furrowing at the suggestion that their knowledge—passed down from master to apprentice for generations—might be incomplete. Apprentices bit their lips, suddenly doubting the lessons they had repeated without question since their first day at the forge.
Even Howen felt his gut twist. He had perford the ritual a hundred tis: sealing the iron in charcoal, waiting days for the smoke and ash to work their hidden magic. But never—never—had he stopped to ask why charcoal? Why nothing else?
The weight of the king’s question pressed down on every smith like an unseen anvil, threatening to shatter certainty into doubt.
The silence stretched, taut and suffocating. For a long mont, no one dared speak. Then, from sowhere in the rows of contestants, a voice rose, hesitant but loud enough to carry.
"Because... charcoal burns hotter, Your Majesty?"
A ripple of murmurs followed, so nodding, others frowning. It sounded reasonable enough.
Another smith, older, with a beard streaked gray, barked back with gruff certainty. "No, it’s not the heat. I’ve tried with hotter fires then charcoal—iron still bends if it’s not packed in charcoal. It must be the smoke. The smoke hardens it."
That earned a few mutters of agreent. Apprentices whispered, recalling the stinging, acrid fus that clung to their lungs for days. Perhaps the smoke itself fed strength into the tal.
Then a third, more scholarly-looking craftsman raised his voice. "It is the gods’ blessing! Charcoal is pure. Wood turned to black ash. It carries the fire’s spirit into the iron!"
A roar of laughter burst from so corners, derision from others.
Argunts flared. "It’s the fire, not the gods!"
"No, it’s the ash!"
"You fools, it’s the ti that hardens it, not the fuel!"
The arena descended into a low, chaotic rumble—masters red-faced, journeyn muttering, apprentices staring at their hands in doubt.
Arthur did not move. He stood tall on the platform, his gaze unyielding, his silence louder than their clamor.
At last, he raised a single hand. The noise collapsed into stillness.
His voice rang out, cold and sharp as drawn steel. "You see? Even among masters, there is no agreent. You have repeated the practice for centuries, yet not one of you truly understands it."
The crowd stiffened, the sting of his words cutting deeper than any blade.
Arthur’s next words carried the weight of revelation. "The truth is this: it is not fire alone, nor smoke, nor the will of gods. It is sothing hidden within the charcoal itself, sothing you cannot see. Sothing that seeps into the iron while it sleeps in the fire. That sothing is what makes your steel."
A hush fell, heavy with disbelief. Whispers stirred like restless embers, waiting for the king to na the secret.
Arthur let the silence linger, then his voice dropped lower, steady and deliberate, forcing every ear to strain.
"What lies within charcoal is more than fire, more than smoke. It is a substance you cannot see, cannot hold in your hand. It hides in the black wood, in the ash, in the very marrow of the fuel itself. When iron is sealed within, this essence seeps into it, changing it, hardening it. That is what makes steel."
Confusion rippled through the smiths. So frowned, others shook their heads. Yet many leaned forward, caught between disbelief and dawning curiosity.
Arthur’s gaze swept across them. "You call it mystery. You call it blessing. I call it by its true na—carbon."
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