Darunia's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Darunia gripped the ancient hammer, feeling its weight in his massive hands. The forge techniques of his ancestors called to him like the mountain's heartbeat through stone. He wanted to master every secret they had left behind, every method of shaping metal that made Goron blades legendary. Sweat dripped from his mane as he studied the worn marks on the hammer's handle—grooves made by generations of craftsmen before him. This knowledge mattered more than guarding rubies or sealing darkness. This was his people's true legacy, and he would claim it. He found the ruined blacksmith forge in a clearing, its stone walls charred black from old fires. Twisted metal remnants jutted from the rubble like broken bones. Darunia circled it slowly, reading the story in the destroyed structure. Someone had worked here once, shaping heated metal into tools and weapons. The heavy stone anvil still stood in the center, scarred but solid. He set down his hammer and ran his fingers across its pitted surface. This would do. Here, away from his duties on Death Mountain, he could practice the hammer strikes his grandfather had taught him as a child. Here, he could fail without shame and learn without watchers. The forge was dead, but its anvil remained ready to ring under his hammer. But he needed materials. Darunia spotted a wooden cart near the tree line, half-filled with rough stones of different sizes. He pulled it closer to the ruined forge, wheels creaking under the load. Some of the rocks would work for rebuilding the forge walls. Others might contain ore he could heat and shape. He lifted one stone, testing its weight and density. Not iron, but something harder. He tossed it back into the cart and selected another. This place would become his workshop, his training ground. Every dawn he would come here to practice. Every strike of the hammer would bring him closer to the mastery his ancestors had achieved. The mountain could wait. The seals could hold. This was his path now. Three days later, Darunia stood before his rebuilt forge. The circular stone hearth rose from the clearing floor, constructed from the salvaged rocks he'd hauled in the cart. He'd worked through each night, fitting stones together with the same care his ancestors used for their strongest walls. The structure held firm when he tested it with his fist. Now he just needed fire hot enough to soften metal. He arranged dried wood inside the hearth and struck his hammer against stone until sparks caught. Flames climbed higher as he fed them. Heat washed over his face, and he smiled for the first time in weeks. The workshop was ready. Tomorrow, he would begin forging his first blade using the old techniques. Tomorrow, his real training would start.