Hephaestus's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The forge roared, but Hephaestus knew the sound was wrong. He raised his golden thermometer to the flame and watched the glowing liquid climb, then stall. Too low. The curved steel waiting in the cauldron would pour weak. A brittle blade would shatter at Hera's feet, not bow her. He limped to the smelting cauldron and pressed a hand against its orichalcum side. Warm, not searing. The molten steel inside swirled sluggish and dim. He had hours, maybe less, before the pour window closed and the metal seized into ruin. "More air," he called. The cyclops gripped the giant bellows and heaved. Canvas panels swelled. Wind rushed the coals. The thermometer climbed a notch, then stopped again. The fire was starving for fuel the cyclops could not carry fast enough. Hooves clicked on stone behind him. His donkey came forward on her own, golden bags swaying at her flanks. She had hauled hardwood and black coal up the mountain paths for him since the day he rebuilt his legs. He did not need to ask. She knelt, and he unloaded the dense fuel in armfuls, feeding it deep into the heart of the forge. The cyclops worked the bellows again. This time the coals went white. The thermometer surged, the gold liquid leaping past the mark he needed. Hephaestus seized the cauldron's handles with iron tongs and tipped. Molten steel poured clean and bright into the curved mold, hissing, settling, holding its shape without a single dark vein. He stepped back. The blade was cast. It was not finished, not sharpened, not runed, but it was sound. He rested a hand on the donkey's neck and said nothing. Outside, a messenger bird circled the forge gate, carrying a summons he had not yet read.