Hephaestus's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The cast blade lay in its mold, cooling. Hephaestus set down the unread summons and limped closer. The steel should have hummed evenly as it gave up its heat. It did not. One side ticked faster than the other, and he heard the small wrong sound a craftsman never forgets. He lifted the blade free with care. It was beautiful already — curved, gold runes glinting along the fuller, the grip wrapped in deep blue. But when he tilted it to the light, a hairline split ran the length of its spine. A flaw thin as a hair. If he struck it now with his hammer to set the runes, the blade would shatter at his feet. The cyclops reached for the bellows. Hephaestus raised a hand. "No fire. No strike. Not yet." His hammer waited on the anvil, its orichalcum head heavy with patient weight. He would not lift it against a wound he could still close. He thought of his mother. He thought of the day her hands had let him go. He set the thought aside the way he set aside slag. Then he turned to his donkey, who stood quiet at the forge door. "Cold water. The deep spring. Bring it slow." She turned and went, golden bags swaying. When she returned, he bathed the spine in measured pours, drawing the heat out evenly, one breath at a time. Hours passed. The metal sighed. The hairline drew itself shut as the steel settled true. He ran a thumb along the spine and felt nothing but smooth, sound edge. The blade was whole. He set it on the rack, untouched by the hammer, and finally broke the seal on the summons. Hera's mark. Three short lines. Bring what you are making. The council waits. He folded the message once and looked at the perfect, unfinished blade. It was sound now — but it was not ready, and she was already calling for it.