Zegli held the crude iron band up to the forge light and frowned. The metal was uneven, the edges rough as broken stone. He'd been apprenticing in metalwork for three months now, but his hands still fumbled with the hammer. Every ring he made looked like twisted scrap. Still, he kept working. Somewhere in the Hidden Realm, Mirala crafted jewels that made nobles weep. She'd never notice a blacksmith's son who couldn't even forge a simple band. But legends had to start somewhere. His master had left him alone today with the new forge. The Celestial Midnight Cosmic Skyforge shimmered with colors that shifted like stars across a night sky. Zegli had never seen anything like it. The flames inside danced with purple and blue light. He placed another iron band into the heat and watched the metal glow. His hands shook as he pulled it out and set it on the anvil. The hammer felt heavy in his grip. He brought it down once, twice, three times. This ring would be better than the last. It had to be. One day, Mirala would hold his work in her hands and see what he could create. One day, she would know his name. A rattle of wheels on stone made him look up. A Dark Fae Sylvan Cart rolled past, loaded with raw gemstones from the quarries. The velvet lining cradled chunks of amber and jade. Zegli set down his hammer and stepped closer. Those stones would become something beautiful in skilled hands. His chest tightened. He returned to the anvil and picked up the ring he'd just hammered. Still crooked. Still wrong. But he dropped it into a bucket with the others and reached for fresh metal. The cosmic flames of the forge reflected in his eyes. He had time. He had determination. And he had a name to prove worthy of speaking aloud. The sun dropped lower as he worked through the afternoon. His master returned at dusk and examined the bucket of failed rings. The old fae said nothing, just pointed toward a building across the square. The Dark Fae Runic Bog Forge stood wrapped in mist, its walls marked with glowing symbols. That was where the real work happened. That was where masters crafted weapons and jewelry that lasted forever. Zegli wiped sweat from his face and looked at the strange building. One day he would work at a forge like that. One day he would make a ring so perfect that Mirala would have to see him. He picked up his hammer again. The bucket could hold more failures. He had all night.

Zegli needed to learn the basics before anything else. He couldn't forge a legendary ring if he couldn't shape simple metal. Every morning he arrived at the workshop before dawn. He heated iron in the forge until it glowed orange. He hammered each piece flat, then curved it into a circle. Most rings came out warped or cracked. His fingers blistered and bled through the cloth wraps. But each failure taught him something new about how metal moved under the hammer. By the end of his first week focusing on fundamentals, he made a ring that was almost round. It wasn't beautiful, but it held its shape. He placed it on the workbench and stared at it. This was progress. This was the beginning. His master told him that making rings meant nothing without understanding who would wear them. Zegli needed to study what jewelers actually wanted. He found the apprentice bench tucked in a corner of the market district. The workspace was small but organized, covered with delicate tools and a polished surface. Rings and pendants sat in neat rows. He watched the bench for three days, noting which pieces sold and which stayed behind. The simple bands never moved. The rings with texture and detail disappeared by noon. He picked up one of the rejected pieces and turned it over. Smooth metal caught no light, told no story. On the fourth day, he returned to his forge and added tiny hammer marks along a band's edge. The pattern caught the firelight. He smiled and set it aside to cool. The next lesson came harder than the others. Cooling metal at the right speed made the difference between strength and brittleness. His master showed him a pot decorated with stars and moons across its surface. The water inside would cool his work without cracking it. Zegli heated a band until it turned white-hot, then plunged it into the pot. Steam hissed up in a cloud. He counted to five and pulled the ring out with his tongs. The metal held firm, no cracks along the surface. He made three more rings that afternoon, cooling each one in the celestial pot. By evening, he had four bands that didn't break when he tapped them against the anvil. He lined them up on his workbench and studied each one. They weren't perfect, but they were whole. Mirala would never see these practice pieces, but someday she would hold something he made with these same skills. He wrapped his burned fingers in fresh cloth and banked the forge fire. Tomorrow he would make five rings. His master had one more thing to show him before the week ended. Outside the workshop stood a lightning rod covered in dark elven designs and celestial marks. The metal gleamed like polished midnight. His master explained that legendary work needed more than fire and hammer. It needed power from the storms themselves. Zegli touched the rod and felt a hum run through his fingers. This was how masters made pieces that lasted forever. This was how they put something extra into their work. He looked back at his forge, then at the rod again. He wasn't ready for that kind of crafting yet. But he would be. He thought of Mirala holding rings in her workshop, judging each one with careful eyes. When he finally made something for her, it would carry the power of storms and stars. He walked back inside and picked up his hammer. The basics came first, but now he knew where the path led.