Grayhaven

The air in the workshop was thick with the acrid tang of melted metals and the faint, almost spicy scent of ink. Zeke StrongHammer leaned over a worn wooden table, his calloused fingers tracing the intricate curves of a magic sigil etched into a shard of copper. His eyes burned from hours of concentration, but he didn't dare blink.

"Focus... Just a little more," he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, as if the words alone could coax the copper to hum with energy.

With a shaky breath, he pressed the needle-like tool against the sigil's center and whispered a string of incantations he'd memorized from a half-burned grimoire. The shard glowed faintly blue for a fleeting moment before fizzling out with a sharp crack. Sparks flew, and the shard split in two, leaving Zeke's hopes as shattered as the metal in his hands.

"Blasted thing!" he roared, flinging the broken shard across the room. It clattered against a wall plastered with scribbled notes, diagrams, and scraps of parchment covered in experimental sigils.

He slumped into a rickety chair, running a soot smudged hand through his brown hair. No beard to tug in frustration, no comforting reminder of tradition—just the bare skin of his chin, as much a sign of his outsider status as his obsession with magic.

For a dwarf, failure was a common lesson, but for Zeke, it was a constant companion. His people weren't made for this, magic refused to flow into their bodies, repelled by the very essence of dwarven kind. Yet here he was, a free dwarf, stubbornly trying to defy every expectation.

"Mad. That's what they all call me." He snorted bitterly, the words echoing the jeers he heard every time he ventured out. "Crazy Zeke, with his copper scraps and ink-stained hands."

The slums of Greyhaven stretched beyond his workshop, a sprawling maze of cobblestone streets and sagging wooden buildings. Humans, elves, and the occasional orc barked orders at ragged dwarves hauling crates or scrubbing soot-stained walls. Zeke had seen it a thousand times. his kin, shackled by debt or chains, their pride as solid as the anvils they once worshiped now beaten thin.

He tightened his worn leather satchel around his shoulder, stuffing his latest failed experiment inside. As much as he wanted to avoid the streets, he needed more copper and ink. Without them, his work, his dream, would stall. And if there was one thing Zeke hated more than failure, it was standing still.

The market buzzed with the noise of haggling voices and the clinking of coins, though the sound didn't drown out the occasional curses flung at dwarven laborers.

"Out of the way, runt!" a human merchant barked as Zeke sidestepped a cart piled high with sacks of grain. He ignored the insult, keeping his eyes on a ramshackle stall at the far end of the square. The vendor there, a wiry gnome named Kellin, was one of the few who would do business with him without sneering.

"Zeke!" Kellin greeted him with an exaggerated bow. "What can I do for the workshop wizard today? New batch of sigils blow up in yer face?"

Zeke rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the smirk tugging at his lips. "Got any copper scraps? Good stuff, not the brittle junk you gave me last time."

"Brittle, he says!" Kellin feigned offense but rummaged through a crate behind his stall. "You're lucky I'm in a generous mood."

As the gnome laid out a few pieces of copper, a group of humans approached. Their leader, a tall man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, glanced at Zeke and chuckled.

"Isn't that the crazy dwarf who thinks he's a wizard?" the scarred man sneered. "Shouldn't you be swinging a pickaxe somewhere, mud dog?"

Zeke's hand twitched, his fingers brushing the strap of his satchel. He wanted to retort, to snap back with something clever, but he bit his tongue. Drawing attention wouldn't help him here.

"Leave the lad alone," Kellin muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. The humans laughed as they moved on, their jeers fading into the din of the market.

"Thanks," Zeke said quietly.

"Don't thank me too much," Kellin replied, his tone light but his eyes serious. "You've got guts chasing this dream of yours, Zeke. Just make sure it doesn't get you killed."

Back in his workshop, Zeke spread the copper scraps across his table. He picked up his crude staff—a creation of his own making, etched with sigils that had yet to yield results and stared at the fractured amulet hanging from its top. He didn't know why, but he felt drawn to it, as if it held answers he hadn't yet uncovered.

On a nearby shelf, amid cluttered jars of ink and stacks of mismatched parchment, sat a tattered book bound in peeling leather. The edges of its pages were yellowed and brittle, stained by time and neglect. Zeke reached for it, his fingers lingering on the cover, where faint embossing hinted at a once, proud title: On the Art of Magic. The book was far from complete; entire sections had been torn out, and the ink of many pages had faded to near illegibility. But what remained had captured Zeke's imagination like nothing else.

This book was where it had all started.

He opened it carefully, the spine crackling in protest as he turned to a page he had nearly memorized. A faded illustration depicted a tall figure cloaked in flowing robes, wielding a staff topped with a radiant crystal. Below it, jagged symbols were sketched in meticulous detail, sigils of power, or so the book claimed. The accompanying text described wizards as beings who bent the very fabric of the world to their will, commanding fire, ice, and lightning with mere words and gestures.

"Sigils of power." Zeke muttered, tracing the faded lines of one illustration. His own staff leaned against the table beside him, a crude reflection of the image in the book. The copper tipped top was scarred with his failed sigils, the leather wrapping along its length fraying with use.

When he'd first stumbled upon the book, discarded in an alley behind a human merchant's shop, he'd thought it a sign. A calling, even. It had ignited something within him, a yearning to wield the kind of power described in its pages. He had imagined himself standing tall, a staff glowing in his hand, earning the respect of the humans who sneered at him and the dwarves who called him mad.

But dreams were harder to forge than steel.

"They think I'm mad," he muttered to himself, the words half a mantra, half a promise. "But one day, they'll see. Magic isn't just for elves and humans. There's got to be a way."

He closed the book gently and returned it to its place on the shelf, careful not to damage the fragile pages further. The staff and the sigils etched into it were his homage to the wizards described in the book. He didn't know if they would ever work, but they represented hope, a chance to prove that even a dwarf could command the power others believed was beyond his reach.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

He pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and began sketching a new sigil, his hand steady despite the weight of failure pressing on his shoulders. The world around him was cruel and unyielding, but Zeke StrongHammer would not break. Not while there was still copper to etch and ink to spill.

As he worked late into the night, the faint hum of energy from the cracked amulet caught his attention. The glow was almost imperceptible, but it was there, flickering like a distant star. Zeke froze, his heart pounding.

"Did you just...?" He reached out, his fingers brushing the amulet's surface. The hum faded, leaving only silence.

A spark of hope ignited in his chest. Whatever it was, magic, a trick of the light, or something else entirely, it was a sign. He wasn't done yet.

Brayholt

The summer sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows through the neat rows of orchard trees. Alric wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, his hands sticky with sap. He worked rhythmically, pulling ripe apples from the branches and dropping them into the worn wooden basket at his feet. The orchard buzzed with quiet life, the chirping of birds, the hum of insects, and the distant laughter of field workers.

"Alric!"

He jumped, nearly knocking over his basket. Turning, he saw Lyanna Ironhart, the manor lord's daughter. Her golden hair caught the sunlight as she darted between the trees. She skidded to a halt beside him, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"You shouldn't be here," Alric said, glancing around nervously. "If someone sees us,"

"They won't," she interrupted, brushing off his concern. "I have news! A knight's procession is passing through Brayholt today!"

Alric froze, his heart racing. "Knights?"

"Yes! Father says they're enroute to the capital. They'll be on the eastern road soon."

The orchard and its endless chores vanished from Alric's mind. His grip tightened on the basket's handle. "Are you sure?"

Lyanna grinned, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the edge of the field. "Come on, we can hide by the road and watch them!"

The two slipped through the trees, careful to stay out of sight. They reached a low hill overlooking the eastern road and crouched behind a thicket of bushes. Alric's heart pounded with anticipation as he scanned the horizon.

The sound of hooves and clinking armor broke the quiet. Moments later, the procession came into view.

Knights, their banners fluttering in the breeze, rode in gleaming rows atop powerful horses. Their armor shone like silver, polished to perfection, and their swords hung at their sides, sharp and ready. Alric's breath caught in his throat.

"They're amazing," he whispered.

Lyanna nodded, her voice hushed. "See that one in the middle? That's Sir Fallon. He's a famous knight from the western marches."

Alric watched, wide-eyed, as the procession passed. The knights exuded power and authority, everything he dreamed of embodying. Then, the spell was broken.

A peasant carrying a bundle of firewood emerged from the trees, his arms trembling under the weight of the load. Distracted by the commotion of the knights, he misstepped, tripping on a raised root and tumbling into the road. The bundle scattered across the dirt, startling one of the knights' horses. The animal reared with a sharp whinny, its hooves pawing the air as its rider struggled to regain control.

Dirt and broken twigs flew into the air, splattering against the knight's polished armor and the pristine barding of his mount. The knight looked down at his sullied breastplate, his face twisting with fury as he glared at the trembling peasant still sprawled in the dirt.

"You filthy wretch!" the knight bellowed, his voice thunderous. He dismounted in one swift motion, drawing his sword.

Alric tensed.

The peasant fell to his knees, stammering apologies, but the knight's fury burned bright. He raised his sword high, intent on striking the man down.

Then, a voice cut through the tension.

"Enough."

Sir Bray stepped into the road, his presence calm yet commanding. A tall man with broad shoulders, his age showed in the silver of his golden hair and the lines etched into his face, but there was nothing frail about him. His weathered steel breastplate caught the sunlight, polished but worn from decades of use. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a weapon as old and reliable as the knight himself. His hazel eyes, steady and unwavering, seemed to see straight through the anger of the younger knight.

"This man meant no harm," Bray said evenly. "There is no honor in spilling blood over a scuffed breastplate." The knight sneered. "This is none of your concern, old man."

Sir Bray stood firm. "You're a knight. Act like one."

The crowd murmured, and the knight's face reddened with anger. He swung his sword, a quick, brutal arc meant to cut Bray down.

Bray's blade was out in an instant, parrying the strike with deft precision. He sidestepped, disarming the knight with a flick of his wrist. The younger man stumbled back, humiliated, as the crowd cheered.

Sir Bray didn't press the advantage. He lowered his sword and turned to the peasant, helping him to his feet. "Go on," he said gently. "You're safe now."

Hidden in the bushes, Alric's chest swelled with pride. "Did you see that?" he whispered. "Sir Bray is amazing."

Lyanna smiled. "He's my father. Of course, he is."

Before they could leave, three familiar figures appeared behind them.

"Well, well," said Darin, the leader of the local bullies. "What do we have here? The lord's daughter and her pet dwarf."

Alric rose quickly, putting himself between Lyanna and the older boys. "Leave us alone, Darin."

Jace and Kolt, Darin's lackeys, laughed. "What's wrong, beardling?" Kolt sneered. "Still dreaming about being a knight?"

"Yeah," Darin said, crossing his arms. "Maybe Sir Bray can knight you, too. Oh, wait, he's not a real knight. He's a coward who hides behind his title."

Alric's fists clenched. "Take that back."

Darin smirked. "Why? Everyone knows it's true. Sir Bray's too soft to be a real knight."

"That's enough!" Lyanna snapped, stepping forward.

Darin shoved her back. "Stay out of this, princess."

Before he could react, Alric lunged, his dwarven strength catching Darin off guard. He tackled the older boy to the ground, the impact knocking the wind out of him. Alric swung wildly, landing a punch that bloodied Darin's nose before Jace and Kolt jumped in.

Despite his size, Alric fought fiercely, his muscles honed from years of labor giving him a surprising edge. But three against one was too much. The boys pinned him down, raining blows until his arms felt like lead.

"Stop it!" Lyanna screamed, throwing herself between them. Her father's voice thundered from the road.

"Lyanna!" Sir Bray's stern voice froze everyone in place.

The bullies scrambled to their feet and fled, their laughter echoing as they disappeared into the trees. Lyanna turned to her father, her face pale with guilt.

"I was just,"

"Go back to the manor," Sir Bray said firmly, though his tone softened as he looked at her. "Now."

She hesitated, glancing at Alric, who lay bruised and bleeding on the ground.

"Go," Bray repeated, his voice brooking no argument. Lyanna bit her lip and ran.

Bray knelt beside Alric, his weathered hands gentle as he examined the boy's injuries. He pulled a small tin of salve from his belt, applying it to a cut on Alric's forehead.

"You've got a strong spirit, lad," Bray said quietly. "But you need to learn when to stand down."

"They pushed her," Alric muttered, his voice shaky. "I couldn't just let them,"

Bray smiled faintly. "And I thank you for defending my daughter. It shows courage and honor. But bravery without discipline can get you killed."

Alric nodded, wincing as Bray dabbed at another wound.

"You remind me of myself," Bray said, his tone thoughtful. "Always ready to jump into a fight, even when the odds were against me. But remember, Alric, true strength isn't about how hard you can hit. It's about knowing when to fight and when to let your actions speak louder than your fists. The sharpest weapon you have is your mind, not your weapon."

Bray rose, his imposing figure silhouetted against the fading sunlight. "Rest now. You've earned it."

Alric watched him leave, his words echoing in his mind. Later that night, as he lay on his straw mattress, Alric stared at the wooden ceiling, the dim light of the moon filtering through the cracks in the walls. His body ached from the bruises and cuts left by the bullies, but the pain was a distant hum compared to the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind. He turned his head, glancing at the crude wooden sword resting against the wall, his most prized possession, carved from a fallen branch during stolen moments of freedom.

Reaching for it, he held the makeshift weapon close, his fingers tracing the uneven surface. It wasn't much, but to Alric, it symbolized the knight he longed to become. Closing his eyes, he could still see Sir Bray standing firm on the road that day, deflecting the younger knight's rage with calm precision and unyielding honor.

"I swear," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion, "I'll be like Sir Bray. Strong, honorable, and kind. No matter what it takes."

His grip on the sword tightened as he made his vow, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He wasn't sure how he'd do it or what it would cost, but he knew he would find a way to rise above the life he'd been given. He would become a knight, not just for himself, but for the people like the peasant Sir Bray had saved, for Lyanna, and for those who couldn't protect themselves.

The stars outside his window seemed to shine brighter, their faint glow spilling across the room as if bearing witness to his promise.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.