Sheer panic ran through Powell Birks's mind as the mighty hammer shattered into a dozen pieces. It felt like the floor beneath him had opened up and was about to swallow him whole.
For the past several weeks, Powell had grown frustrated with the work his master assigned to him. He wasn’t just any ordinary ten-year-old; he had forged every shape his master had asked for, yet he was still forced to repeat the basic processes daily.
In his impatience, Powell sought out a challenge—something to showcase his talent, something to prove himself. The plan was to replicate his master’s favourite hammer and swap it without her noticing.
At least, that was the plan. The original was far heavier than Powell had expected as he unhooked it from the wall. The boy wobbled and fell off the chair he was balancing on, landing with a thud. The cracking sound filled him with dread.
“But how?” he asked himself in confusion. The hammer had shattered despite being made of metal. The pieces rolling across the workshop floor weren’t too dissimilar to chucks of ore from freshly mined rock.
Powell wracked his mind trying to figure out how such a tool could simply break like that, inspecting the pieces. He found what looked like the remnants of runes. That explained why it was the master’s favourite, and why he’d never been allowed to touch it. Maybe it was cursed, to ward off thieves? He shuddered at the thought.
But, sitting there on the floor in disbelief wasn’t going to fix anything. Powell gathered every single piece and ran for his quarters. At least there, he could think of what to do next.
Powell began matching the pieces back together. The puzzle was strangely enjoyable, but the unease refused to leave his stomach. He knew this was not something he could fix. The realisation struck him like a sledgehammer - he simply wasn’t skilled enough.
Even if he made a perfect replica, as per his original plan, the master would surely notice that it lacked the effects of the runes. He was no Carver; he had no idea how to replicate their magic.
Tears began to form, but he brushed them off his face. There had to be a way to right this wrong. He would find that way, no matter how much time and effort it would take him.
“Powell! You’re late.”
Powell almost jumped at his master’s voice; her tone was stern but warm. He had completely lost track of time while piecing the hammer back together.
“C-c-coming now, sorry!” Powell called out, before taking a few slow, deep breaths to regain his composure.
“Stuck in bed? Alright, but fire up the forge after you free yourself.”
The boy did as he was told, quickly readying himself for the day and lighting the flames. Powell performed his chores in the workshop with a sense of looming dread. It didn’t take long for his master to notice the missing hammer.
“Have you seen Swiftstrike?”
Powell stood motionless. He wanted to avoid the inevitable moment, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie to the person who had taken him as her apprentice. Without saying a word, he couldn’t find them anyway, he raised his hand and pointed at the dent in the floor.
The master let out a surprised whistle.
“It seems we had a thief visit us in the night. The fool’s lucky that it didn’t explode.”
A bitter wave of relief and guilt washed over the boy. Somehow, he had avoided blame. Powell quickly began his traditional morning routine of asking endless questions about blacksmithing, but her casual remark about the hammer exploding echoed in his head. He simply had to ask.
“What did you mean, when you said explode?”
“Swiftstrike’s runes demand that I must be flawless in my execution. If I should ever err, they will reject my failure and shatter. Dropping it wouldn’t be perfect form, to be sure.”
She grabbed the fallen chair next to the wall and returned it to its proper place. Another wave of fear shot through Powell. His master looked at him before letting out a sigh. “That’s why I have you do these basics every single day. You need to perfect your strikes before handling tools such as Swiftstrike.”
Powell understood that it was more than just a statement; it was also an instruction. He rolled up his sleeves and began work as usual. Secretly, in the back of his mind, he knew what he had to do.
Several months passed, and his skills grew. Powell remained focused on his studies while secretly restoring the broken hammer in his time off, welding the pieces back together in the forge, one by one, when his master was absent. Only once every single weld was seamless was he satisfied with his work.
The next day, Powell approached his master with determination. He presented her with the restored hammer, bowing his head.
“Master, I have a confession. I was the one who broke Swiftstrike. I couldn’t get the runes right, but this is the best I can do to apologise.”
His mind raced with poisonous thoughts. Was she going to throw him out? Was his work good enough? What if she thinks his work is an insult? He had tried as best he could, but he was no master yet, a painful lesson he had learned well.
The master took the hammer with a focused expression, examining his work more intensely than ever before, scrutinising every detail. She checked the balance and gave three loud strikes on the anvil. Only then did she address him.
“I’ve always known. Did you think I wouldn’t notice the missing materials or your late hours in the forge?”
Powell stared at the ground, the shame on his face as red as the embers in the fire. His voice choked up, “I’m so sorry.”
A proud smile flashed across the master’s face, and she chuckled. “You’ve spent months of effort to right the wrong, Powell. I accept your apology.”
A sizeable gloved hand landed on his head and ruffled the boy’s hair.
“Always remember, broken tools can be mended, whereas a broken word cannot.”
Her words lingered in the air, and he nodded.
“Learn these lessons, and let them temper you. Now, let’s take this to the Carvers’ Guild and finish what you started.”