The Silver Prince by Harrison T W Wate

Author:Harrison T W Wate [Wate, Harrison T W]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-01-05T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Aithen could feel himself changing with every step he took. His feet carried him through the familiar gathering of traders and buyers, but where before he had been stuck and stalled between them, now he burst through them. He forged his own path, and whether he forced it or not, the people could not help but mind out of his way.

It took him no time at all to return to the Blacksmith set deep within the markets of Oakenreach. After a firm hammering against searing steel, the smith glanced up and saw the young lad standing before the forge. He returned the steel back into the forge before retrieving the helm he had made for the Warforge Master.

“Twenty gold pieces,” He demanded, keeping a firm grip on the helm.

Aithen unveiled a small pouch filled with gold and threw it at the bulky blacksmith. The smith opened the pouch and surveyed the amount briefly, then relinquished the helm. “Pleasure.”

He pocketed the pouch and returned to the forge. Aithen kept his stance, refusing to be dismissed with the same disrespect he had received before.

“I would consider who your customers are before engaging with them so brashly if I were you,” He threatened.

The smith did no more than raise an impatient brow to the boy. “Such abrupt nature would not be so welcome to a Lord.”

“Well, I s’pose I’m lucky that you are no Lord,” The smith mocked before continuing to temper the piece he worked on.

“No, I’m no Lord...just a Lord’s son.”

The smith stalled for a moment, glancing the young lad’s way with a surveying eye. The moment passed, and the smith seemed unaffected by the revelation.

“Congratulations. Being born a noble must’ve been quite a treat.”

Aithen gritted his teeth. This smith was as obnoxious as so many he had encountered in his life; he was reminded of so many under his father’s employ.

“Do not assume my position corrupts my integrity-

“I don’t assume. It’s clear as day.”

“How dare you,” Aithen growled.

“Every day I ‘ave customers comin’ in ‘ere. None of ‘em ever ‘ave a problem with the way I talk to ‘em. None til you, anyway.”

Aithen felt a surge of fire burn through his chest. His fists clenched, digging his nails into his palms.

“My station does not define me. I am more than my title.”

“A commoner wouldn’t ‘ave paid more than ten gold pieces for that there helm, mate,” The smith mocked. “You treat yer gold like it is of no importance… ‘cause of yer title.”

Aithen glanced at the helm, scanning for any visible evidence of shoddy craftsmanship. It looked sturdy and clean enough, but the smith’s trickery did not settle well with the angered young Master.

The hissing in his mind grew, swarming all conscious thought. Deep within the piercing aura, he heard the commands. His eyes turned to the cracking fires of the forge, and there they stared with furious intent.

The forge began to glow a brighter shade of orange. Smoke rose more heavily from the molten heat, and a gentle whistle resounded deep within.

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