Chapter 2 - The Weight of the Hammer
The rush of dragon-fire was not hot at first; it was a wall of displaced, heavy air that tasted of sulfur and scorched copper. Elias didn't try to dodge. A boy from Smithy Row knew that when the roof caves in, running only gets you hit by the biggest beam.
He dropped flat into the trench Mordren’s tail had carved into the sand, pulling the heavy thunder-oak shaft across his back. The flame roared four feet above his skull, turning the white sand into a sheet of smoking, translucent green glass. The heat scorched the back of his wool shirt, smelling of burnt wool and singed hair, but he didn't flinch.
Clang.
Garron’s broadsword came down a heartbeat later, aimed straight where Elias’s neck had been. The steel edge struck the vitrified glass with a shower of white sparks, shattering the fused sand into glittering powder.
Elias rolled out of the pocket, coming up on one knee with the meteoric hammer already swinging. He didn't aim for the man; he aimed for the beast’s left foreleg—right where the scales thinned into flexible leather behind the joint.
The impact didn't sound like metal hitting flesh. It sounded like an anvil struck with a twenty-pound sledge—a heavy, resonant thoom that vibrated up through the soles of every noble in the front row.
Mordren let out a startled, screeching hiss that sounded like escaping steam from an ironworks boiler. The massive dragon stumbled sideways, its ten-ton bulk crushing a marble pillar that marked the edge of the arena pit. Dust and limestone chunks rained down on the bankers and estate trustees, who scrambled backward with undignified shrieks, tripping over their silk skirts and silver-headed canes.
"You insolent rat!" Garron roared, wheeling his mount around with a savage yank of the curb chain. Blood was already welling from the dragon's joint, a dark, smoking grease that sizzled as it hit the sand.
Up in the royal box, the panic was palpable. Governors were shouting over one another; foundation directors were gesturing wildly at the guards stationed along the iron gates.
"Stop the trial!" Chancellor Vane yelled, leaning over the brass railing, his face purple with outrage. "The boy is using uncertified ordnance! That hammer is not registered with the guild of armorers!"
"The trial of worth has no guild rules, Chancellor," a cold, steady voice replied from the shadows behind the throne.
It was Princess Lyra. She had stepped out from the curtained arcade where the royal family usually kept their daughters hidden during state executions. She wore no crown, only a simple dark-blue riding dress, but her eyes—the exact same bruised-plum shade as Elias’s—were fixed on the arena floor with an intensity that burned. "The law states that any bloodline claiming the seal may bring whatever iron they can forge themselves. Or are we now rewriting the charters to protect Lord Vey’s skin?"
"Princess," Chancellor Vane hissed, "this is treason disguised as metallurgy."
"It's a fight," Lyra said, stepping closer to the balustrade. "Watch it, Chancellor. You might learn how a real man works."
Down in the sand, Elias was already moving. He wasn't trained in the courtly arts of the rapier or the elaborate, sweeping flourishes of the New Avalon dueling academies. He fought like a man who spent twelve hours a day swinging a sledge against white-hot pig iron: economy of motion, total awareness of balance, and a brutal understanding of leverage.
Garron charged again, riding Mordren down in a straight, thundering line intended to crush the apprentice into paste. The dragon’s jaws gaped wide, revealing rows of black, triangular teeth dripping with acidic saliva.
Elias planted his left foot deep in the sand, braced the butt of the hammer against his hip, and waited until the very last fraction of a second—until he could see the individual scales around the beast’s nostrils twitch.
Just as Mordren snapped his jaws shut, Elias didn't jump away. He threw himself forward, sliding on his knees beneath the dragon’s massive chest, right between the smoking front legs where the rider couldn't reach him with his sword.
As he slid past, he slammed the spiked poll of his hammer upward into the soft underbelly, hooking the copper-wrapped runes deep into the beast’s flank and dragging it down the length of the torso.
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Mordren roared—a sound of genuine agony that shook the glass windows of the cliffside mansions half a mile away. The dragon reared violently, its tail thrashing outward in an uncontrolled spasm.
The heavy black tail caught Garron across the chest. The champion’s polished breastplate buckled inward with a sickening crunch of steel and bone, and Lord Garron Vey flew through the air like a discarded sack of grain, crashing hard against the royal podium before sliding into the dust at King Alaric’s feet.
