(KBTCM) Ch 6: The Golden Flames of the Forge, A Giant Among Them

(Kerren)

The clash of metal rang through the night, each strike of the hammer shaking the wooden hut like distant thunder. Inside, the heat was unbearable—sweltering, suffocating—the air thick with the scent of burning coal and molten steel. Small stones on the ground vibrated from the force of the blows, while a golden flame roared in the heart of the forge, its flickering light casting long, shifting shadows against the walls.

Kerren stood in the middle of it all, shirtless, sweat rolling down his muscular frame. His wild brown hair clung to his forehead, but he didn't notice. He was too focused, his arms moving in rhythm, the hammer rising and falling in perfect succession. The world faded as he worked, his pulse syncing with the heartbeat of the forge.

The steel glowed beneath his hands, a deep orange-red, soft enough to be molded, and yet stubborn, resisting his will. He grit his teeth, adjusting his stance, and raised the hammer once more. His golden eyes burned with intensity.

And then—he brought it down.

The impact sent a shockwave through the hut, the floor beneath him trembling. The flames around him swirled, licking at his skin—but they did not burn. They never had.

From the far corner of the room, his father watched in silence.

Bromir, a man built like a mountain, stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. His grizzled beard was dusted with soot, his worn leather apron still carrying the marks of his own past work at the forge. His deep-set eyes didn't leave his son—not for a second.

The golden flames danced around Kerren, wrapping themselves around his arms, his shoulders—a divine embrace. Bromir knew better than to step too close. Those flames weren't normal, weren't meant for men like him.

They were the Eternal Flames of Orndrak, the god of the forge, the keeper of the golden flame, the divine architect who had shaped the first weapons of war and the first tools of creation.

Their family had been blessed by Orndrak for generations. Yet Bromir himself had never been chosen, had never felt the divine heat against his skin. He had resigned himself to that truth years ago.

And then his son was born.

Seeing Kerren wield that fire filled him with pride. But it also filled him with something else—a deep, aching bitterness.

"Why him?"

"Why not me?"

"Magnificent," Bromir murmured under his breath, watching as the flames twisted and danced in the dimly lit hut.

Then, suddenly, the flames vanished.

Kerren let out a gasp, his hammer slipping from his grasp as he collapsed onto his knees. His chest heaved, his skin glistened with sweat. The forge, once alive with golden light, was now dim, the fire in the pit barely smoldering.

Bromir's smile vanished.

He took a step forward, his boots crunching against scattered bits of metal. The heat in the air was still oppressive, but he ignored it. He strode closer, towering over his son.

"What was that?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Kerren struggled to catch his breath. "I—I'm sorry," he muttered. "I just... I can't do any more."

A hard slap struck his face before he even saw it coming.

Kerren's head snapped to the side, his cheek stinging, but he didn't retaliate. He didn't even look up.

Bromir's nostrils flared in anger. "You didn't get any better than last time," he growled. "You haven't been practicing. You bring shame to this family."

Kerren clenched his fists but said nothing.

For a long moment, Bromir glared down at him, then let out a frustrated huff. He turned and stormed toward the door. "I'm going to the tavern," he muttered, as if his son didn't already know. He always did this. Every time he was angry, he drowned it in cheap ale and bad company.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Kerren let out a long, shaky breath before rising to his feet. His legs felt weak, but he forced himself to step outside.

The cool night air bit at his skin, a sharp contrast to the hellish heat inside the hut. He grabbed a rag from a nearby wooden post and dipped it into a bucket of lukewarm water, pressing it against his face.

He barely felt the relief before the ground rumbled beneath him.

His breath caught in his throat.

He turned toward the inner city, his tired eyes widening.

There—walking through Grelling Row—was her.

Princess Rowena.

Even among the flickering torchlights and the dim glow of lanterns, she was impossible to miss. She moved through the streets with a graceful confidence, her towering frame cutting through the district like a goddess descending among mortals.

But this time, something was different.

She wasn't taking the usual path out of the city. She wasn't with Sylara, as she often was when the two of them left for the forest.

No.

She was here, alone. And she looked like she had business in Grelling Row.

Kerren's gaze lowered, his hands clenching at his sides as he noticed something.

She was holding people in her right hand.

His chest tightened.

A strange, unfamiliar emotion gnawed at him.

Jealousy.

For years, he had watched her from afar, had admired her the way one admires a star too distant to reach.

But she was right there.

And she was holding someone else.

Kerren shook his head, pushing the thought away.

"You're nothing special."

"You're just a blacksmith's son."

"She's a princess. The future queen."

And yet, no matter how many times he told himself that—no matter how logical it was—his gaze didn't leave her.

Not for a single second.

***

(Rowena)

Rowena's massive fingers curled carefully around the four tiny figures in her right hand, keeping them secure but not trapped. She had years of practice handling small, delicate things—whether it was the fragile glass goblets at royal banquets or, as in this case, the equally fragile people of Vaeloria.

The little stowaways in her palm were awestruck, their wide eyes darting between her towering face and the world that stretched far below them.

"Whoa..." Drystan whispered, leaning forward slightly.

"This is—" Eldrin swallowed hard, gripping the edge of her palm tighter. "This is... really high up."

"No kidding," Orin muttered, his face slightly pale.

Calista, arms crossed, gave them all a deadpan look. "You're acting like you've never been in a tree before."

"This is way higher than a tree," Drystan pointed out.

"Trees don't walk," Eldrin added.

Rowena laughed, the soft sound vibrating through her hand like a distant drumroll. "If you think this is high, you should see the world from my sister's height."

The three boys exchanged looks, their faces paling at the thought.

"Y-Yeah, I think I'm good," Orin stammered.

Calista smirked. "Cowards."

Rowena couldn't help but smile as she carefully stepped into Grelling Row, each footfall shaking the ground just enough to rattle the nearby lanterns hanging from their rusted metal hooks. The moment she crossed the boundary into the lower district, the familiar weight of hundreds of eyes settled on her.

She was used to attention—being a giantess, a princess, and the heir to the throne made it inevitable—but here, it was different.

In the Noble District, people bowed respectfully. In Eldermere, they gawked in admiration.

But here... here, she saw the fear.

Even in the dim lantern light, her sharp vision caught every detail: the way people froze mid-step, the way mothers pulled their children close, the way some men clutched tools or weapons, as if preparing for the worst.

Rowena kept walking, forcing herself to ignore it.

She had expected this.

She had prepared for this.

But it still stung.

The four little ones in her hand seemed oblivious to the tension, eagerly pointing the way toward their homes. Finally, after winding through the narrow streets, she reached a small row of dilapidated houses. They barely reached past her ankles, making her feel even more massive than usual.

Rowena lowered herself, moving carefully, until she was kneeling on one knee, her other foot planted firmly behind her to balance. Even with all her grace, the wooden fences trembled, and dust fell from nearby rooftops.

She extended her fingers, allowing her passengers to hop off onto the ground.

Drystan was the first to slide down, landing with a grin. "That was amazing!"

"Thank you, Your Highness," Eldrin said, bowing slightly.

"That was definitely a once-in-a-lifetime experience," Calista admitted, brushing off her pants.

Orin, looking relieved to be back on solid ground, mumbled, "Hopefully just once."

Rowena chuckled, resting her hand on her knee. "It was no problem. Next time, though, just ask if you want to spend time with me." She raised an eyebrow at them. "No more hiding in bushes."

The three boys immediately turned red, looking anywhere but at her.

Calista, grinning, nudged Eldrin. "See? Told you sneaking around was dumb."

Rowena giggled at their reactions, but the warmth in her chest faded quickly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted several figures rushing toward them—the children's parents.

They didn't hesitate.

Mothers and fathers grabbed their children by the arms, pulling them inside their tiny homes with urgent whispers and stern faces.

Rowena didn't need to hear what they were saying.

She knew.

"Stay away from her."

"She's dangerous."

"You don't understand what she could do to you."

She watched in silence as the doors slammed shut, leaving the streets empty once again.

Slowly, she exhaled, then rose to her full height.

The fear was still there.

It always would be.

Rowena turned and began walking back toward the castle, her footsteps heavy, though not from her size.

She hadn't expected much... but still, it hurt.

She had hoped—just maybe—that this time would be different.

That, for once, people wouldn't be afraid of her.