Online: Eiodolon Realms – Child of Ruin-Chapter 46 - 45 – The Key to Secrets

The forge’s air was as thick as ever, filled with the mingling scents of burning coal, hot iron, and that faint tang of oil that clung to everything in the old man’s domain. For the past few days since his last misadventure, Eron had worked under the old man’s relentless eye. Each sunrise was met not with birdsong or the warm glow of morning, but with the metallic clang of the hammer, the hiss of quenching, and the old man’s voice barking corrections that cut sharper than any blade.

"Good," the old man muttered once, so quietly that Eron almost thought he imagined it.

But the door... the door still lingered in his mind like an itch beneath the skin. It was maddening. Every clang of the forge’s hammer seemed to echo the same thought in his head: ’What’s behind it? Why does he hide it so fiercely?’

Eron tried distracting himself by focusing on the project of the day — a set of finely detaile armours along with a bow. The old man insisted they were a test of both skill and endurance. The metal had to be shaped just enough to contour naturally to an arm, but not so thin that it lost durability.

"Your grip’s still wrong. Are you trying to kiss the hammer or hold it like a smith?" the old man grumbled from across the anvil, squinting at Eron as though the boy were an uncut gem with far too many flaws. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

Eron adjusted his hold. "I am holding it properly."

"No, you’re holding it like a noble’s son who’s afraid of getting his hands dirty," the old man shot back, stepping over and wrenching the hammer from him. With a speed that didn’t match his years, he slammed it down against the glowing iron, shaping it with clean, decisive strikes. "Watch. The hammer doesn’t just fall—it dances. It strikes when you tell it to, not when gravity does."

He handed it back, and Eron tried again, this time matching the rhythm. The sparks jumped higher, almost celebratory.

"That’s... better. Still not good," the old man muttered. "But better."

"You’re getting there," he said, voice gruff but tinged with the faintest trace of something else — respect, maybe.

It should have felt like a victory. Instead, Eron’s eyes strayed to the back of the workshop, toward the plain, weathered door with its heavy iron hinges. It looked so unassuming, but he knew better. He’d seen the way the old man reacted — the sudden flash of anger, the way his body shifted like a soldier guarding something priceless.

In truth, Eron had improved. His blows were cleaner, his shaping more precise, and his eye for imperfections sharper. But the old man never offered open praise, and Eron suspected he wouldn’t even if Eron forged a masterpiece on the spot. And yet... there was a strange sort of satisfaction in earning even a grudging "Not bad" from him.

Still, no amount of progress dulled the nagging itch in Eron’s mind.

The door.

Every time he passed by the back corner of the workshop, his gaze wandered to it—a plain, heavy door of dark oak, its surface worn with age yet faintly... off. The grain seemed strange, the metal latch subtly mismatched, as if it had been replaced once, long ago. And always, always, it was locked.

He’d tried not to think about it. After all, the last time he’d gone near it, the old man had exploded like a forge fire doused with oil. But the mystery gnawed at him. The more the old man avoided the subject, the more Eron wanted to know.

On the fourth day, while Eron was filing down the edge of a half-finished breastplate, the old man shuffled past him toward the front counter to deal with a customer. Eron’s eyes flickered toward the door again, unbidden.

He told himself it was just curiosity.

He lied to himself.

The day dragged on. They worked on a set of scale armor for a caravan guard—a tedious job that demanded precision more than creativity. The old man handled the shaping of each metal scale, while Eron was tasked with aligning them, punching holes for the rivets, and attaching them to the leather backing.

"You lined that one crooked," the old man grunted.

"It’s barely off," Eron replied.

"Barely off becomes useless when someone takes a spear through the gap. Do it again."

Eron sighed, pried off the offending scale, and redid the attachment. Sweat rolled down his back despite the forge’s chill from the morning rain outside.

Hours passed in that endless rhythm—shape, align, attach, repeat—until finally, as dusk fell, the guard’s armor was done. The old man inspected it silently, eyes moving over every joint and edge.

"Not bad," he finally said, and Eron caught a flicker of pride in his voice before it vanished under the usual gruffness.

They closed up shop as night settled in. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and reflecting the faint lamplight. After work at the forge the old man sometimes invited him to his home on the promise that he won’t mess with what he shouldn’t. The old man retreated into his small kitchen to prepare tea, leaving Eron in the main lobby of his home.

And there it was again. The door.

Eron moved toward it before his mind had fully caught up with his feet. He stopped just short of touching it, leaning closer to study the lock. It was an old iron mechanism, the kind you might find on a cellar or a private storehouse. Nothing about it looked... special, but something about the faint grooves around the edges suggested a hidden layer of complexity.

Footsteps creaked on the floorboards behind him. Eron jerked back and busied himself wiping down a hammer as the old man emerged.

"What are you gawking at?" the old man asked sharply.

"Nothing. Just... dust," Eron said.

The old man’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he carried the tea to a worn wooden table and gestured for Eron to join him.

They drank in silence for a while, the only sound the faint ticking of a wall clock.

"I have said this many times but you have a decent willpower," the old man said suddenly. "You dont have much raw talent, but you don’t quit. That is what really matters."

Eron nodded, though his thoughts were elsewhere.

"What’s behind that door?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.

The old man’s teacup froze midway to his lips. Slowly, he set it down.

"That’s none of your business," he said flatly. "And if you value the time I’ve given you here, you’ll stop asking it again and again."

His voice was calm, but there was steel in it—a warning sharper than any blade in the forge.

"Right," Eron murmured, though his mind was now burning with more questions than ever.

The next two days followed the same pattern: training, work, and the occasional moment of dry humor exchanged between them. The bond between master and apprentice grew, however grudgingly.

But Eron’s focus never fully left the door.

On the evening of the third day when they were at the old man house, the opportunity finally came.

The old man was going out to deliver a repaired spearhead to a customer, muttering about lazy guards who didn’t take care of their weapons. Eron stayed behind to clean up—and to think.

As the old man’s footsteps faded into the distance, Eron’s breath quickened. His hands trembled — not from fear, but from anticipation. He walked toward the door slowly, each creak of the floorboards sounding deafening in the empty workshop.

That was when he noticed something new.

While dusting the shelves near the back, he brushed against a strange seam in the wall beside the door. It was subtle, almost invisible, but the texture felt different—like the faint outline of a hidden compartment. His fingers traced it, and he found a small, almost unnoticeable depression in the wood.

He pressed it.

A faint click sounded, and the door’s lock gave a nearly imperceptible shudder.

Eron’s heart leapt. He had no idea what the full mechanism was, but now he knew—there was more to this door than a simple key.

He crouched, examining the side so that he is able to understand the mechanism more better.

"Haah! Seems like I still need to do some work before I can see what’s beyond this door."

He heard footsteps outside. Quickly, he stepped back, snatched a rag, and began wiping down the anvil as if nothing had happened.

The old man entered, giving him a suspicious glance before heading to the back to store something.

The door remained closed, but now Eron had a new certainty burning in his chest.

He could open it.

His lips curled into the smallest of grins. So that’s the key to your little secret, old man...

He didn’t open it yet — no, not tonight. But now he knew the key to the door wasn’t a key at all. And that meant sooner or later, he would see what lay beyond.