Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World

Word spread faster than fire through dry straw. Within days, the whole of Keldoria was buzzing with the news—blacksmiths' hammers clanged with sharper rhythm, taverns roared with speculation, and even the quietest hamlets echoed with talk of the king's grand decree.

The reward was so staggering that no one could stay silent. Forty gold coins. To the common man, it was a fortune. To a craftsman, it was a dream strong enough to drag them across mountains and rivers just for the chance to claim it.

In the capital, palace scribes worked day and night, their quills scratching endlessly. Fresh proclamations were carried into the streets, nailed to notice boards in crowded marketplaces, guildhalls thick with smoke, and taverns where ale ran as freely as gossip.

The bold letters drew eyes like moths to flame:

The Grand Blacksmithing Competition of Keldoria

Prizes totaling forty gold coins.

All smiths, apprentices, and masters are welcome.

Sign up and prove your craft before the king and his court.

Merchants gossiped over overflowing tankards, their laughter edged with envy.

"Forty gold? Enough to buy three shops outright!" one exclaimed, slamming his mug for emphasis.

Apprentices whispered in smoky forges, eyes wide, their dreams hot as the bellows. Even weathered masters—men who had hammered steel for decades until their backs bent and their arms thickened like oak—paused at the notices. They frowned, torn between skepticism at such a lavish prize and the gnawing hunger that gold always stirred.

…

Far to the east, a man named Howen Veyle, read the notice for the fifth time.

He was no beginner; his hands were already calloused from a decade at the anvil, his arms thick from hammering. Yet he was no master either. His blades sold well enough to farmers and soldiers, but he lacked the polish of guild-trained smiths. His forge was small, his tools often patched with makeshift repairs, and the roof of his workshop leaked every spring.

Still, How's heart pounded as his eyes lingered on the words Forty gold coins as the total overall price.

"Twenty five gold coins for the first place…" he muttered, his voice rough from years of smoke. "Gods above, that's more than I'd earn in ten years. Even getting the third price of five gold coins would be a fortune for me."

The heat of the forge pressed against his back, sweat dripping down his temple as sparks hissed from the blade he had been shaping. He wasn't poor, but he wasn't rich either. Just another smith lost between the masters with fame and the apprentices with nothing.

Yet this competition—this madness of a king—felt like a chance carved from steel itself.

A chance to prove he was more than just a village craftsman.

A chance to upgrade his workshop, tools and even his life if he were to win.

Howen Veyle wiped his forearm across his brow, smearing soot onto already darkened skin. The forge hissed behind him, the blade on the anvil cooling in uneven patches of dull red. Yet his eyes weren't on the steel. They were locked on the proclamation nailed to the oak post outside his shop, the bold letters seeming to glow even in the fading light.

Blackthorn had never seen such an opportunity. The region was poor, known more for its struggling farmers and stubborn weather than for its craftsmen. Unlike Ironhearth—the land of steel and iron—or Solarny, where scholars and magic reside, Blackthorn was nothing much but farmland and only a few smiths across the region.

How knew it better than anyone. He had built his modest forge plank by plank, selling plowshares to farmers and horseshoes to traders. His blades were sturdy, his tools reliable, but in Eldoria's gilded markets? They were nothing special.

And yet, as he read the notice again, excitement churned in his chest. He could almost see it—the fires of the capital's forges, the roar of the crowd, the king himself watching from a high seat.

How stepped back inside his workshop, his voice rising in its usual booming confidence. "Mara! Tovin! Come here!"

His younger sister appeared first, brushing flour from her apron, her brows already pinched with worry. Behind her came their father, Tovin Veyle, his limp noticeable as he leaned on a worn cane. The old man's back was bent from years of hauling ore, his eyes lined but sharp.

How waved the parchment like a banner. "It's real. The king himself is calling smiths to Eldoria. Forty gold in prizes, father! Forty! If I win even a share of that, we could patch the roof, hire apprentices, maybe even—"

Mara folded her arms, flour dust rising from her sleeves like a pale cloud. Her eyes narrowed, though her voice cracked with worry. "Or you could waste months, spend every copper on the journey, and come back with nothing but a broken hammer."

Her words cut sharp, but the tremble behind them betrayed more fear than scorn.

How laughed, a big, booming sound that filled the cramped workshop. He reached out and clapped her shoulder, leaving a smear of soot on her sleeve. "Ah, little sister, always the cautious one. But tell me—if no one from Blackthorn goes, then who will? I've asked around. Every smith in this region says the same: too costly, too risky, no chance to win."

He shook his head, his grin undimmed. "So what then? Do we hide here forever, hammering horseshoes, while the rest of the world forges ahead? At least one smith from Blackthorn should go. If not to win, then to learn. To see what the great masters of Ironhearth, Solarny, Eldoria and more can do. Am I right, little sister?"

Mara's lips pressed tight. She jabbed a flour-dusted finger toward him. "And do you know why no one else you know from Blackthorn is going? Because they know better. With prizes this big, do you think it will be easy? Masters with decades of experience will compete. Guild smiths with noble backing, even foreign craftsmen from beyond our borders. Do you truly think you—" she caught herself, her voice breaking, "—do you truly think you have a chance to win against them?"

For a moment, silence hung heavy, broken only by the low hiss of the forge fire.

But Howen's smile didn't falter. His voice softened, shedding its playful edge. "Mara… I know the odds. I'm no fool. I don't need to win first place. What I need is the chance to test myself. To see where I stand. If I fail, I'll fail honestly, and I'll bring back every lesson I can hammer into memory. And if by some stroke of fortune I succeed…" His grin widened, a flash of teeth against soot. "Then the whole of Keldoria will know a smith from Blackthorn's dust can rise to stand among them. Also I am confident that I won't fall behind and even win."

His father, Tovin, leaned on his cane, studying the boy with weathered eyes. At last, the old man gave a slow nod. "Confidence and humility. That's the mark of a true smith. You may not win, Howen, but you'll return stronger. And that's worth the journey."

Mara's arms fell to her sides. She sighed, defeated, though her eyes glistened. "Stubborn fool… Promise me you'll come back safe. Win or lose."

How reached out, smearing another streak of soot on her cheek as he laughed. "Safe? I'll come back louder than ever. You'll hear me bragging from the gates of Eldoria before I even set foot inside Blackthorn again."