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Layton sat watching the coals of his father's forge. It was getting late into the evening, and he'd just finished the work he'd been given for the day. 2 sword bases that his father would prepare fully in the morning, as well as a number of plates which would be shaped and put together to form a suit of armor. It had been more than usual. He'd had to rush in order to get everything done, and he was pretty sure that at least one of the swords wasn't good enough to meet his father's standards.

It seemed like most days he did something that wasn't up to his father's standards.

Layton sighed, and breathed fire onto the coals, causing them to burn red hot for a moment more, before cooling to just embers again.

People said that dragonfire smithing was capable of creating better equipment than normal smithing. Something about the magic of his fire imbuing the metal with better properties. Making it stronger, magically resistant, and other things.

Layton wasn't sure about all of that. The things he made seemed like just normal shaped metal. He worked the forge diligently, but he didn't seem to be able to make anything special. It was all just hunks of metal beaten into submission.

Layton looked into the water he used to cool the metal he'd worked with. His reflection stared back at him. Dull red scales, ugly pale horns, and a face that was too soft to be a blacksmith's.

He sighed and looked away. He almost envied the metal sometimes. At least the metal became useful eventually, even if it didn't come out right.

Layton grabbed a small piece of copper out of the forge. His dad always called it a useless metal. Too soft, he said. Not useful for weapons or armor. Layton usually trusted his father's instruction, but it always bothered him that weapons and armor were all his father focused on. Other things were made of metal too right? There were horseshoes and rivets and all the tools they used inside the forge. And if copper was really as useless as his dad said, then why did anyone go through the trouble of refining it?

Layton bent the metal back and forth a few times. At the very least it looked pretty. The color was pleasing to look at. Much better than the cold gray of iron and steel.

Layton sighed again and tossed the piece of metal back into the forge. Pretty didn't keep people safe. Pretty only brought attention to yourself, which would get you killed in combat. Layton had never known combat, but his father had. He'd told him tales about going off to war, then going adventuring for a few years, before settling down with his mom and starting this shop with the money he made.

Layton stared at the walls of the workshop, covered in rows upon rows of weaponry and armor, all made from the same cold, dull, steel. Layton wished he could make something other than things used in fights. What was the point in making something he would never have any use for, save for when his father tried to teach him how to defend himself.

Layton shuddered and rubbed his arm. Sometimes he felt like the training sessions he did with his father were less about teaching him to defend himself and more about letting his father vent his frustrations at his pitiful work.

At least he had his mother. She would always help bandage any cuts his father managed to make with the training swords. She would always try and comfort him, and say that his father didn't mean to hurt him so badly, he was just used to fighting for his life when wielding a weapon, and hadn't yet learned how to pull his punches properly.

Layton wondered how long it would take him to learn how to do it. He got strange looks around the marketplace when his arms were all covered in bandages.

Layton looked out of the open side of the workshop and watched the sun set for a minute or two. He should really go in sometime soon. He'd be late for dinner if he stayed too much longer, and he was already going to get berated for not doing good enough with his work. He didn't want to be berated for tardiness too.

But, he felt safer here in the workshop. When he was working he got left alone. Nobody came to bother him or tell him that he was doing things wrong, even though he usually was. He could just work, and do what he could to minimize his mistakes. He hoped he'd be able to make a good enough sword soon. It would be nice to have a day where he could be proud of something he made.

Layton sighed again and stood. He looked around the workshop one last time before resigning himself to head inside for dinner.

If nothing else, his mom was making chicken for dinner. She always made the best chicken.