I think the most memorable thing I ever forged is an old war‑worn sword that I repaired in the hills behind my forge. The blade had a nick from a clash with a rival king’s guard and the handle was splintered from years of battle. I ground the edge until it gleamed again, laced a new wooden grip with strips of oak, and added a thin layer of silver to protect it. That blade once belonged to a shepherd who’d taken up arms to defend his valley from marauders. He used it to strike down the first bandit that dared cross the ridge. The sword’s story is simple: it reminds me that a piece of metal can carry more weight than its own heft— it carries the courage of the one who wields it. Whenever I see it, I think of the quiet nights I spent hammering, the sweat on my brow, and the quiet satisfaction of keeping a piece of history alive.