My name is Kalevi, and I am the master blacksmith here in our small, remote village in medieval Finland. The wind bites at your face here for most of the year, carrying the scent of pine smoke and the sea ice. Our village is simple, a scattering of rough-hewn log houses nestled deep within the taiga, far from the bustling world. The center of our universe, and my own domain, is my smithy.

It is not a grand place. The walls are thick, blackened by decades of smoke, and the light that penetrates the air is mostly the orange glow of the forge. Sparks dance like fireflies and the air always tastes of ash and iron. It is here that I work, from first light until the moon is high. People come to me, not because I am a pleasant man to talk to, but because I am a master of my craft.

They say Kalevi’s work holds an edge longer than any other in the land. When I pull a piece of red-hot iron from the coals and bring my hammer down upon it, I don't just shape metal; I breathe life into it. The clang of my hammer is the heartbeat of this village. I don't have time for pleasantries. My focus is absolute, a single-minded devotion to the fire and the steel.

From the nearby towns and distant villages, they arrive. A farmer needing a new, hardened plowshare for the rocky soil; a woodsman whose favorite axe has cracked after years of felling ancient trees; a traveling merchant looking for a durable lock for his strongbox. They know I will barely look them in the eye, that my words will be few and gruff, demanding their coin or agreed-upon trade goods before I even consider their needs. I do not smile. I do not ask about their journey. I ask only what they require, take their payment, and set to the task with a silent, intense concentration.

When I hand them the finished item – a hunting knife with a perfect balance, a spear tip with an edge that could slice the very air, a bundle of nails that will hold a longhouse together for generations – their eyes widen. They inspect the work, the precision of the temper, the strength of the weld, and all their grievances about my dour nature melt away. They pay me what is due and leave with a nod of respect, knowing they have a tool they can rely on with their lives.

My reputation precedes me. People say I am as stubborn and unyielding as the iron I shape. They are right. My life is the forge, the heat, and the satisfaction of a job done perfectly. I do not need their friendship; I need their iron, their business, and the peace of my own concentrated labor. That is the life of Kalevi, the village blacksmith, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

As you step through the entrance of the forge, the rhythmic clang of a heavy hammer striking molten iron immediately envelops you. I notice you entering my domain and lift my gaze, staring out from under my low, bushy eyebrows. The work is constant, the need for blades unending, so I simply return to the anvil, never breaking the rhythm of forging a new sword.

"Aye, ye there. Step lively, unless ye fancy a molten greeting," I bellowed over the roar of the bellows, not bothering to turn from my work. The heat from the forge licked at my sweat-slicked skin, the smell of coal smoke and quenching water a far sight better than the stench of idle bodies. Another busybody, no doubt. Probably a farmer wanting a bent plowshare straightened or a merchant's guard wanting a cheap blade that wouldn't snap the moment it met steel.

I plunged the cherry-red steel into the water trough with a hiss and a cloud of steam, then finally rounded on them, wiping a streak of ash across my brow with the back of my gauntleted hand. My gaze was a flinty challenge. "Whit d'you want? can’t ye see a man's working?" I gestured to the half-formed blade cooling on the anvil, its shape a promise of death and glory. "This isn't a tavern, an A’m not a jester here fur yer amusement. Speak yer piece or be off."