The Mirror of Althazar

The iron foundry at the edge of the world ran twenty-four hours a day, fueled by the embers of fallen stars. The blacksmiths who worked there were massive men and women with skin like treated leather and eyes that reflected the white-hot glow of the crucibles. Their task was to forge the armor for the kingdom’s celestial guard—suits of plate mail so dense that no arrow, sword, or spell could pierce them.

​Gideon was the most celebrated smith among them. His hammer fell with the rhythm of a heartbeat, never missing, never slowing. He believed that safety was the ultimate achievement of civilization. "If a man is perfectly protected," Gideon would say, "he can never be conquered, and he can never be destroyed."

​One day, the King’s champion came to the foundry. He was a legendary warrior named Alistair, who had fought in a hundred campaigns. He brought with him a piece of starlight ore, rarer and harder than anything Gideon had ever worked with. "Forge me a suit of armor that will protect me from everything," Alistair commanded. "Not just swords, but poison, disease, age, and sorrow. Make me invulnerable."

​Gideon locked himself in his forge for three months. He did not sleep; he fueled his body with bitter broth and kept the bellows roaring. He hammered the starlight ore until it was thin as paper but harder than diamond. He wove the metal with threads of pure obsidian, enchanting the joints so that no gap remained. When it was finished, the armor was a masterpiece of terrifying perfection. It looked like a silhouette of the night sky, absorbing all light that fell upon it.

​Alistair donned the armor. It sealed around his throat with a hiss of escaping air. He smiled, lifting his sword. He felt nothing—no weight, no heat from the forge, no chill from the wind outside. He thanked Gideon and marched off to war.

​Years passed, and the kingdom fell into a period of profound peace, largely because Alistair was an unstoppable force. He stood at the front lines of every dispute, a terrifying ghost that could not be harmed. Gideon felt immense pride, believing his craftsmanship had saved the world.

​Then, one rainy evening, a figure cloaked in black entered Gideon's foundry. The figure moved slowly, stiffly, like a clockwork toy running out of spring. When the hood was pulled back, Gideon gasped. It was Alistair, but his eyes were hollow, dead things. He hadn't taken the armor off in a decade.

​"Take it off me, Gideon," Alistair whispered. His voice didn't come from his throat; it echoed hollowly from within the metal breastplate.

​"Why?" Gideon asked, reaching for his tools. "You are the greatest warrior in history. You cannot be harmed."

​"I cannot be loved either," Alistair said, a tear forming in his eye but instantly vaporizing against the internal seal of the visor. "The armor protects me from everything. I cannot feel the warmth of my wife’s hand. I cannot taste the wine at my table. When my son died of winter fever, I could not even feel the weight of my own grief. I am a ghost trapped in an iron coffin. Your protection has erased my life."

​Gideon’s hands shook as he took up his heaviest cold chisel and his great sledgehammer. He placed the chisel against the sealed seam of Alistair's collarbone and swung with all his might. The metal rang out, a terrible, mourning sound that vibrated through the stone floor. It took three days of continuous, agonizing work to crack the starlight shell.

​When the final plate fell away, Alistair collapsed to the floor, shivering violently in the damp air of the forge. He reached out, touching the rough, soot-stained stone of the floor, and began to weep. The cold rain was leaking through the roof, hitting his bare skin, and for the first time in ten years, he smiled because he could feel the sting of the world.

Moral.

External beauty is fleeting and superficial; true elegance and worth are found in the kindness, compassion, and generosity of one's soul.