The Ironsmith’s Mandate***Chapter 1***“Honor, courage and fortitude all dwell on the edge of your blade.” – quote commonly attributed to Flavio “Maestro” San Vicente***Measured and familiar steps propel my legs as I cross the threshold into the institution where I have been pursuing my studies for the last… oh, three years, or so.I pass by students wearing identical white collared shirts and blouses, dark blue pants and skirts, the uniform mandated by this school for their senior high school program.Somehow, everything takes place with the dull tenor of routine; even if I can say I’m doing well here, all of this seems so bland: the colors of the world are duller and greyer, voices are indecipherable, the scents of knockoff perfume and baby cologne ignored by my nostrils as their smells have graced them far

The Ironsmith's Mandate***Chapter 3***“Flavio was cut out of a different cloth than us ordinary folk. He was, and I do not use this phrase lightly, a living legend, during his seven decades of life in this world.” – Mayor of San Luis Vicente, during his eulogy for Flavio San Vicente***“Even if the inter-school is going on, I still have to keep you guys working at academics, somehow,” our math teacher said with a smile as Jaric and I walk into the classroom. “By the looks of things, you two took care of business.”“That’s right, sir.”“You should’ve seen it. Max was kung fu fighting, his moves were fast as lightning!” Jaric said, and the classroom chuckled at the accuracy of his imitation of that singer. “Did we miss anything, sir?”“Nothing much, just going over what we

I would have preferred it if I was kept awake by my upcoming semifinal match in the combat arnis tournament. That way, I would’ve had a valid enough excuse if I started the fight like a battery-operated rabbit flailing around, as if I didn’t know what I was doing. It wasn’t the butterflies in my stomach that was keeping me awake – rather, I was drawn back to snapshots in my childhood, days when Grandfather was still hale and hearty, teaching my younger self lessons that I didn’t understand then. I’d liked to have spared some time to think about how the clarion call of nostalgia was keeping my eyes from closing, but the mention of a name was enough to satisfy the inquisitive part of me. Yeah, it’s Moira’s fault. I know, I’m being childish, but that comes with being sixteen years, three hundred and sixty-four days, twenty hours and thirty minutes old, give me a break. I can afford to be childish in moments like these, when it really does