The air in the chamber tasted like ozone and burnt sage. Kaedron Volnaris coughed, his lungs burning as the blinding white light of the summoning circle finally began to recede. He blinked, trying to clear the spots from his vision, only to find himself standing in the center of a cavernous hall paved in polished obsidian."Is he the one?" a voice boomed from the shadows. "Tell me he’s the one we’ve been waiting for."Kaedron squinted, seeing a dozen hooded figures surrounding the circle, their hands trembling with exhaustion. High above them, seated on a throne that looked like it was carved from a single block of gold, sat a man with hair the color of hammered silver."Check the plate, High Mage," the man on the throne commanded. "Don't just stand there gawking."One of the hooded figures stepped forward, holding a shimmering piece of crystal toward Kaedron’s chest. "I need you to hold still, kid. This won't hurt, but it’s going to tell us everything you’re worth.""Where am I?" Kae

The floor was colder than the forge, but it felt like the only solid thing in a world that was starting to vibrate. Kaedron leaned his head back against the soot-stained timber, listening to the fading hum of the blade Rhovan had taken into the night."System," he whispered, his breath hitching. "You still there?"The golden words flickered. [Unique Skill: Basic Blacksmithing] Level 2."Yeah, figured as much," he sighed, closing his eyes. "Just a smith. Right."*"You’re still at it, aren’t you, Kaedron? You’ve been staring at that hearth since the sun was up. Give it a rest, man. Even the steel needs to sleep."Kaedron didn't look up from the glowing billet of metal. "Steel doesn't sleep, Rhovan. It just waits. And if I stop now, the temper on this batch of plowshares will be as soft as the King’s conscience."Rhovan, now three years older and wearing a fine leather apron over his old soldier’s tunic, leaned against the doorframe of the expanded smithy. The village of Oakhollow wasn'

The square remained paralyzed, the air still thick with the residue of the shattered sword’s scream. Jarev Vorn stood trembling, his hand white-knuckled on the hilt of the weapon Kaedron had forged him a year ago. The red light bleeding from the scabbard didn't just illuminate the dirt; it seemed to stain it."Its father?" Kaedron repeated, the words feeling like lead in his mouth. "Jarev, what the hell are you talking about? It’s a sword. I made it out of carbon steel and a bit of hope. It doesn't have a father."Jarev let out a jagged, breathless laugh. "You think I’m crazy. I can see it in your eyes, Kaedron. You think I’ve been out in the sun too long. But tell me—does a normal sword hum when you’re trying to sleep? Does a normal sword show you the inside of people’s throats while you’re closing your eyes?""Show you what?" Kaedron stepped forward, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "Jarev, sit down. You look like you’re about to collapse.""I haven't slept in

The rhythmic clang of Iron-Heart hitting the cooling billet was the only thing keeping Kaedron’s mind from shattering into a dozen jagged pieces. Outside, the Iron Legion hummed like a hornet’s nest, but inside the forge, the air was thick with the smell of wet salt and the low, constant whimpering of the half-finished blades."Master, your hand is shaking again," Zorren said, his voice smooth and unnervingly calm. He didn't look up from the whetstone where he was polishing a standard iron dagger. "Should I take over the bellows for a bit? You look like you’re about to fall into the coals.""I'm fine, Zorren," Kaedron grunted, wiping sweat from his eyes with a soot-stained sleeve. "Just keep your eyes on the whetstone. The General doesn't want pretty blades; he wants ones that don't shatter when they hit a Gnasher's hide.""I’m just worried about you," the boy whispered. "The way the fire turned black earlier... it didn't look right. It looked like it was eating the light in the room.

The screaming in the Royal Forge had finally stopped, replaced by a silence so heavy it felt like being buried alive. Zorren Halvik was no longer a boy; he was a twisted statue of meat and black iron, his body fused to the hilt of the thing he had tried to steal.King Veydrik Sol stood at the edge of the soot-stained chamber, his gilded cane trembling. He looked at the bodies of his elite guards, their armor hollowed out like discarded cocoons."Is it safe to breathe yet, Tharven?" the King whispered, his voice cracking. "Tell me that thing isn't going to jump again."Tharven Koss, a man whose skin looked like yellowed parchment stretched over a skull, stepped over the charred remains of the Court Mage Malakor. He didn't look horrified. He looked like a man who had just found a diamond in a pile of offal. He held a crystal rod out, measuring the lingering vibrations in the air."Safe? No, Your Majesty. Not safe at all," Tharven said, a thin, oily smile touching his lips. "But it is sa