Ember Born

The broken sword

Kael stood by the ruined fence for a long time, staring at the strange crimson scale resting in the palm of his hand.

It felt warm against his skin, pulsing with a faint, steady heat that refused to die down. It didn't make any sense. A normal scale from a snake or a lizard was cold and smooth. This thing felt alive, like a piece of burning coal that didn't burn his fingers.

Kael quickly wrapped the scale in a scrap of dirty cloth and shoved it deep into the pocket of his worn trousers. He looked around the foggy field one last time, making sure no one was watching, before turning around and hurrying back toward the town.

Whatever had attacked the farm last night was not a normal beast. And the thought of it lurking somewhere in the dark forest sent a chill right down Kael's spine.

He made his way back through the crowded, noisy streets of Millhaven. The entire town was still in a panic. People were whispering on every corner, locking their wooden doors, and stocking up on supplies. Fear hung in the heavy morning air like a thick fog.

When Kael reached the stables, he tried to slide past the main barn quietly, hoping to finish his chores without attracting any attention.

"Boy!"

A loud, booming voice shattered his hopes instantly.

Master Grim was standing in the doorway of the blacksmith shop attached to the side of the main stables. He was wiping black soot from his thick, hairy arms with a dirty rag. His red face was twisted into its usual harsh glare.

"Get over here!" Grim barked, snapping his fingers impatiently.

Kael slowed his steps, swallowing his breath, and walked over to the shop. The heat from the forge inside hit his face in a warm wave. "Yes, Master Grim?"

"You're slacking again," Grim growled, throwing the dirty rag onto a wooden workbench. "I have a special job for you today. A wealthy merchant from the upper city brought this in an hour ago. He wants it cleaned, polished, and sharpened by sunset. And he's paying good gold for it."

Grim stepped aside and pointed to a low stone table near the roaring fire of the forge.

Lying on top of a faded piece of black velvet was a weapon.

Kael walked closer, his eyes widening in surprise.

It was an old sword, but it was nothing like the cheap iron shortswords the town guards carried. This weapon was ancient and breathtakingly ornate. The hilt was shaped like two twisting dragon wings made of dark, polished bronze. Beautiful, delicate patterns were carved all along the metal crossguard.

However, the sword was severely damaged.

The long steel blade was covered in thick rust and dark spots. Halfway down its length, the metal was cracked straight through, held together by only a tiny sliver of steel. It looked like it had been buried in the dirt for a hundred years or broken in a terrifying battle long ago.

"Look at it," Grim grunted, crossing his arms over his heavy chest. "It’s a useless piece of rusted trash if you ask me. But the rich fool wants it shiny. He doesn't care if it's broken, he just wants to hang it on his wall."

Kael couldn't take his eyes off the weapon. "You want me to repair this?"

"I want you to beat the rust off it and straighten the metal!" Grim shouted, grabbing a heavy iron hammer from the rack and shoving it roughly into Kael's hands. The heavy tool nearly pulled Kael down. "Use the forge. Heat the steel, hammer out the rust, and polish the edge. If you scratch the handle or ruin the wing design, I will personally throw you into the river with stones tied to your feet! Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Master Grim," Kael whispered, clutching the heavy hammer with both hands.

"I'll be back at sunset," Grim growled, turning toward the door. "It better be finished!"

With a loud slam of the heavy wooden door, Grim left the shop, leaving Kael completely alone with the roaring forge and the ancient, broken sword.

Kael let out a long breath. The silence of the shop felt heavy. The only sound was the crackle and pop of the red-hot coals inside the stone furnace.

He set the heavy hammer down on the anvil and walked over to the stone table. He reached out his hands slowly, hesitating for a moment before placing his fingers on the bronze hilt of the broken blade.

The second his bare skin touched the cold metal, a strange sensation shot up Kael's arms.

It was not cold.

It felt... responsive.

Kael blinked in confusion. He lifted the heavy sword from the black velvet cloth. Even with the blade cracked and rusted, the weight of the weapon in his hands felt perfectly balanced. It didn't feel heavy or awkward like the iron tools Grim made him carry every day. It felt like an extension of his own arm, as if it belonged right there in his grip.

Kael carried the broken blade over to the roaring furnace. Using a pair of heavy iron tongs, he placed the rusted steel into the heart of the glowing red coals.

He waited, pumping the leather bellows with his left hand to feed air to the fire. The flames roared brighter, painting the dark walls of the shop in shades of orange and red.

After a few minutes, the rusted steel of the sword began to glow. It turned a bright, fiery orange.

Kael used the tongs to pull the glowing blade out of the fire and laid it flat across the heavy iron surface of the anvil. He picked up his hammer, raised it high over his head, and brought it down against the hot metal.

CLANG!

The sharp sound of iron hitting steel echoed through the small workshop.

Kael brought the hammer down a second time.

CLANG!

And then, something impossible happened.

As the hammer struck the glowing steel for the third time, a low, melodic sound hummed through the air.

It wasn't the dull thud of normal iron being beaten into shape. It was a clear, ringing note, like the sound of a silver bell echoing across a quiet valley.

Kael froze, holding the hammer mid-air.

He stared at the sword. The glowing red metal seemed to pulse under the dim light of the shop.

Kael swallowed his fear and brought the hammer down again.

CLANG!

The low hum returned, louder this time. It vibrated straight up through the handle of the hammer, through Kael’s wrist, and right into his chest.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

With every strike of Kael's hammer, the sword hummed happier, clearer, and louder. It didn't sound like cold, dead metal being smashed by a tool. It sounded like a sleeping creature slowly waking up from a long nightmare.

The metal hummed under his hammer as if it recognized him.

Kael's heart pounded against his ribs. Tears of confusion prickled at the back of his eyes, but he couldn't stop. He kept hammering. He struck the cracked steel over and over again, watching in absolute disbelief as the thick layer of black rust began to flake off, revealing bright, shimmering steel beneath it.

The deep crack in the middle of the blade began to fuse back together under his blows, the edges seamlessly welding themselves under the heat and the rhythm of his strikes.

It made no sense. A boy with no training in blacksmithing shouldn't be able to repair a shattered blade like this. Yet his hands moved with natural, flawless precision. He knew exactly where to strike, exactly how much pressure to apply, and exactly when to turn the metal.

The hum grew warmer, filling the room, vibrating in rhythm with Kael's own racing heartbeat.

"What are you?" Kael whispered, gazing down at the glowing steel.

He set the hammer aside and grabbed the hot metal with his iron tongs, plunging it into the wooden barrel of cold water beside the anvil to cool it down.

HISSSSSS!

A huge cloud of thick white steam burst into the air, filling the shop with the smell of wet iron and hot ash.

When the steam finally cleared, Kael reached into the water and pulled the sword out.

The rust was completely gone. The deep crack in the middle was invisible. The blade shone with a terrifying, mirror like polish, reflecting the orange light of the forge furnace. The dark bronze dragon wings on the hilt looked alive, their carved feathers sharp and magnificent.

Kael stared at his reflection in the pristine steel of the blade.

He saw his own pale face, his wild dark hair, and his wide, frightened eyes. But behind his reflection, for just a fraction of a second, he thought he saw something else the image of a high, stone throne room wrapped in roaring orange flames.

Kael gasped and nearly dropped the weapon.

He shook his head violently to clear the vision. "It's just the heat," he muttered to himself, his chest heaving. "It's just the heat from the forge."

He laid the restored sword down on the wooden workbench to inspect his work. The metal was cool to the touch now.

As he reached out to polish the bronze hilt with a clean cloth, Kael's hand slipped slightly on the rough wooden edge of the workbench.

"Ah!"

A sharp wooden splinter caught the palm of his right hand, tearing open an old, pale scar that he had carried on his palm for as long as he could remember.

A single drop of bright crimson blood welled up from the cut on his palm.

Before Kael could pull his hand back, the drop of blood fell, landing directly onto the center of the dark bronze hilt.

Instantly, the entire workshop went pitch black.

The roaring fire in the forge furnace vanished, replaced by an eerie, breathless silence.

The drop of blood absorbed instantly into the bronze metal, disappearing as if the sword had swallowed it whole.

Then, the hilt flared.

A sudden, brilliant burst of bright orange fire exploded out from the dark dragon wings on the hilt. The flames wrapped completely around the handle and spread down the long steel blade, engulfing the entire weapon in a terrifying inferno.

Kael cried out in horror, trying to leap backward.

But he couldn't move. His right hand was locked onto the handle of the sword, pinned by an invisible, immovable force.

The brilliant orange flames roared around his fingers, creeping up his wrist and wrapping around his forearm.

Kael braced himself for the agonizing, flesh-melting pain of the fire. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting to scream.

But the pain never came.

Kael opened his eyes, trembling.

The fire was roaring around his hand, bright and intense, casting long, dancing shadows across the dark walls of the blacksmith shop. But he didn't feel any pain. The fire did not burn his skin. It didn't even scorch his worn clothes.

It was a heatless flame.

It felt warm, gentle, and welcoming, like a soft blanket wrapped around him on a freezing winter night.

The ancient sword in his grip began to vibrate violently, letting out a deep, triumphant tone that shook the very dust from the ceiling beams.

The heatless fire flared higher and higher, painting the entire room in a blinding, golden light, the instant his blood touched the ancient hilt.