The hammer fell once more, breaking the silence of the village as lightning splits the sky before a storm.The molten baranis screamed beneath each strike, taking form beneath Korith's calloused hands as clay bends to its maker.The flames cast trembling lines of sweat and faith upon his face; to him, the blade was no mere weapon — it was a message forged in fire.
At the far end of the forge, young Morkalin hurried forward, his long arms clutching a small wooden chest. His sapphire eyes gleamed with awe, fixed upon the sword as though it were a newborn child. He was young, yet old enough to understand — this night was unlike any other.
"I brought the nails and leather, just as you asked," he said between breaths, setting the box upon the worn table beside the fire.
Korith did not look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the glowing steel that sang beneath his final blows.When he plunged it into the basin of cold water, the metal hissed and steamed as though it exhaled a soul long trapped within.
He raised the sword, inspecting it in the firelight.The blade was straight, sharp, its edges clean and true.A dark vein of cooled baranis ran down the center — a scar from wars yet to come.
"Beautiful," he murmured. Then, with a faint smile:"No. Not beautiful — perfect. This is no sword. This is a stand. A declaration."
Morkalin tilted his head, boyish wonder lighting his face."A declaration? Of what?"
"That I forge finer blades than any man of the North who dares claim glory," Korith said, spinning the sword with practiced ease."And that when blood melts with baranis, it creates something that cannot be broken."
Before the boy could reply, the heavy thud of boots echoed outside.Metal clattered against metal, and then Torg stepped through the door.
A man in his middle years — thick brown hair damp with sweat, a chest like Baranis beneath a scarred breastplate. His eyes were sharp, never smiling, not even when he praised.Two soldiers followed behind, helmets tucked under their arms, their silence laced with wary respect.
"There he is, the smith himself," said Torg, eyes on the sword."Fine work, Korith. I didn't ask for a masterpiece, yet you've given me one."
Korith inclined his head but never looked away."Thank you, Torg. I knew this blade would not be like the others."
Torg nodded, then stepped closer to the table. For a moment, something heavy seemed to weigh upon him."I came to bid you farewell."
Silence fell. Even the fire seemed to dim in shame of what was to come.
"Farewell? Where are you going?" Korith asked quietly.
"To the outer villages," Torg said, his voice steady as steel."To the Free Tribes. I will gather them — tribe by tribe. Then I'll cross the Black River, to those who broke away. I will bring them all together. We need an army, Korith. This land has buried us long enough."
Morkalin's eyes darted between them, wide with a fear he did not yet name.
Korith spoke again, voice hard as the anvil:"We've tried before. Three hundred and nine years of trying — raising swords, standing before the North.And each time, we've been slaughtered. Do you not remember the villages that burned? The leaders who never came back?"
"I remember," said Torg."I remember every death. That's why I must try again. Because we have nothing else left. If we don't try… we remain slaves to history."
"And what of Dyranis?" Korith's tone sharpened. "Who will guard it when you leave?"
Torg turned to him, gaze unwavering."You."
A stillness filled the forge — the kind that makes even time hesitate.
"You are the right man now, Korith. You know the fire of baranis, and you know the land. The village is yours. Protect the children, train the men. We'll need them soon enough."
He stepped toward the table where the sword lay, but Korith was quicker.He lifted it in both hands and offered it with reverence."Take it. It belongs to you. Let it be your blade when you stand before the tribes, your voice when doubt stares you in the eye."
Torg grasped the sword, saying nothing for a long breath. Then he murmured,"I will return — with men, and blades, and hope. There are still gates unopened, and roads unwalked. Do not lose faith, Korith. The way out still exists."
He turned and left, his soldiers following into the unknown.He did not look back.
Korith stood in the doorway, the forge-fire dying behind him.Beside him, Morkalin whispered, "Do you think he'll come back?"
Korith said nothing. His eyes fell on the second blade lying unformed upon the bench — cold steel awaiting the hammer… and its fate.
High atop the graystone tower, where only the chill winds and the whisper of bats could reach, young Morkalin sat upon the window's edge, his feet dangling into the endless dark.In his lap rested a thick leather-bound book, its title half-faded: The Seven Pillars of the World.His small fingers turned the pages with care, his sapphire eyes devouring every word as though the parchment itself hid the truth of the earth beneath them.
Below, in the council chamber, Korith stood beside a round oak table. Around him sat three of the village's most trusted: Lysira, Draven, and the Warden.The room smelled of Baranis, smoke, and quiet worry.
"Let's begin with the baranis," Korith said, his tone like cooled steel. "How fare the mines, Draven?"
The broad-shouldered man stroked his unkempt beard before answering."The baranis runs pure, and the coal burns strong. But the tools break faster than we can mend them. The men dig deep — too deep, some say. We'll need more picks and pulleys if you wish to keep them alive."
Korith nodded. "The forges are full. The smiths have made enough. You'll have your tools before nightfall."
Draven grunted in thanks, raising his mug. He was not a man who smiled often, but relief softened his rough face.
Korith's gaze turned to the woman across the table. "And you, Lysira?"
The lady wore no silks — only a coat of earthen brown and a mind sharper than any sword. Her hair was tied back with the precision of a soldier."The food holds," she said, "but I wouldn't call it plenty. The bats and hogs have begun to die in their pens — some sickness, perhaps. The rats too have vanished. Still, the oyster-fungus thrives, and the blindfish keep filling our nets."
"Are the people afraid?" asked Korith.
"Not yet," she replied. "But worry spreads like mold. They still trust me — for now. If the sickness grows, or if Thalyn delays his return…"She let the thought die there.
Korith turned to the last man — the Warden, his armor polished to a mirror sheen.When he spoke, his voice was low, cut clean like a blade drawn from its sheath.
"One hundred and thirty-six soldiers, commander. Twenty still in first training. And two who left with Torg."
Draven frowned. "Only two?"
Lysira added, "That's all he took?"
"Yes," said Korith. "That was his choice."
Draven slammed his hand upon the table. "Then he's a fool! Two men against the wild tribes? He'll be flayed before he crosses the river!"
"He's not marching to war," Korith replied. "He's seeking unity. If he arrives with an army at his back, the tribes will see a conqueror, not a brother. They'll turn on him before he speaks a word. No — Torg fights no battle of swords. He fights a battle of faith. And faith, Draven, does not come in armor."
The room fell silent. None dared meet his eyes.At length, Draven and Lysira rose and left, their doubts trailing behind them like shadows.
Only the Warden remained.He spoke softly, his eyes fixed upon Korith."Faith alone will not stop an arrow. And if the tribes betray him…?"
Korith turned toward the window. Beyond the glass, the darkness pulsed with the flutter of wings.He said nothing.
That night, the air in the lower corridors grew thick with damp earth and forgotten years.Morkalin tossed in his sleep, breath quick and broken.The nightmare had returned.
He saw corpses — countless — their flesh gray and wet.They dug, not with shovels but with claws, tearing at the rock, gnawing through the roots of the world.Their teeth chattered like stone cracking under frost.They were searching… for something.
When he awoke, he was gasping, sweat chilling on his skin.The dark around him felt alive — waiting.
The door creaked open.Korith stepped inside, a small lantern in hand, a sword hanging at his side like an old companion.
"Again?" he asked.
Morkalin nodded. Words would not come.
"Tell me," said Korith.
"The dead," Morkalin whispered. "They were digging. It's like they were… looking for us."
Korith sighed. "You've had dreams before. The three heads on the table, the man rising from his grave — you fill your mind with stories, and your dreams take shape from them."
"But this time it felt real. I could hear them digging even after I woke."
Korith set the lantern down, the light trembling across the walls. He sat beside his brother, voice softer now."Nothing will come out of these walls, little one. Not tonight. Not ever. Rest now."
Morkalin tried to smile, but his lips trembled instead.
Then — a knock.Hard. Urgent.A soldier's voice broke through:
"Commander Korith! Come quickly — there's something you must see!"
The brothers exchanged a look, then ran.
Through the corridors they moved, past faces pale with unease, past torches that sputtered as though afraid of what they lit.At the edge of the square, near a humble wooden hut, the Warden stood waiting — his expression carved from stone.
He opened the door.
Inside, on a worn wooden table, lay three severed heads.Placed with care.Each one a man. Each one missing his nose.Their mouths hung open in eternal screams.
Korith froze. The world seemed to narrow around the table, the fire's light bending into shadow.
"Three heads…" he murmured. Then turned to Morkalin, his face stripped of calm."Tell me, brother — did you see the killer in your dream as well?"
Morkalin shook his head, slow and hollow.He hadn't.And that was what frightened him most.
In the highest tower of the Watch, where no sunlight ever reached—only the pale glow of the hanging fungi that clung to the ceiling of the buried world—Korith sat at the council table.Before him stood the Warden, his armor gleaming faintly in the dim light, motionless as carved stone, speaking only when summoned.To his left sat Kaelor, the old sage, his eyes dim behind the shadows of a long and weary life.
Kaelor spoke at last, his voice quiet but heavy, like a man burdened with a truth he wished he could deny.
"We found nothing. No footprints. No weapon. No witnesses. It's as if the killer were a ghost... or a shadow born of the darkness itself."
He drew a long breath before adding,
"All the victims were miners and forge-workers. The crime... it's the first of its kind. What chills me most is that their bodies were never found."
The Warden finally broke his silence.
"I sent fifteen armed men. They searched every corner of the village and beyond. If they were buried, the ground would have been disturbed. If we find nothing..."
He paused, his voice turning grim,
"...then something else must have found them before we did."
Korith said nothing. His gaze lingered on the map pinned to the wall before him—the network of villages spreading through the vast cavern, winding between the colossal stone pillars that held the ceiling of the buried earth aloft.When no more words could be spoken, the men departed one by one, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the distant echo of dripping stone.
The next day, the sound of hammers thundered through the forge halls.Sparks flew like fire in the hearts of men, and Korith stood before them, solid as the steel they forged.
"Starting tomorrow," he said, "every blacksmith will join the military drills—one hour after the day's work."
A silence followed—thick, uneasy—until a voice rose from the crowd, mocking and bold.It was Grin, the bald smith.
"And why is that? Has Tork returned? Has war been declared?"
The others laughed, and Grin went on,
"We'll never win a war against the North. We never have. History doesn't break beneath a hammer, Korith."
Korith's eyes swept over the crowd—hard, cold, unwavering.
"It was not a request," he said. "It is an order. Any man who refuses will lose his place in the forge."
The words fell like stones into a deep well.No one dared to move.Then, as one, the smiths answered,
"Yes, Commander."