The forge was already hot when Kael arrived, but Master Doren didn't wait for the sun to rise before swinging a hammer. Smoke curled into the dawn air, thick with the scent of iron and oil.
Kael wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve and stepped into the heat. His boots scraped against the stone floor, and the clang of metal-on-metal filled the air like a heartbeat. Steady. Relentless.
"Late," Doren grunted, not looking up.
Kael didn't bother to argue. Instead, he grabbed the tongs and pulled a half-formed blade from the coals. The metal glowed faint orange, not ready. He slid it back in without a word.
They worked in silence, save for the hammering and the bellows' hiss. Kael didn't mind. He liked the rhythm of the forge—how it made sense when nothing else did.
But today, the rhythm felt off.
His arm itched.
It had started three days ago. A subtle burn, right below the skin on his forearm. At first, he thought it was just a forge burn. But no mark had formed—until last night.
Now, beneath his sleeve, something pulsed.
"Kael!" Doren barked. "Mind your hands. You ruin that edge, I'll have you reshaping horseshoes till winter."
Kael blinked. The blade had cooled too fast in his grip. He muttered an apology and tossed it back into the fire. Doren cursed under his breath.
The mark throbbed again. He couldn't ignore it anymore.
By midday, Doren had sent him to gather coal from the shed behind the forge. Kael welcomed the break. As soon as he stepped into the shadows, he yanked up his sleeve.
There, etched in pale light, was a symbol—a pattern like a starburst surrounded by rings. It pulsed faintly, as though alive. No matter how hard he rubbed, it didn't fade.
"What in the six hells…" he whispered.
A sudden wind swept through the yard, cold and sharp. Kael looked up.
High above the mountains, the sky had darkened—only slightly, but enough for him to notice. At the edge of the sun's light, a red star hung where no star should be, glowing faintly in the blue sky.
It hadn't been there yesterday.