The wind here howled like an old soldier. Not in pain, but memory.
Calden adjusted the scarf at his neck as they crested the ridge. Thin frost clung to the upper grasses, and the peaks of the Eirenhald range glinted like old teeth beneath the midmorning sun. The mountains sloped downward into a basin choked by slate-colored pines and boulder-strewn paths. Somewhere below, buried under stone and stubborn pride, was Eirenhald.
He'd been here once before. A war convoy, a sword broken mid-duel, and a dwarven smith with one eye and no patience had gifted him a lesson he'd never forgotten:
"Steel remembers pain. Forge it cold, and it forgets. Forge it hot, and it fights."
And now, he'd given away his sword to a boy he shouldn't have loved like a son.
"I should have made you earn it," Calden muttered, more to himself than the wind.
"You say that," came Veyr's voice behind him, silk over glass, "but you left it in his hands. And not out of mercy."
Calden didn't turn. The man unnerved him more than any Stalker, beast, or veil-walker.
"Didn't do it for him," Calden said. "I did it so I wouldn't cut you."
Veyr's laugh was like snow melting. Cold at first, then softer than it had any right to be.
"Then let's both be grateful you're unarmed."
They continued down the slope. Veyr walked like a man born in spires, untouched by dirt or consequence, but his gaze was always working — reading wind patterns, broken branches, tracks pressed lightly into half-frozen moss.
"He's not far," Veyr said, no longer smiling. "You sense it too, don't you?"
"I sense a lot of things I don't like," Calden grunted. "Including whatever it was we passed three nights ago. That tree with too many shadows."
Veyr nodded. "Fracture nearby. A shallow one. Maybe even dormant. But it's leaking."
Calden reached for the hilt that wasn't at his side. His fingers clenched air.
"I'm going to need a blade," he said. "A real one. Not something made in a noble's armory."
"Then it's lucky we're heading where we are." Veyr gestured to the ridgeline, where the path curled into mist. "Eirenhald lies below. And if I recall correctly, they still owe you a favor."
Calden let the silence stretch before he replied.
"No. Not a favor," he said at last. "A debt. And dwarves don't forget those."
⟡
Eirenhald didn't welcome us.
It endured us — like an old wound endures a coming storm, knowing the ache will pass, but still resenting every drop of cold.
The gates were carved into the cliffside, seamless with the rock, as if the mountain itself had chosen to open. I saw no guards at first, just thick stone, glowing runes pulsing along the arch — once, then fading. Like the heartbeat of something ancient holding its breath.
Selaithe walked ahead of me, quiet but tense. Her knives were sheathed, but I could tell by the twitch in her fingers she was one blink away from unsheathing them.
"They're watching," she said, ears flicking once.
"I know."
I didn't need aura-sight to see it.
There were eyes behind those rune-slits. Weight behind the quiet. And something in the air… that knew us.
I held Calden's sword through the wrappings. It wasn't warm like fire — more like the last embers in a hearth, pressing gently against my palm. A reminder. A question.
We were met by a dwarf who looked carved more than born — heavyset, lightning-shaped tattoos across his scalp, a black beard short enough to show off the iron rings looped through his ears.
He grunted when he saw us. "You're early. She said you'd be four days out still."
"She?" I asked.
The dwarf didn't answer. Just turned. "Straight through to the ember halls. You'll know it."
Selaithe leaned closer as we followed him into the stone corridors.
"Weird welcome," she muttered.
"Weirder if they already knew we were coming."
The halls of Eirenhald weren't beautiful like elven glades or the floating gardens of the Academy. They were functional. Each arch was thick enough to survive a cave-in. Each door reinforced with black steel and studded with glyphs that buzzed faintly when we passed. The air tasted like iron, soot, and something older — something that remembered fire.
Crystals glowed in metal baskets above us, suspended by taut wire like the whole mountain was stitched together with light.
As we walked deeper, I caught glimpses of faces — dwarves watching from recessed balconies or half-shadowed alcoves. No one spoke. But I could feel the silence. Like a forge cooling too fast — brittle and sharp.
Then we reached the ember hall.
It was exactly that — a hall — longer than any I'd seen, with a trench of molten metal running its length like a river of light. Dozens of anvils stood on raised platforms, but only one forge was lit. And one woman stood before it.
She wore goggles atop her head, her red braids coiled like rope, her forearms crisscrossed with faded burn scars. Her hands worked a blade across a stone slowly, rhythmically. Like she wasn't sharpening steel — but listening to it.
She didn't look up when we approached.
But she spoke.
"You have his sword."
I stopped walking. The air near the forge was thick with heat, enough to sting my eyes, but her voice cut through it clean.
"I can feel the old bastard's weight in it."
I hesitated. Then stepped closer, tightening the wrappings in my palm.
"You knew Calden?"
That's when she looked up.
Her eyes were ash-gray, clouded with soot — and yet somehow clearer than most nobles I'd met. There was something hard in them. Not cruel. Just… forged.
"I made that sword," she said. "Then watched him waste it on mercy."
Behind me, I heard the whisper of Selaithe's knife leaving its sheath.
The woman didn't blink.
"Easy, Wild Fang," she said, as if commenting on the weather. "If I wanted the boy dead, I'd have hexed your food."
I didn't like that she knew Selaithe's title. I liked even less that she'd called me boy.
"How did you know we were coming?"
"I didn't." She turned back to the blade. "But the steel did."
She tapped the molten metal once with her hammer.
Clang.
Not sound. Note.
⟡
"I'm Kaedra Vohlundr," she said at last. "Master of this forge. Keeper of the ember line."
"Kaelen Selkareth," I said slowly. "This is Selaithe."
"I know."
"You said steel remembers pain."
Kaedra nodded once. "Yours remembers too much."
I hesitated. Then unwound the wrappings from Calden's sword.
The blade breathed beneath the forge-light—dull, unreflective. It didn't shimmer. It drank the glow around it.
Kaedra studied it with the reverence of a seer, not a smith.
"I named it Ashriven. Forged from soulstone veins that ran too close to a Fracture. It sings when touched by grief. Moans when swung in mercy." Her voice sharpened. "Calden didn't deserve it."
"He carried it his whole life."
"He carried it," she said, tone like flint, "but he never wielded it."
That stung. More than I expected.
Before I could speak, she stepped forward, pulling iron tongs from a rack.
"Hold the hilt. Just above the pommel. There's a memory buried in it—not yours. His. The sword's last true wielder."
I glanced at Selaithe.
She gave a faint nod. Mauve eyes fixed on Kaedra. Ready.
I stepped forward.
My fingers found the grip—
And pain surged through me.
Not mine.
The sword flared white. But not my white—not the tainted shimmer of my aura.
This was cold. Pure. Like fire that had never known ash.
And then—
⟡
A snowy field.
A young Calden.
Blood on his blade. Three men kneeling before him—beaten, unarmed, alive.
His aura blazed golden-red. Behind him—
Screams.
A woman's voice. A child's.
He lowered the blade.
He let them live.
Ashriven screamed—a raw shriek only steel could give—and cracked. A hairline fracture. Nothing visible. But it never forgot.
⟡
II staggered back, breath ragged. The vision receded.
Kaedra caught me. One hand. Iron grip.
"He cracked the blade the moment he betrayed its nature," she said. "Steel like this wants finality. Not mercy."
"But… he spared them."
"Aye. And the blade hated him for it."
She let go. Her eyes—soft, for the first time.
"Now it waits. For someone who can carry both its anger… and its mercy."
I looked down at the sword.
"If that's you," she said, "I can reforge it. Not remake. Reforge."
"What's the difference?"
"You'll see," she said, turning back toward the forge. Then paused.
Her gaze cut to the entrance.
"First… your past just caught up."
⟡
At the outer gates of Eirenhald…
The guards hadn't meant to open the doors for anyone.
But when a tall man in a weather-beaten coat strode up the slope, his gait carved by battlefield rhythm, they stepped aside without asking.
"Name?" one guard asked.
"Calden Thornec," came the reply.
"Purpose?"
Calden's eyes burned like forge embers.
"Forging."
A second voice answered before the guard could respond—smooth, silken, amused.
"And reclamation."
Veyr Hal'Rhen emerged behind him, brushing the dust from his coat with theatrical flair.
"You'll find our stay short," Veyr said lightly, admiring the stone glyphs. "But memorable."
Calden didn't glance at him. Didn't need to.
He felt it too—beneath the stone, beneath the forge.
A heat both familiar and waiting.
⟡
The air in the ember hall changed.
Not with footsteps.
With weight.
Selaithe's hand was already on her knife, her whole body angled toward the entrance like a drawn bow.
But I didn't flinch. Couldn't.
Because I knew that presence.
That warmth behind the breath, like a hearthfire that never forgave you for leaving.
Calden stepped into the hall.
He looked older than I remembered.
Not weaker—just worn, like steel with too many memories etched in its edge.
Same dark coat, frayed at the cuffs. Same eyes that missed nothing. Same silence that spoke more than orders ever could.
He paused, saw the blade in my hands, saw Kaedra beside the forge.
And for just a breath—
He smiled.
Not much. Just a crease at the corner of his mouth.
Then he spoke.
"You held it wrong."
I exhaled before I realized I'd been holding my breath.
"Good to see you too, old man."
He stepped forward. Not close—just far enough that we didn't have to raise our voices.
"You reforging it?"
"Trying to."
Kaedra didn't look up. "He'll manage. Or the steel will eat him."
Calden grunted. "Sounds right."
Silence fell again.
Not the heavy kind.
The kind you get between people who know how to fight without needing to draw blades.
Selaithe didn't relax. Not fully. She kept a half-step between me and him, just in case.
Calden noticed. Didn't comment.
Finally, I said, "You shouldn't be here."
"I could say the same to you."
"We're leaving."
"I know."
Something flickered in his expression. Tiredness. Regret. Something deeper.
"I told you once," he said slowly, "a blade doesn't choose who it cuts. Only how."
I looked down at Ashriven. The metal breathed slow and low, like coals remembering fire.
"You told me a lot of things."
"I meant half."
I almost smiled. "The other half?"
He scratched his jaw. "Still figuring those out."
Then—quietly—
"Veyr's here too."
I nodded. "I know."
"He wants to bring you in. Officially now. Academy's pushing. Not just them, though."
I looked up sharply. "Who else?"
Calden's jaw tensed. The firelight caught on old scars.
"The Grand Church."
The words dropped like stones.
I swallowed. "Why?"
He hesitated. That was answer enough.
I pressed. "Is it the aura? The sword? Selaithe?"
"All of it. And none of it." His eyes locked with mine. "They don't like what you are, Kaelen. But they hate what you could become."
I felt Selaithe's breath catch beside me.
"What do they think I'll become?" I asked, quieter now.
Calden looked past me, at the sword.
"Someone who doesn't ask permission."
That stung deeper than it should've.
"And you?" I asked. "Do you think that too?"
He met my gaze. "I think I trained you to be free. I just didn't realize what that would cost."
I looked away.
For a moment, nothing moved in the forge but the heat.
Then I asked, soft—
"Did you see her?"
He didn't need me to say the name.
Calden's mouth tightened. "She's alive. As of a few weeks ago."
Relief hit me like a wave I hadn't braced for.
"She was the only one who ever—" I stopped. The words caught in my throat.
Calden nodded. "I know."
"Where is she?"
"Gone. Disappeared before the Tharionne fire reached the estate. Veyr didn't find her. That's something."
I exhaled, shoulders trembling.
"What about my parents?"
"Worried. Waiting for your return. Even if they never showed it... they love you, Kaelen."
Selaithe took my hand, saying nothing.
Calden looked at her, then at me.
"You need to go."
"We will."
"I won't stop you."
I blinked. "You're letting us go? Again?"
He looked away. Not ashamed. Just tired.
"I can't walk both roads. Not anymore. But I can keep one clear for you. Once."
My throat tightened. "Why?"
"Because," he said quietly, "you were the best thing I ever forged."
He turned to go, then paused at the threshold.
"And Kaelen—"
I looked up.
"If they come for you again… don't hold back."
I nodded. "I won't."
"Even the Beast Style will work."
Calden smirked—like he finally approved of what I was.
He disappeared into the forge-dark, boots echoing like old drumbeats.
Selaithe squeezed my hand.
I didn't realize I was crying until the heat made the tears vanish.
Ashriven pulsed once in my grip—warm, steady.
It remembered him.
And it accepted me.
⟡
That night, in silence broken only by the hiss of molten metal and the soft rasp of hammer on blade, Kaedra reforged Ashriven. Not as it was.
As it needed to be.
And when I took it up again—
It didn't feel like Calden's sword anymore.
It felt like mine.
A blade meant to break.
And built to endure.
We left Eirenhald before dawn.
No one stopped us.