The clang of hammer on steel echoed through the Emberforge as Kaelin Dross wiped sweat from his brow. Smoke curled from the glowing metal on his anvil, the scent of iron and soot thick in the air. The forge, inherited from his father, nestled in the heart of Emberhold—a city built into the side of a dormant volcano, where fire danced not only in hearths but in blood.
Kaelin had known nothing beyond the rhythm of the hammer and the roar of flame. His father, Rorik, had once been a master smith for the Emberguard, crafting blades of obsidian and fireglass, but after his disappearance a decade ago, Kaelin had been left to maintain the forge alone. The people of Emberhold respected strength, but feared change—and the Dross family had become a quiet shadow of its former glory.
Today, though, something was wrong. A storm churned above the caldera, clouds swirling unnaturally, thunder rumbling like a beast in pain. Lightning danced without pause, streaking in erratic, violet bolts. Kaelin glanced nervously at the sky, wiping his soot-covered hands on his apron.
Then, with a flash of blinding light and a sound like the world tearing open, something struck the forge roof. The blast threw Kaelin backward against the wall. Tools clattered to the floor, and flames roared up from the coals unbidden.
When Kaelin regained his senses, something glowed amidst the shattered coals: a shard of obsidian etched with pulsing runes that shimmered like molten gold. As he reached out, it seared his palm—and the world changed.
Flames responded to his fear. Tools leapt from their hooks, glowing red-hot. Kaelin screamed, clutching his head as visions assaulted him: burning trees, falling cities, and a throne of molten stone guarded by shadows with no eyes.
Then it ended. The forge was quiet. The shard remained, humming softly, and Kaelin knew—life as he knew it was over.