The morning air bit cold against Ruvan's skin as they walked through Iron Hold's bustling eastern district. Merchants hawked steaming meat pies and sourroot tea from iron stalls, their voices weaving into a tapestry of noise. Blacksmiths hammered out nails, plow heads, and spear tips in open forges lining the streets. Sparks danced into the grey dawn, vanishing like fleeting hopes.
Ruvan walked as though he carried a mountain on his shoulders. Each clang of hammer on anvil reminded him of home – the forge where he learned to shape iron under Master Hevar's stern gaze. The warmth of the coals, the hiss of quenched steel, the quiet pride when a blade held true. All gone now, replaced by ashes and silence.
"Ruvan," Elion said gently beside him. "You're quiet."
He didn't answer. His fingers traced the rough edge of Solrend's shattered hilt. The sword pulsed faintly in his palm like a second heartbeat, whispering its silent hunger beneath his skin.
Finally, words escaped his tight throat.
"There was a girl," he said softly. "Back home."
Kellan, walking a few steps ahead, paused and looked back, his carefree smirk replaced by a rare seriousness. Elion slowed his steps to listen.
"She was maybe six years old," Ruvan continued, his gaze locked on the cobblestones beneath his boots. "The raiders came at dawn. I was delivering iron bars to Master Hevar when I heard her scream."
The memory burned brighter than any forge flame.
"I found her trapped under a fallen beam. The forge roof had collapsed. She was crying for her mother. Calling out between the smoke and the sparks."
His throat tightened. His voice broke.
"I tried. Gods, I tried. But the beam was too heavy. The heat… it burned my arms just to touch it. I thought… maybe if I ran to get help—"
He swallowed hard, fighting tears he refused to shed in these streets full of strangers.
"But when I turned back, the flames… they swallowed everything."
He stopped walking, chest heaving. Around them, the city's noise blurred into a distant hum of meaningless voices. Elion placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"What happened to her?" Elion asked softly, though he already knew.
Ruvan's vision blurred.
"She screamed until she didn't."
For once, Kellan had no witty retort. His expression darkened, lips pressed into a thin line. He turned away, eyes scanning the crowd as if ashamed to let anyone see the flicker of pain crossing his face.
"War leaves nothing unbroken," he muttered under his breath.
They continued walking in silence for several minutes. The city's clamor pressed in from all sides – a reminder that the world went on heedless of guilt or grief.
A pair of guards marched past, their breastplates stamped with Iron Hold's crest: a black hammer wrapped in blazing chains. The iron tang of their armour made Ruvan's stomach twist. It smelled like home. Like the forge. Like a life he'd never return to.
A small boy darted out from a bread stall, nearly colliding with Ruvan's leg. The child clutched a crust of bread in dirty fingers, eyes wide with fear before disappearing into the throng. Ruvan clenched his jaw, the image of the girl's burned face flashing before his eyes.
Finally, he spoke again, his voice low and raw.
"I thought… if I could hold a sword, if I could be stronger, maybe I could stop it from happening again."
Elion nodded slowly. "And now you carry one that could burn down cities."
"Doesn't matter," Ruvan said. "If I can't use it to save even one child."
Elion's grip tightened on his staff. "We'll save more," he said firmly. "Together."
Kellan forced a smirk, though it never reached his eyes. "Then hurry up and figure out how to swing that cursed blade without vaporising your friends, will you?"
Solrend pulsed at his side. Its voice curled through his mind like dark smoke, ancient and cold.
Strength alone cannot save them all…
He clenched his fist tighter around its hilt.
But I'll damn well try.
They turned down an alley lined with rune-etched pillars and bone charms hanging from strings. A hunched woman sold dried lizard tails and shadowberry sap from a table of rotting wood. A one-eyed beggar raised his cup and cursed them in slurred chants as they passed.
Ruvan barely heard him. His mind was trapped in that burning forge, in the child's last scream.
"Archives are this way," Kellan said, nodding to a towering iron gate ahead. Two armored men stood watch, halberds crossed, helmets hiding their expressions. The crest of the flaming hammer gleamed on their breastplates.
"Do you think they'll let us in?" Elion asked.
Kellan flashed a half-grin. "Leave that to me."
Ruvan took a steadying breath and followed them forward. The world narrowed to the rhythmic beat of his boots on stone, each step echoing with guilt and a promise unspoken.