The world always tasted like ash.
At least, that's how Rasheem felt whenever he stepped into the forge.
The air beneath the Dead Buttes was thick and dry, full of old smoke and iron dust. Glowing emberstones were wedged into the walls, turning the cavern into a low, orange dusk. Tools hung in careful rows. Half-finished blades rested on stone racks like sleeping animals waiting to wake.
At the center of it all stood his grandfather.
Oroku leaned over the anvil, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his thick hands steady despite the years. Each hammer strike rang out slow and deliberate. Not rushed. Not angry. Like he was talking to the metal, one word at a time.
Rasheem sat on an overturned crate near the wall, hugging his knees, watching the sparks bloom and die.
He'd seen his grandfather do this his whole life.
And yet, today, something felt wrong. Too quiet. Too small.
"Grandfather?" he said.
The hammer paused. Oroku didn't look back, but Rasheem saw the way his shoulders shifted—just a little.
"Yes, boy?"
Rasheem chewed his lip, then forced the words out.
"How did the world fall?"
This time, the hammer stopped completely.
The forge went quiet—only the low hiss of the emberstone and the distant, hollow whistle of wind slipping through cracks in the cliff above them.
Oroku lifted the glowing metal with tongs and slid it into the quenching trough. Steam rose, curling around his face. For a long moment, he watched the water settle, as if the answer might be hiding somewhere in the ripples.
When he finally turned, his eyes were darker than the forge smoke.
"That's not a story for children," he said.
"I'm not a child," Rasheem replied too quickly. His voice cracked at the end, betraying him.
Oroku's gaze softened for a heartbeat, then hardened again.
"You're twelve," he said. "That's exactly what you are."
Rasheem felt heat rise in his face. He hated that number, twelve. Too old to be shielded from the truth, too young to be trusted with it.
He lifted his chin stubbornly. "You said once that a blade cracks if the metal is not tested. How am I supposed to be strong if you won't tell me anything?"
Oroku narrowed his eyes, then let out a low sound that might have been a sigh or a faint, reluctant laugh.
"You remember too much," he muttered.
He wiped his hands on a cloth and sank down onto a crate opposite Rasheem. The emberstone light cut across the deep lines in his face. Up close, he looked less like the immovable mountain Rasheem had always known, and more like someone carved from tired stone.
"All right," he said at last. "Listen carefully. Don't interrupt."
Rasheem straightened, heart thudding. "I won't."
Oroku rested his elbows on his knees and looked toward the far wall, as if he could still see another world painted there.
"Once," he began, "this land wasn't called the Ashen Veil. It was simply the Ninefold Empire. Nine great Houses, each bound to a different way of the sword, each devoted to a different god. Fire. Stone. Water. Wind. Lightning. Light. Frost. Shadow. Void."
Rasheem imagined them as Oroku spoke—towering citadels, banners whipping above shining fields of steel, warriors training in perfect rows.
"It wasn't perfect," Oroku continued. "No empire is. But there was a dream at its heart—one thing the Nine Houses agreed on."
Rasheem leaned forward. "The Celestial Katana."
Oroku glanced at him. "You know the name?"
"You said it once," Rasheem said. "When you thought I was asleep."
"Hmm." Oroku's mouth twitched. "I forget how sharp your ears are."
He drew a slow breath.
"Yes. The Celestial Katana. A blade meant to unite all Ki—every style, every resonance—into harmony. They believed that if such a sword existed, war would become impossible. No House could rise above the others. No tyrant could rule alone."
"That sounds… good," Rasheem said.
"It was," Oroku said quietly. "In theory."
Rasheem frowned. "So what went wrong?"
Oroku's eyes seemed to go somewhere far away.
"They tried to forge the Celestial Katana, boy. At a place now called the Godscar. Nine First Blades, nine gods invoked, nine forges roaring as one. The greatest Forgemasters alive stood together. Your ancestors among them."
Rasheem's chest tightened at that.
"Then," Oroku said, "when they tried to bind all that Ki into one edge… the world refused."
"How can the world refuse?" Rasheem whispered.
"Same way a blade does," Oroku murmured. "It shatters."
He lifted a hand and spread his fingers.
"The sky cracked. You can still see the scars—Skyveins, the elders called them. The mountains tore open. The seas boiled. The forge at the heart of the ritual exploded into light and screams. And from that broken light came… creatures."
Rasheem swallowed. He knew the word before Oroku said it.
"Echoborn," his grandfather finished. "Fragments of souls that were caught in the blast. Not alive. Not dead. Just… stuck. Twisted. Hungry."
A chill crept down Rasheem's spine. He'd seen only one Echoborn in his life, far off in the distance beyond the Buttes—a wrong-shaped shadow that made the air shiver.
"What happened to the Houses?" he asked.
"Some died that night. Others tore each other apart trying to claim what was left of the power." Oroku's voice turned grim. "From the ruin rose another empire. One that learned different lessons from the fall."
"The Covenant," Rasheem said.
"The Ashbind Covenant," Oroku agreed. "They decided unity should come from chains, not choice. They gave the people order. Safety. At a price."
He looked Rasheem dead in the eye.
"They hunt weapons that can threaten their rule. Old forges. Forbidden Ki. Names they consider dangerous."
"Like ours," Rasheem whispered.
A brief, heavy silence settled between them.
Rasheem looked down at his hands. The calluses on his fingers were still young, the scars small. He imagined them wrapped around a real katana instead of hammers and tongs.
"Grandfather," he said, voice barely above the forge's hum, "one day… someone will find the Celestial Katana again, won't they? Someone worthy this time. Someone who doesn't break the world."
"Maybe," Oroku said.
Rasheem's eyes lifted. "I want that to be me."
The words came out before he could stop them. Once spoken, they felt solid, like a sword thrust into the ground.
"I want to be a Samurai," he said, louder. "A real one. Not just someone hiding in a cave swinging hammers. I want to fight. I want to protect people. I want to change the world."
The emberstone crackled. For the first time since Rasheem had asked his question, Oroku's expression truly changed.
The pride came first—small and quick, like a spark jumping from the coals.
Then it vanished under a long, tired frown.
"No," he said.
Rasheem jerked back. "What?"
"You're not ready," Oroku said simply. "The path of the sword is not a story. It's not a game you play in your head. It's blood. Loss. Burdens you don't even understand yet."
"You always say that," Rasheem snapped. "You always say I'm not ready. When will I be? When I'm old like you?"
"Watch your tongue, boy," Oroku warned, but there was no real heat in it.
Rasheem's chest burned. It wasn't fair. How was he supposed to grow if his grandfather locked the door and threw away the key?
"Fine," he muttered, standing abruptly. "Forget I asked."
"Rasheem—"
But the boy was already walking away, shoulders tight, jaw clenched.
He climbed the stone steps carved into the side of the forge tunnel and emerged into the open air.
The sky above the Dead Buttes was a permanent bruise of gray and red. Ash drifted on the wind, settling on the jagged rock formations like powdered bone. The world stretched out in broken mesas and cliffs, all the way to a distant pale horizon.
It was beautiful, in a ruined sort of way.
Rasheem headed toward the narrow ravine that hid a trickling river—a thin silver line winding through the red dust. He'd come there since he was little, whenever anger or sadness swelled too big inside his chest.
He sat on a rock near the water, pulling his knees up, letting the cool mist touch his face. The river was shallow, its surface never still. It made a soft, constant sound like someone whispering secrets he was too far away to hear.
He picked up a pebble and flicked it into the stream.
"I'm not a kid," he muttered. "I could learn. I could fight. I could—"
The pebble vanished in ripples.
He dropped his forehead onto his arms.
A long time passed. The sky shifted from dull orange to deeper rust. Somewhere a lone Echoborn howled, its voice distant but wrong, like wind blown through broken stone.
Rasheem didn't look up when he heard footsteps behind him. They were too familiar.
"You didn't cool that blade properly," Oroku said quietly.
Rasheem sniffed, not sure if he wanted to laugh or shout. "Which one?"
"The one you're hammering inside your chest."
He didn't answer.
Oroku sat down beside him, knees cracking softly. They watched the water in silence for a while.
"You're angry," Oroku said eventually.
"You always say I'm angry."
"You always are," Oroku replied. "You want the world to change yesterday."
Rasheem squeezed his arms tighter around his legs. "…What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing," Oroku said. "As long as you don't get yourself killed trying to change it tomorrow."
That pulled a faint, involuntary smile from Rasheem. It faded quickly.
"Grandfather," he said, "if I can't become a Samurai, what am I supposed to be?"
Oroku was quiet for a long moment. Then he exhaled, slow and deep.
"Maybe I was wrong," he said.
Rasheem's head snapped up.
"What?"
"I said you're not ready." Oroku scratched his beard. "But waiting hasn't made you settle. It's only made your questions sharper."
He turned, eyes serious but softer than before.
"If you truly wish to walk the path of the sword," he said, "then we start at the beginning. Not with steel. With Ki."
Rasheem blinked, hardly daring to believe it. "You mean…?"
"Training," Oroku confirmed. "Real training. But understand this, Rasheem." His voice grew heavier. "Once you step onto this path, you do not step back off. Not truly. Even if you throw the sword away, it will follow you."
Rasheem thought of the Echoborn lurking out in the wastes. Of the stories of the Covenant Empire. Of the Celestial Katana lost somewhere in the scars of the world.
He thought of how small the forge felt when he imagined all of that outside it.
"I still want it," he said.
Oroku's lips twitched. "I know."
He rose and held out a hand. "Come. The river is for cooling steel. Not for drowning in self-pity."
Rasheem took his grandfather's hand and stood, heart hammering with a different kind of heat now.
They returned to a flat stretch of stone just outside the forge mouth. The cliff walls curved around them, creating a natural alcove sheltered from harsher winds.
"Sit," Oroku commanded.
Rasheem obeyed, crossing his legs.
Oroku sat opposite him, mirroring the posture.
"Close your eyes."
Rasheem did.
"Breathe in. Slowly. Fill your lungs from the bottom up. Again. Now let the air fall out on its own."
The boy followed the rhythm, breath scraping a little in his throat from the dry air.
"Good," Oroku murmured. "Now… feel."
"Feel what?" Rasheem asked, eyes still shut.
"The stone beneath you. The air against your skin. The ash in your nose." Oroku's voice had shifted—calmer, deeper, like he was chanting something old. "Beneath all of it, there is a current. A quiet pull, like the river's."
Rasheem tried. At first all he noticed was his own fidgeting—the itch on his neck, the stiffness in his knees. But as he forced himself to still, other things crept in.
The faint warmth seeping up from the rock.
The way the breeze carried a subtle hum, like a string plucked far away.
Something… underneath.
"Ki," Oroku said. "It is the breath of the world. Spirit given motion. Life, shaped by will."
Rasheem swallowed. "Everyone has it?"
"Yes. But not everyone can use it. And not everyone's Ki flows the same way." Oroku's tone grew instructional, firm. "There are many resonances. Flame Ki. Stone Ki. Water, Storm, Mist, Light. Most people fit one of these like a hand to a glove."
"And… Emberglass?" Rasheem asked.
Oroku hesitated.
"Our clan was known for… unusual Ki," he said. "Ash Ki. Shadow Ki. Resonances that cling to endings and memories. Dangerous if misused."
Rasheem's heart beat faster. Dangerous sounded… right.
"What about the seventh?" he asked before he could stop himself. "The one you mentioned once. Ghostlight."
He felt the air itself go still.
"I shouldn't have told you that story," Oroku said.
"But you did," Rasheem pushed. "What is it, really?"
There was a long silence.
"Ghostlight Ki," Oroku said at last, "is the Ki of lingering souls. Of echoes that refuse to fade. Those who bear it can see what was, and sometimes, what might be. They can bind themselves to blades in ways no ordinary warrior can."
"That sounds amazing," Rasheem breathed.
"It sounds cursed," Oroku snapped, more sharply than he intended. "Only twenty in recorded history have held it. Heroes. Monsters. Most died badly. The world is not kind to those who carry too much of its memory."
Rasheem opened his eyes a slit. Oroku was staring at the stone between them, jaw tight.
"…Do you think I have it?" Rasheem asked quietly.
"No," Oroku said. The answer came too fast. "And you should be grateful for that."
Rasheem shut his eyes again, unsure whether he felt relieved or disappointed.
"Now," Oroku said. "We see what you do have. Breathe. Call your Ki. Don't force it—invite it."
Rasheem inhaled. He imagined the strange current under the world rising to meet the pulse in his veins.
At first, nothing.
Then—
Something shifted.
A coolness slid down his spine, pooling in his stomach. A heaviness, like the moment before a storm breaks. The shadows cast by the emberstones seemed to stretch toward him, gathering at the edges of his closed eyes.
His fingers tingled.
"Grand… father…" he whispered.
"Steady," Oroku said, though his own heart had begun to race. "Let it come. Don't cling. Don't fight."
The cool weight surged upward. Rasheem's breath hitched.
A thin veil of darkness bled from his skin, swirling around his hands like smoke underwater. The air grew colder within the small circle of stone where they sat.
Oroku stared.
"Shadow Ki," he murmured. "By the gods…"
The shadows thickened, then suddenly snapped inward like a breath dragged too hard.
The pressure crushed Rasheem's chest. He gasped, body tensing.
"It hurts—!"
"Enough!" Oroku barked.
He slammed his palm onto the stone, sending his own Ki out—not as shadow, but as something steadier, older. The darkness around Rasheem fluttered, then peeled away in strands, dispersing into the air.
Rasheem collapsed forward, bracing himself on his hands, panting.
His heart thudded like a hammer in a too-small forge.
After a moment, Oroku touched his back gently.
"Breathe, boy. In. Out. That's it."
Rasheem dragged air into his lungs. The world came back into focus—the chill, the roughness of stone under his palms, the faint ache behind his eyes.
He looked up, dizzy.
"Was… that bad?"
Oroku's face was unreadable.
"It means your Ki is strong," he said. "Too strong for a child who doesn't yet know who he wants to be."
Rasheem bristled. "I do know. I told you—I want to be the strongest Samurai. Stronger than anyone."
"Listen to yourself," Oroku said, voice suddenly hard.
Rasheem flinched.
"'Strongest,'" his grandfather repeated. "Do you hear what is missing from that sentence?"
Rasheem frowned, confused and angry all at once. "What?"
"Why," Oroku said simply.
Rasheem opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"Being Samurai is not about reaching the top of some mountain of corpses," Oroku went on. "It is not about the thrill of cutting or the praise of frightened people. A Samurai's strength means nothing if it's only for himself."
His gaze softened, and for a moment Rasheem glimpsed something like grief behind his eyes.
"Strength," Oroku said quietly, "is for protecting the ones you love. For standing when everyone else must fall back. For enduring what others should never have to."
He reached out, resting a hand lightly on Rasheem's head.
"You want to be strong?" he asked. "Good. You'll need to be. But if you don't decide who you're willing to be strong for… the power inside you will eat you alive."
Rasheem stared at the ground.
Images flickered in his mind—Oroku's bent back over the forge. The lonely wastes stretching beyond the Buttes. The faceless idea of the Covenant, somewhere out there, grinding people beneath their heel.
Slowly, he nodded.
"I want to protect you," he said, voice low. "And… anyone else they try to hurt."
Oroku's hand curled briefly into his hair, fond and rough at once, then withdrew.
"That," he said, "is a better answer."
He rose, joints creaking.
"Come. Training is over for tonight. Your Ki has teeth. We'll dull them slowly."
Rasheem pushed himself to his feet, legs trembling.
As they walked back toward the forge entrance, he glanced once over his shoulder at the red-streaked sky, at the endless scars on the horizon.
Somewhere out there, the Covenant ruled.
Somewhere, the Celestial Katana slept.
And deep beneath his ribs, his Ki whispered like a shadow wondering what it might one day become.