Morning returned with the smell of iron.
A thin line of smoke rose from the forge at the edge of the ruined village, curling into a sky still heavy with ash. The villagers looked toward it as they worked, not sure why the sound of hammer and anvil calmed them. It was steady, patient, like the rhythm of a heart that refused to stop.
Inside, Hunnt moved as if the forge itself breathed through him.
He had cleared the rubble before dawn, stoked the coals, and fed the bellows until the furnace glowed white at its core. Around him were the spoils of Glisarin Ignis—scales, feathers, veins of glowing silk, bones that still radiated faint warmth. Each lay sorted and cleaned, ready for rebirth.
His old gauntlets waited on the bench beside him, cracked and blackened. They had carried him through the fight but could go no farther. Hunnt rested his palm on them once in silent thanks, then dropped them into the melting pot.
The first fragments of Smolderfang shattered beneath the hammer, spilling molten orange light. The Ignis Veil Membrane followed, dissolving like silk drawn into breath. Ashwing Plumes flared gold and vanished, leaving behind their heat-proof essence. Hunnt folded the molten blend with scrap steel, each strike punctuated by a breath. Strike, shift, breathe. The rhythm carried him until hours blurred away.
When the mold hissed and cooled, he lifted the new metal from the trough. It was black as obsidian, laced with faint veins of ember red that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He smiled and began shaping. Sparks leapt like tiny stars. Sweat burned his eyes, but the heat no longer hurt him—it obeyed.
When the final quench ended, he held the newborn gauntlets in his hands. The surface was dark, smooth, alive. He slid one over his forearm; it fit perfectly. The metal warmed, recognizing its master. A faint ring of heat circled his wrist and faded.
"Welcome back," he whispered.
He set them on the bench and exhaled. Outside, the sun was climbing past noon, its light mingling with the forge's glow. The villagers had grown used to the hammerbeats; children watched from doorways, wide-eyed, too curious to fear the noise.
Hunnt drank a swallow of warm water, wiped his brow, and turned to the next task.
Across the square, under a canopy near the well, Alder lay asleep on a cot, his chest bandaged and his breathing even. Villagers tended him, changing cloths and bringing cool water. From the forge doorway, Hunnt could see him between waves of heat. That was enough. He returned to his work.
The crystal heart of Glisarin Ignis pulsed faintly on the anvil, light caught inside glass. The first hammer blow cracked it open with a scream that rattled every tool in the forge. Hunnt didn't flinch. He struck again, harder, until the crystal bled into molten red. He poured it into a channel lined with Smolderfang dust and folded strips of Ignis Veil Membrane through it to steady the core. The fire leapt high enough to paint the rafters orange; sparks rained from the chimney like shooting stars.
When the final quench roared, steam filled the room and rolled across the floor. Hunnt waited for the hiss to die before he drew the blade free.
It glowed volcanic red, black seams pulsing like veins of lava. Heat rolled off it in slow waves. He ran his thumb along the edge; it sang softly, sharp enough to split air.
He tested the balance—heavy in the spine, light along the edge, power anchored by control. It was the weapon of a protector.
He set it beside the gauntlets and covered both with a clean cloth. "Sleep," he murmured. "You'll wake when he does."
The forge settled into quiet. Outside, dusk spread across the valley, painting the hills in molten gold. The air smelled less of death and more of food—broth, smoke, the faint sweetness of cooked herbs. Hunnt stepped out, rolling his shoulders, the ache of labor pulling at every muscle. Children's laughter drifted from near the well—fragile, uncertain, but laughter all the same. He followed the sound with his eyes and saw Alder still resting, the villagers watching over him. Good.
He leaned against the doorway, letting the cooling wind brush his face. The sunset washed the sky in deep orange, the same hue as the forge behind him. For a moment his thoughts wandered to Ravenshire—its quiet mornings, the clang of hammers echoing through the trees, his grandmother's voice chiding him for skipping breakfast while the forge smoked cheerfully in the yard. A faint smile touched his lips.
"Not every fire destroys," he whispered. "Some just keep the world warm."
A villager approached hesitantly, holding a bowl. "Hunter, you've worked all day. Please eat."
Hunnt accepted it. The smell of spice and roasted meat mixed with iron and smoke. "Thank you," he said and sat on the steps. The stew was thick, made from the same beast that had nearly killed them. He ate slowly, tasting both loss and renewal in every bite.
When the bowl was empty, he handed it back. "Tell the others the hammering will stop after tomorrow. I'll finish the armor, then rest."
The woman smiled. "We don't mind the noise. It sounds… alive."
Hunnt chuckled. "Then I'll try not to stop."
Night crept in, cool against the burned stone. The stars appeared pale through the drifting smoke. Hunnt doused the main fire, leaving only a deep orange glow. Inside, the two weapons lay side by side beneath their covering, still warm. They looked like promises waiting for purpose.
He wiped his hands and glanced once more toward the canopy across the square. Alder slept on, chest rising steadily. The villagers around him had begun to relax; some even laughed softly as they shared food.
"Rest easy, old man," Hunnt murmured. "Your fight's not wasted."
He closed the forge door, leaving a single line of light spilling into the street. The rhythmic hum of cooling metal filled the silence like a lullaby. Beyond the roofs, a clean breeze stirred—the first in days—carrying away the scent of ash. What remained was warmth, the heartbeat of a forge, the echo of creation, and a hunter who refused to stop.