Night settled heavy over Ironveil. The forge had gone cold, yet Arin sat beside the anvil, eyes fixed on the faint glow beneath his skin. The lines in his forearms pulsed softly, like molten ore hidden under flesh. Each beat of his heart sent a dull vibration through his bones.
He could feel it now—the same rhythm that had whispered from the tablet.
A slow, endless hum.
At first it frightened him. Then it steadied him.
He closed his eyes and focused. The air around him thickened, the smell of iron and soot clinging to every breath. Within that darkness he saw flashes: chains coiling, sparks bursting, rivers of glowing metal flowing through a human form.
When he inhaled, the vision pulled closer. When he exhaled, it faded.
It was a rhythm-the same rhythm as the hammer. Swing, breathe, swing.
He realized it wasn't the world around him that was alive.
It was him.
A tremor ran through his body. The warmth spread from his heart outward, filling every limb until even the ache in his muscles changed-no longer pain, but pressure, like something pushing against untempered steel.
The body is the first forge, a memory whispered. To refine it, you must first melt it.
Arin drew a sharp breath. The whisper was not his father's, nor the tablet's. It came from somewhere deeper, born from the iron running in his veins.
He placed his palm against the anvil and focused on the heat within.
The metal responded.
A faint vibration answered his touch. The anvil's surface rippled like disturbed water. Sparks drifted upward, glowing in the dim forge light before vanishing into smoke.
Startled, Arin pulled his hand back. The mark on his palm burned hotter than ever.
He stared at it—half afraid, half entranced.
The pattern of chains around the human figure seemed to have shifted, the lines thinner, more defined, as if etched deeper into him.
You are the mold. You are the ore. You are the flame.
The words rang inside his skull like hammer strikes. His vision blurred, and for a moment he felt the weight of something vast pressing down from above—ancient, patient, unyielding.
He gasped and the world snapped back into place.
Outside, thunder rolled across the valley. The wind howled through the cracks in the roof, scattering ash across the floor.
Arin sat there, trembling, his skin steaming with heat that refused to fade. When he finally looked down, the frost that had crept through the forge was gone. The stones around him glistened with condensation.
The cold no longer touched him.
Slowly, he rose. His movements were lighter, the stiffness gone. When he clenched his fist, his knuckles creaked like tempered metal.
He stepped outside just as the rain began to fall.
Droplets struck his skin, hissed faintly, and rolled away.
For the first time, he felt truly alive.
In the distance, the mountain loomed—its veins of iron glowing faintly beneath the storm clouds, like a sleeping beast waiting to wake.
Arin looked toward it, and the fire in his blood answered.