Dawn crawled over the Crimson Valleys like a wounded beast.
The air still carried the smell of ash and rain.
Smoke rose faintly from a ring of blackened soil where the storm had ended — or perhaps, where it had begun again.
Eryndor Vale stood in the middle of it.
Barefoot.
Silent.
The rod he'd held through the night had changed. What was once rough scrap iron was now a curved blade — thin, uneven, but alive.
Blue veins of lightning still traced faintly along its edge, pulsing to his heartbeat before fading.
It wasn't hot.
It wasn't cold.
It was listening.
The first sound he heard wasn't thunder.
It was hooves.
A cart rattled down the road toward Rynvale. The driver saw the smoke and pulled hard on the reins, shouting for the horses to slow.
"Oi!" he yelled. "You there! Boy!"
Eryndor turned.
The man gaped — eyes flicking from the burned circle to the faint glow fading from the blade in Eryndor's hand.
"By the gods…" the driver muttered. "What in the Deep happened here?"
Eryndor looked around as if seeing the destruction for the first time.
The grass was charred flat, trees split, the earth itself scorched in a perfect spiral.
"Lightning," he said simply.
The driver blinked. "That—? Lightning doesn't do that."
Eryndor didn't answer. He just lowered the blade, watching the faint reflection of blue fire fade from its edge.
When he returned to the forge, Hadrik was already awake.
The old blacksmith froze mid-swing as Eryndor stepped through the door, dripping rainwater and soot, a faint scorch mark trailing from his collar to his wrist.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Hadrik's gaze fell to the blade.
"What," he said slowly, "did you do?"
Eryndor placed the weapon gently on the anvil. It hummed faintly, a sound too pure to have come from metal alone.
"I listened," he said.
Hadrik circled the anvil, squinting down at the weapon. "This is—" He stopped. Ran a calloused thumb along the edge. "No forge could've made this. No quenching oil, no tempering— it's bonded."
The blacksmith looked up sharply. "Did you use—"
"Lightning," Eryndor interrupted.
Hadrik blinked once. Twice. Then laughed, dry and disbelieving. "Lightning. You expect me to—"
The blade hummed louder.
The forge lights dimmed.
For an instant, the air crackled — faint arcs of blue tracing between hammer and anvil.
Hadrik stumbled back.
"…You idiot," he whispered. "You actually did."
They didn't speak for a while after that.
Hadrik sat on his stool, rubbing his temples, muttering about madness and divine curses.
Eryndor cleaned himself quietly, scraping the soot from his arms. Every now and then, the blade pulsed faintly beside him, as though reminding him it was still there.
The sound of it was strange — not like steel at all.
It was closer to the hum of a forge fire, a steady rhythm that matched his breathing.
Resonance.
He could feel it now — that faint vibration behind his heart, no longer buried. It wasn't strong, but it was there, responding when he focused, humming faintly when his thoughts sharpened.
So this is what awakening feels like.
He flexed his hand slowly, small arcs of blue dancing between his fingers.
It didn't hurt.
It wanted to be used.
Hadrik finally looked up, his face unreadable.
"Do you know what you've done, boy?"
"Yes."
"No, you don't."
The old man stood, moving closer to the blade. "You think the world will leave this alone? That nobles, assessors, hunters won't come sniffing the moment word spreads?"
He jabbed a finger toward Eryndor's chest. "You've just turned yourself into a resource. A walking forge secret. And this—" He pointed to the weapon. "—this thing will bring every bastard within fifty leagues to your doorstep."
Eryndor's expression didn't change. "Then I'll learn faster."
Hadrik blinked. "Learn—?"
"How far it goes," Eryndor said simply. "This power. This… resonance. If lightning could shape metal, what else can it shape?"
The old man's jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before he gave up and slumped back into his chair.
"You're insane," he muttered.
"Probably."
The corner of Hadrik's mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite defeat. "If you're going to die chasing storms, at least let me make you a sheath first."
By evening, word had already begun to spread.
The farmers who'd seen the scorched field whispered about divine punishment. The priests at the temple muttered prayers to the dormant gods. The assessor, still in town, sent a coded letter north toward Aurenvale with two words written in precise script:
"Unrecorded Awakening."
That night, Eryndor sat on the forge roof again, the blade resting across his knees.
The stars shimmered faintly through thin clouds, the air still heavy with the scent of ozone.
He lifted the weapon, letting the moonlight catch its curve. It wasn't perfect. The balance was wrong. The edge too raw. But it was his — forged not by fire, but by lightning.
When he focused, the hum in his chest aligned with the hum of the blade.
For the briefest moment, the two sounds became one.
He smiled faintly.
"If storms can shape metal… perhaps they can shape men, too."
Far off, thunder rumbled again — soft, almost approving.
And Eryndor Vale, the boy who listened to steel, began listening to the world instead.