CHRONOFOUDRE Book 1: The Awakening Chapter 1: Ashes and Steel
The hammer falls.
Steel rings against steel, a rhythm I've known since I could walk. My father's forge breathes fire and smoke into the dawn, and I work the bellows like I have a thousand mornings before. The metal glows orange-white in the heart of the flames, waiting.
"Temperature's right," Father says, his voice rough from years of breathing forge smoke. "Take it now."
I pull the blade from the coals with tongs, place it on the anvil. The hammer feels right in my hand—weighted, balanced, an extension of my arm. I strike. Once, twice, ten times. Sparks fly like tiny stars dying in the half-light of morning.
"Good," Father grunts. His approval comes sparingly, which makes it worth more. "You're finally learning patience."
I allow myself a small smile. At nineteen, I'm still learning. Still just an apprentice in my father's eyes, though I've been working this forge for twelve years. Torak Ardent is a master smith, known throughout the northern borderlands. I'm just his son.
The village of Ash-Borough wakes slowly around us. I can hear the sounds of life beginning—shutters opening, children laughing, the baker's oven crackling to life two streets over. Our forge sits at the edge of the village, close enough to serve the community but far enough that the smoke doesn't bother anyone. Well, not much anyway.
"This one's for Captain Erdan," Father says, examining the blade I'm working. "Imperial garrison needs twenty swords by week's end."
"Twenty?" I wipe sweat from my forehead with my sleeve. "That's a large order."
"War drives demand." Father's expression darkens. Something flickers in his eyes—worry, maybe fear. He's been a smith for forty years, seen two wars. "The raids from the north are getting worse."
I've heard the stories. Orc clans, troll bands, desperate and vicious, pushing south from the Desolate Lands. Everyone says they're running from something, but no one knows what. The Empire's northern border is three hundred miles of disputed territory, village raids, and blood.
Ash-Borough sits right on that border.
"We'll get them done," I say, returning the blade to the flames. "We always do."
Father nods, but the worry doesn't leave his face. He moves to his own station, where he's forging a more delicate piece—some kind of decorative work. His hands, scarred and calloused from decades of work, move with surprising grace.
I've always wanted to be like him. Strong, skilled, respected. A man who creates things that last.
The morning passes in fire and metal. We work in comfortable silence, the only conversation the ringing of hammers and the hiss of steel meeting water. It's meditation, in a way. The world narrows to heat and force and precision.
Around midday, I set down my hammer. "Taking lunch to Kira," I announce.
Father looks up, a rare smile crossing his weathered face. "Give her my love. And make sure she's eating properly."
"I will."
I wrap two portions of bread and cheese in cloth—our simple lunch—and head into the village proper. The sun is high now, warm on my shoulders despite the autumn chill in the air. Ash-Borough isn't much to look at: maybe eighty buildings, three hundred souls, a single main street of packed earth. But it's home.
The Golden Grain Inn sits in the center of the village, its sign creaking in the breeze. I push through the door into the common room, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness.
"Kael!" A small figure barrels into me, nearly knocking the food from my hands.
"Careful!" I laugh, steadying myself. My sister Kira looks up at me with eyes the same storm-gray as mine. At twelve, she's all angles and energy, her chestnut hair perpetually escaping whatever tie she's tried to constrain it with.
"Did you bring food? I'm starving. Marta has had me cleaning since dawn, and—"
"Breathe," I interrupt, handing her the wrapped lunch. "Yes, I brought food. And Father sends his love."
We sit at a table by the window. Kira tears into the bread like she hasn't eaten in days, which is probably not far from the truth. She works as a serving girl here, helping the innkeeper Marta in exchange for a few coins and meals. It's not much, but it helps.
"How's the work going?" she asks between bites.
"Twenty swords for the garrison."
Her face falls slightly. "That many?"
"That many."
We eat in silence for a moment. Kira is young, but she's not stupid. She knows what a large weapons order means. She knows about the raids, the tension, the soldiers who come through with haunted eyes and fresh scars.
"I had another dream last night," she says quietly.
I look up. "Another one?"
She nods. "About Mother. She was... she was trying to tell me something, but I couldn't hear her." Kira's voice cracks slightly. Our mother Elira died giving birth to complications when Kira was just a baby, when I was seven. I barely remember her face anymore, just impressions: warmth, the smell of herbs, gentle hands.
I reach across the table, squeeze Kira's hand. "She'd be proud of you. Both of you."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
A genuine smile breaks through her sadness. "When I save enough coin, I'm going to buy books. Real books, from the capital. I'm going to learn to read properly, not just the simple stuff Marta taught me."
"Scholar Kira Ardent," I tease. "Has a nice ring to it."
"Don't laugh! I'm serious. I want to see the world, Kael. The real world, not just this village. I want to go to Arkan-Tor, see the Crystal Towers, maybe even—"
"Maybe even what?"
She hesitates. "Maybe even become an Awakened."
The word hangs in the air between us. Awakened. Those rare individuals who can wield magic, bend reality to their will. One in a thousand people Awaken, usually in their youth during moments of extreme emotion or danger. They're tested, ranked, and conscripted into the Empire's service.
"That's a dangerous dream," I say carefully.
"But wouldn't it be amazing? To have that kind of power, to matter?"
"You matter now."
"You know what I mean." She picks at her bread. "Don't you ever want to be something more? Something beyond just... this?"
I do. More than I'd ever admit out loud. I dream sometimes, reading the adventure tales that traveling merchants occasionally sell. Stories of heroes and quests, of magic and glory. But dreams don't forge swords or put food on the table.
"I want you to be safe," I say instead. "I want you to be happy."
"I am happy. Mostly." She stands, brushing crumbs from her simple dress. "I need to get back to work. Marta will have my head if I'm gone too long."
I stand too, pulling her into a quick hug. "I'll see you at home tonight."
"Bring something interesting to eat! I'm tired of bread and cheese."
"Bread and cheese is all we have."
"Then bring interesting bread and cheese!"
I'm still smiling as I leave the inn. The afternoon sun is bright, and I squint against it, heading back toward the forge. The village feels peaceful, drowsy in the warmth. Children play in the street, kicking a leather ball. Old Gregor sits on his porch, smoking his pipe and watching the world go by.
Nothing seems wrong. Nothing seems different.
I wish I'd paid more attention. Memorized every detail of that moment, that feeling of peace. Because it's the last time I'll ever feel it.
The afternoon passes like the morning—heat, hammer, steel. Father and I fall back into our rhythm. I'm working on the eighth sword when something strange happens.
The metal is in the flames, heating to the right temperature. I'm waiting, watching the color change from red to orange to that perfect white-gold. But I'm tired, and the heat is oppressive, and my eyes grow heavy for just a moment.
Just a moment.
I blink, and I'm somewhere else.
A city of crystal rises before me, towers that catch the light and split it into rainbows. The sky above is wrong—too bright, too vast, stars visible even in daylight. Beings move through the streets, human-shaped but radiating light, power rolling off them like heat from a forge.
One stands before me. Tall, regal, wearing a crown that seems made of frozen lightning. His eyes are my eyes—gray like storm clouds. He raises his hand, and violet-silver light crackles between his fingers.
"Heir of Shattered Time," he says, and his voice echoes inside my skull. "Awaken."
The world explodes in light and sound and—
"Kael!"
I jerk awake, nearly falling. My hand is pressed against the anvil, and there's a mark—a burn in the shape of my palm, but the metal is cold. The mark glows faintly violet for just a second before fading to black.
Father is staring at me, concern etched deep in his face. "Are you alright? You were standing there, not moving. I called your name three times."
"I'm fine," I say automatically, pulling my hand back and examining it. No burn. No pain. Just... nothing. "Sorry. Just tired."
Father doesn't look convinced, but he nods slowly. "Take a break. Get some air."
I stumble outside, my head spinning. What was that? A dream? But it felt so real, so vivid. The city, the being with the crown, the words—
Heir of Shattered Time, awaken.
What does that even mean?
I lean against the wall of the forge, taking deep breaths. The cool autumn air helps clear my head. It was just a dream. A waking dream brought on by exhaustion and forge smoke. Nothing more.
But when I close my eyes, I can still see him. The crowned figure. The violet lightning.
And somehow, I know I'll see him again.
Evening comes too quickly. Father and I finish the day's work, eight swords completed and ready for tempering tomorrow. We bank the forge fire, clean our tools, and lock up the workshop.
The walk home is short—our house is just behind the forge, a modest two-story structure that my grandfather built. Father washes up at the pump while I check on the chickens and make sure the door to the root cellar is secure.
Kira arrives as the sun is setting, her apron dirty and her hair even more disheveled than usual. "Marta sends her regards," she announces. "And also this." She produces a small wrapped package that turns out to be honey cake.
"Interesting bread and cheese," I say with a grin.
Dinner is simple but warm. Father cooked a stew this morning before heading to the forge—mostly turnips and onions with a bit of salt pork. We eat together at the scarred wooden table that's been in our family for three generations.
"Captain Erdan came by the inn today," Kira says. "He looked worried."
Father and I exchange glances. "Did he say anything?"
"Just that the patrols are coming back earlier than expected. Something about increased activity to the north." She pauses. "Is there going to be a raid?"
"There's always the possibility," Father says carefully. "But Ash-Borough has walls and good soldiers. We've weathered raids before."
"Not in my lifetime," Kira points out.
"Be grateful for that."
The conversation moves to lighter topics—Kira's dreams of the capital, my progress on the sword order, village gossip. It's comfortable, familiar. After dinner, Father pulls out his journal, a leather-bound book where he records his techniques and thoughts. He's been keeping it for years, filling it with sketches and notes.
"One day this will be yours," he tells me, as he has many times before. "Every master smith keeps a record for the next generation."
"I'm not a master yet."
"You will be. Sooner than you think." He writes something, then looks up at me. "You have the gift, Kael. Natural talent I never had. In a few years, you'll surpass me entirely."
The pride in his voice makes my chest tight. "I learned from the best."
Kira makes a gagging sound. "You two are disgustingly sentimental."
We all laugh. It's a good sound, warm and full of love. Father goes back to his journal. Kira settles by the fire with a small book—a romance novel she borrowed from Marta, reading slowly and mouthing the words. I sit in the chair by the window, supposedly mending a tear in my work shirt but mostly just watching them.
My family. Small, battered by loss, but strong.
I think about Kira's question earlier—don't I ever want to be something more? The truth is complicated. Part of me is content here, in this life I know. But another part, the part that dreams in the rare quiet moments, wants... something. Adventure. Purpose. A story worth telling.
The vision from this afternoon flickers through my mind again. The crystal city. The crowned figure with eyes like mine.
Heir of Shattered Time, awaken.
I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory. It was just a hallucination. Forge smoke and exhaustion. Nothing more.
Outside, the sun has fully set. The sky is clear, stars emerging one by one. I can see the Shepherd's Star, the Wanderer, the Three Sisters. Constellations my mother taught me before she died.
It's peaceful. Perfect.
Father tells a story—an old legend about the Ancient Kings of Lightning who supposedly ruled these lands thousands of years ago. It's just a myth, a bedtime tale, but Kira loves it. Father's voice is rich and warm as he describes their crystal palaces and impossible powers.
"They could move through space itself," he says. "Step from one place to another in the blink of an eye. And their lightning wasn't blue like normal storms—it was violet, the color of the edge between day and night."
Violet lightning. Like in my vision.
I feel a strange tingling in my arms, starting at my wrists and creeping up to my elbows. I rub them absently, but the sensation doesn't fade. It's not painful, just... there. A awareness, like my skin knows something my mind doesn't.
"...and when they fell," Father continues, "they took their entire civilization with them. The Great Extinction, scholars call it. Three thousand years ago, every last one of them disappeared in a single night. No one knows why."
"That's sad," Kira says softly.
"It's the way of things. Even the mightiest eventually fall."
The tingling in my arms intensifies for just a moment, then fades completely. I look down, half expecting to see something—marks, burns, anything. But my skin is unmarred, normal.
I'm being paranoid. The vision has me jumping at shadows.
"I'm going to bed," I announce, standing. "Early start tomorrow."
"Sleep well, son," Father says.
"Night, Kael," Kira calls.
I climb the stairs to the small room I've had since childhood. It's barely large enough for a bed and a chest for my clothes, but it's mine. I strip down to my underclothes and collapse onto the thin mattress.
Sleep should come easily—I'm exhausted from a full day at the forge. But I lie awake, staring at the ceiling beams, unable to shut my mind off.
The vision plays over and over. The crystal city. The crowned figure. The words.
Heir of Shattered Time, awaken.
Who was he? What did he want? Was it even real, or just my imagination conjuring up images from Father's stories?
I roll over, pulling the thin blanket up to my chin. Through my small window, I can see stars. Unchanging, eternal, indifferent to the small concerns of one blacksmith's apprentice in one tiny village on the edge of the Empire.
Tomorrow will be normal, I tell myself. Tomorrow I'll wake up, work the forge, make swords for soldiers who will use them to defend us. Tomorrow will be just like today, and the day before, and every day of my life.
Tomorrow will be safe.
I almost believe it.
Then I hear the horn.
It's distant at first—a long, mournful note that carries across the night. Once, twice, three times. A pattern I've never heard in practice but know from the safety drills.
The war horn.
The signal that means only one thing.
Raiders.
I'm out of bed and pulling on my clothes before I'm fully conscious of moving. Downstairs, I hear Father doing the same. Kira appears at her door, face pale in the moonlight.
"Kael?" Her voice is small, frightened.
"Stay inside," I tell her, even as I'm lacing my boots. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me or Father."
"What's happening?"
"I don't know. Just stay here."
Father is already at the door, a heavy smith's hammer in his hand. His face is grim, set. "The forge," he says. "We need to—"
The horn sounds again, closer now. And beneath it, I hear something else.
Screaming.
The village is screaming.
Father and I exchange one look, and then we're running. Out the door, into the night, toward the sound of our home being torn apart.
The street is chaos. People running, some toward the center of the village where the garrison is stationed, others just running blind. I see Gregor stumble past, bleeding from a cut on his forehead. The baker's daughter, crying for her mother.
And in the distance, silhouetted against buildings that are starting to burn, I see them.
Orcs. Massive, eight feet tall, armor made of scavenged metal and leather. Trolls, even bigger, swinging clubs the size of tree trunks. Goblins, small and vicious, darting between houses with crude blades.
A raiding party. Dozens of them.
"To the garrison!" Father shouts. "We need to—"
An orc rounds the corner ahead of us, and suddenly we're face to face with seven feet of muscle and rage. It grins, showing tusks yellow with age, and raises an axe that looks like it could split a horse.
Father doesn't hesitate. He swings his hammer, catching the orc in the ribs. The impact would break a normal human, but the orc just grunts, staggers, and swings back.
The axe misses Father's head by inches.
I grab a piece of broken timber from the ground—not a weapon, not really, but it's better than nothing. The orc turns toward me, and I see my death in its eyes.
This is it. This is how I die. Nineteen years old, never left my village, never did anything that mattered.
The orc raises its axe.
And somewhere in my mind, impossibly distant yet crystal clear, I hear a voice:
Awaken.
End of Chapter 1