(Capital of Kalazeth, Kalistith)
(Healers room)
The scent of incense and ozone lingered thick in the healer's bay, but it was being thoroughly overwhelmed by the utter chaos erupting from the far end of the chamber. Clerics and mages ducked behind curtains and shelves as Lynzelle screeched and flailed like a lunatic gremlin mid-exorcism, her lone arm swinging wildly as she kicked at anyone who got within five feet of her. Her bandaged stump throbbed, but that didn't stop her from trying to climb the headboard of the cot like a one-armed spider monkey high on arcane fumes. Long strands of her silver hair clung to her face and the walls as if they, too, had joined the rebellion.
Three very powerful women were losing an increasingly stupid war trying to keep her still.
"STOP—MOVING—YOU—MANIAC!" Zaara hissed, her golden runes flickering as she hugged Lynzelle's waist from behind, legs locked around the cot frame, gritting her teeth like she was wrangling a possessed elk.
"I SWEAR IT'S MOVING!" Lynzelle screeched, eyeing the steaming green cup in a cleric's hand like it was a vial of poison.
Aris stood silently at Lynzelle's side, her long crimson braid swaying as she tried—gently but firmly—to press down on Lynzelle's shoulder with both pale hands. Her white blindfold remained serene despite the madness.
"You must be still. Struggling only deepens the pain."
"THE PAIN IS THE DRINK!" Lynzelle howled. "IT SMELLS LIKE SICK CABBAGE WASHED IN MOLDY CENTAUR SWEAT!"
Selvaria Vance, Lady of the Bloodhunters—venomous, gaunt, and absolutely not in the mood—had both hands on Lynzelle's legs, pinning them with her full weight and visibly regretting her life choices. Her pale silver eyes twitched as she snapped toward a nearby healer.
"Make her drink it!"
One poor cleric approached cautiously, holding the dreaded green brew like a peace offering.
"It's just a little healing concoction. Very mild. Cloverroot extract, angelhorn, shadeblossom syrup—"
"Syrup?! That's no syrup! THAT'S WITCH VOMIT!" Lynzelle shrieked, thrashing like she was being dipped in holy water.
Zaara groaned as a foot nearly broke her nose. "Selvaria, I swear to every god I don't believe in, shes gonna end up breaking my beautiful face—"
"I WILL NOT BE TREATED BY GOBLIN BREW!"
Selvaria's eye twitched. Then she inhaled sharply and muttered under her breath, "You owe me for this," before raising her voice:
"…If you drink the damn brew, we'll do a stage play with you. In the capital. Together. Me, Zaara, Aris. We'll all act in it."
'Cainan told me she likes theater…'
Instant silence.
Lynzelle's pupils dilated like a cat spotting a tuna buffet.
"…Really?" she whispered, face suddenly six inches from Selvaria's.
"Yes," Selvaria muttered like it cost her part of her soul. "Really."
Lynzelle sat up—cracking a few joints as she did so—snatched the cup, and began chugging like it was wine from heaven. Her face contorted into ten different shades of disgust.
"Mmm… S'so good," she gagged, eye twitching as her tongue tried to escape her mouth. "Nutritious!"
She downed another cup, and another, shoving them into her mouth like shots while shuddering so hard her teeth clacked.
Zaara, still on the floor, stared in disbelief. "You betrayed me."
"I hate theatre!" Zaara cried, dragging herself up. "Do you know how long they are?! Every play ends with talking! And a monologue!"
"I do not like being watched by crowds," Aris added quietly, brushing dust from her sleeves.
Selvaria calmly turned, cracked her knuckles, and bonked them both on the head with the flat of her hand.
Then she sat on them. Both of them.
Zaara squirmed. "You're literally sitting on my spine."
"I'll kill you all," Selvaria said primly, legs crossed with grim dignity. "It was the only way to get her to drink the shit."
Aris, beneath one knee, spoke softly. "You realize we must follow through now."
Zaara, muffled by thigh. "Yeah. You sold our souls for a cup of sludge."
"I hate you all," Selvaria muttered, clearly regretting every life decision.
Meanwhile, Lynzelle drained the last cup and slammed it down like a champion of theatre. A cleric rushed to steady her as she stood up a little wobbly, looking gloriously victorious despite being pale and one-armed.
"The brew will mend the wound over the next few hours," one of the healers explained gently, checking her bandage. "It slowly numbs the affected area and relieves pain."
Lynzelle tilted her head, blinking. Then she turned to the others with a sudden pout.
"Can you take me somewhere nice? I wanna get my mind off the hole where my arm used to be."
Aris stepped forward and inclined her head.
"There is a Hall of Music on the eastern side of the palace. It is peaceful there."
Zaara stood up and stretched, golden runes humming lazily. "I'm in. Anything's better than babysitting you here."
Selvaria crossed her arms, still flustered. "Fine. I'll come. Someone's gotta keep you three from setting the palace on fire."
Zaara and Aris looked at each other, then back at Selvaria with matching grins.
"Aww," Zaara said. "You do wanna hang out with us."
"She enjoys our company," Aris said serenely.
Selvaria's face flushed a dangerous red. "You're all wrong, and I'll kill you!"
Lynzelle then turned, thinking, 'Bloodhunters came in and took Qorrak. Where did they take him?…'
The hallways of the Kalazeth Palace echoed with a cacophony of boots, clanking steel, muttered oaths—and the unmistakable sound of grown warriors fleeing in terror.
Selvaria Vance strode down the marble corridor like a silent executioner, heels clicking, cloak fluttering, expression unchanging. Beside her trailed Aris, graceful and serene, Zaara, hands behind her head and grinning like a misbehaved cat, and Lynzelle—hobbling slightly but lively as ever, swaying with manic energy as she chirped excitedly at every statue they passed.
Ahead, a group of fully armored Tanks—the Empire's juggernaut-class warriors wielding boulders for maces and door-sized shields—caught sight of Selvaria. One turned ghost white. Another fumbled his helmet.
"She's coming!"
"She saw us—RUN!"
A dozen grown men, taller than siege towers in full gear, scrambled around a corner so fast one of them dropped his axe.
Lynzelle blinked. "Huh. What's their problem?"
"Oh, nothing," Zaara said sweetly. "They just heard the bedtime story about Lady Vance snapping a Tank's leg because he asked if her blade 'sparkled' in sunlight."
"Haha! Can do it again with one finger!" Selvaria snapped from the front.
Lynzelle said, "Ohhhh I forgot Selvaria was evil! You all warned me about her!"
As they continued, two Bloodhunters stood rigid near a support column, postures ramrod straight like statues.
"…She's getting closer."
"Don't move. Maybe she'll go away."
Selvaria passed them.
They exhaled.
Then—
"Whatcha doing?"
Both shrieked like children and bolted.
Selvaria laughed—a rare, terrifying thing, like a knife tapping crystal.
Behind her, Lynzelle, Zaara, and Aris had huddled together, whispering.
"She's so scary," Lynzelle said, eyes wide, still bandaged. "She sneaks up like a predator."
"She glared at me once," Zaara added. "I peed emotionally."
"I find her presence comforting," Aris said calmly. "Though dark.."
"You would," Zaara muttered.
But just as Lynzelle laughed, her eyes faltered. The corridor seemed quieter. Images tried to push forward—the cold, horrible beauty of Elsha; the way her harp sang pain into the world; the moment her arm was gone. Then, the Witch Queen's voice:
"I know where your mother is."
Lynzelle's breath caught. Her fingers trembled. She clenched her fist.
'No…'
'Not now. Not yet….distract yourself..'
She grinned, slapped her own face cheeks, and bounced.
"Hurry!! HALL OF MUSIC HALL OF MUSIC HALL OF—!!"
They arrived at the massive archway, carved in curving, elegant glyphs. The heavy wooden doors were sealed shut until Aris stepped forward and gently placed her hand on the frame. A soft hum responded.
With a gentle boom, the doors creaked open.
And the Hall of Music revealed itself.
It was enormous—cathedral-sized, with an open dome above revealing a faint shimmer of magical sky. The ceiling was a masterpiece: layered murals in vivid color and shifting detail, depicting ancient musical myths—
The Mooncaller, a blindfolded fae who sang tides into being.
The Cicada King, a beast who played an eight-limbed drum in the War of Bone.
The Crescent Choir, whose silent performance calmed a god.
Golden balconies lined the edges, and hundreds of instruments were displayed on curved stands and pedestals, from the haunting glassflutes to the deep-throated bellowharps, to strings wound with silver-threaded beastgut. Nothing mechanical, all magical, medieval—alive with mystery.
Lynzelle's mouth dropped open.
She ran forward like a child let loose in a candy shop, darting from instrument to instrument.
"WHAT'S THIS??" she asked, poking a spiky shell-shaped horn.
"Grumblehorn," Zaara said, flicking it. "Used in swamp funerals."
"OOH THIS??" She tapped a box with dangling crystal rods.
"Star-chime. Don't shake it too hard, it cries. That things fucking annoying."
But when she saw the harp, large and gold-veined and curved like the crescent moon—
She paused. Stared.
Didn't touch.
Aris glanced at her, but said nothing.
Instead, Lynzelle turned away quickly and grinned at a strange, circular stringed instrument with hollow reeds attached.
"I WANT THIS ONE!!"
"Then it's yours," Aris said, and gently motioned. "Pick your instruments, all of you. Then, to the center."
Zaara wandered toward a crooked bone-pipe flute that hissed when tilted. "I'm choosing this gremlin thing."
Selvaria muttered and grabbed a three-stringed heavy viola that looked like it belonged at an execution.
Aris chose a slender glasswand with tiny windholes—a soft, spiritlike flute called a veilpipe.
They regrouped at the center platform.
The floor here was smooth crystal, transparent but not empty—beneath it, the surface looked like a living night sky. A rippling galaxy spiraled slowly under their feet, blues and purples and golds churning like a dream.
They all stared down.
Zaara blinked. "…Okay. I've never really bothered coming here before. Just heard it was cool."
Selvaria sighed. "I came once. Got bored. Left."
The moment they stood still—
Crack—
The glass beneath them fractured—but not violently. It splintered with threads of light, humming like a plucked string, and then vanished.
And they fell—but not downward. They floated, suspended in an endless shimmering void, a realm of light and stardust and color. Planets swirled in the distance. Echoes of long-forgotten songs shimmered in the air.
Lynzelle gasped, spinning slowly. "IT'S A GALAXY SPA—AAAHH!!"
"This is badass," Zaara said, arms behind her head.
"It's fine," Selvaria muttered, utterly unconvincing.
"You like it," Zaara grinned. "You totally like it. You're about to write a poem about it."
Selvaria wordlessly lifted her viola and tried to strangle Zaara with the strings.
Aris drifted serenely beside them like a graceful comet.
Meanwhile, Lynzelle was floating awkwardly, trying to pluck her strange circular reed-instrument with one arm.
TWAAANG—PHROOOF—SCCRREEEE!!
It sounded like a dying goose being set on fire by angry pixies.
Lynzelle winced. "Oops."
But she laughed. Even through the frustration. Even with one arm. She grinned, genuinely having fun.
Then—
Aris floated down beside her, and gently placed one hand on the side of the instrument.
"That is a Kyrr'ell Drona," she said softly. "An ancient stringreed made by the mute people of the Sune Steps. They believed music was a gift meant to be seen, not heard. Each string is meant to hum in a language of movement."
Lynzelle blinked. "…So it's supposed to sound like dying animals?"
"No," Aris said. "You are simply terrible at it."
Lynzelle laughed.
And then—Aris helped her. Adjusted her grip. Guided her fingers, steadied the base.
Lynzelle plucked again.
And this time, a haunting, echoing sound filled the void. Soft, strange, like wind through colored glass. It shimmered like the galaxy around them, surreal and beautiful.
Behind them, Zaara yelped, "SHE'S GOT MY LEG!"
Selvaria was still strangling her with the viola.
But Lynzelle closed her eyes, and let herself feel it.
The galaxy shimmered around them like a dream half-remembered, painted in a thousand shades of blue and violet, swirled with gold and stardust. Stars glided slowly in orbit above, echoing faint, melodic pulses—like the heartbeat of the universe itself, waiting to be matched.
Lynzelle closed her eyes.
Her fingers moved over the strings and reeds of the Kyrr'ell Drona, slowly, unsure at first—but then, instinct took over. Music flowed. Soft at first, like wind over sand, then deeper, rounder, a whisper becoming a voice. It rang in strange pitches, haunting and warm, rising in little arcs like birds taking flight. The reeds resonated faintly behind each note, creating a sound that felt both hollow and whole—like tears on a sunny day.
A single tear slid down her cheek.
It fell slowly in the weightless void, glinting like a falling star.
The others noticed. Zaara turned, blinking. Aris smiled faintly, watching. Even Selvaria's gaze softened.
Aris lifted her own instrument—a veilpipe, slender and clear—and joined in. The soft, flutelike notes curled around Lynzelle's melody like ivy over marble. They fluttered and danced, trailing shimmer behind each tone, adding breath and air to the grounded strums of the Drona.
Zaara grinned. She lifted her boneflute and blew into it—producing a growling, cheeky tone that made Lynzelle giggle mid-play. But Zaara adjusted her hold, and a rolling rhythm began—playful and bouncing, adding a childlike mischief to the growing song.
The galaxy around them responded. Stars pulsed in time with the rhythm. Constellations bent like brushstrokes. Colors bloomed with every chord. Planets danced lazily through spirals of golden dust.
A lullaby of strange souls.
But Selvaria…
…did not play.
Her hands held her instrument, but her eyes were elsewhere. Her voice, inward.
'—I didn't wanna do this again.'
'I've led a squad before. A real one. Brave, brash bastards. We fought under the Banner of Crassil, out where the grass turns red in spring and the snow is never clean. We drank together. Bled together. I trained them so well I thought they'd outlive me.'
'They died screaming under a sunless sky. Cursed glass, spears through the neck, and the sound of one of them sobbing because he was still breathing when the others weren't.'
'And I kept breathing. But I lost myself..'
'I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just kept breathing.'
'After that, I didn't lead. I commanded. Orders. Missions. Stats. I locked my feelings in the deepest vault and swallowed the key. Easier that way.'
'You don't lose what you don't let close.'
'But now… this damn group. These damn idiots. That manic girl missing an arm. That fireball with too many teeth. That graceful wraith who hums like a ghost. Even that brooding man Cainan with chains in his eyes.'
'I care again. Gods help me, I care.'
'And I know—if I keep pretending I don't, I'll regret it more when it ends. Because everything ends. But maybe… maybe it's better to be hurt with full hands than to be untouched and empty.'
'I don't know. I just know I…'
She looked up.
And finally lifted her instrument.
SCREEEAAAAUUUUUGHGHHH!!
It sounded like an ogre choking on soup and then slipping on it.
Everyone turned.
Lynzelle blinked. "…was that… supposed to happen?"
Selvaria's face turned red. "Aris….Teach me before I clobber you to death with this three-stringed abomination!"
Aris, already giggling, floated toward her. "As you wish."
While the instruction began—Zaara drifted beside Lynzelle, bumping her lightly.
"You okay?" she asked, voice light, but her eyes concerned.
Lynzelle hesitated. "I… I think so."
Zaara raised an eyebrow.
Then Lynzelle smiled—small and vulnerable. "I think Cainan really, really likes me."
Zaara blinked. "Well, duh. You're married."
Lynzelle froze. Her pupils shrank. Her heart dropped.
'SHIT. I was about to ask her an insane question!'
She had forgotten. Only she and Cainan knew it was fake.
But she couldn't break character.
So she threw her arm over her forehead dramatically and gasped. "Yes! Our love is now even more powerful—especially after the… times we've taken it far."
That got everyone's attention.
Zaara whipped around. "You what?!"
Aris floated closer. "Define 'taken it far.'"
Selvaria paused mid-lesson. "Details. Now."
Lynzelle was cornered. She gulped.
Then—she straightened like a stage actress and began to perform.
"Ohhh yes. Cainan! His love is like a storm, his embrace like lava! The first time—it was atop a pile of broken chains, in a ritual circle made of screams! He whispered, 'Destruction is an art…' and I said 'Make me your canvas!!'"
Zaara wheezed. "WHAT?!"
"He picked me up by the waist with his chains and spun me like a ceiling fan, and then we crash-landed into a pillar and it shattered from our passion!"
Aris looked horrified but fascinated. "Is that… possible?"
"We climaxed three times and a volcano erupted nearby. We made nature flinch!"
Zaara was floating upside down, "STOP I CAN'T BREATHE."
Aris scribbled mental notes. "I require diagrams."
Selvaria cleared her throat.
"I know a few moves that can make any man go crazy."
Zaara and Aris immediately shouted in unison: "NOPE!!"
They started playing their instruments again loudly, drowning her out.
Selvaria raised her voice, trying to demonstrate. "YOU JUST HAVE TO BEND LIKE—"
The galaxy trembled with her exaggerated motions.
Lynzelle, wide-eyed, nodded along nervously, smiling with pure survival instinct, pretending to understand but hearing nothing over the musical chaos. She refused to upset Selvaria. She wanted to live.
And in the starlit void, surrounded by laughter and sound, pain faded for a little while.
Elsewhere in Kalazeth, deep beneath the halls of politics, music, and chaos—there was fire.
The Forge, often called Brax's Spine, was carved directly into the mountain's roots. Massive blackstone arches framed a cathedral of flame and steel. Veins of molten metal ran through the walls like living arteries, casting red light that danced across hanging chains, runic anvils, and vats of glowing ore. The heat was thick and honest, and every breath was iron-tinted.
Roars of bellows, crackles of flame, and the relentless clang of hammer to metal echoed across the great chamber—like a war song in progress.
Standing at the heart of this inferno was the mountain of a man himself:
Brax Trenhald.
Master Forgewright.
Lord of the Forge.
Built like an anvil with legs, Brax was shorter than most warriors, but twice as wide, muscle and myth fused together. His beard was braided with blackened bronze rings, singed from years of bending too close to flame. His armor was a living thing—molten bronze interwoven with dragon bone, pulsing gently as if it breathed.
His voice was a drumroll of disdain as he glared at Cainan from beneath his soot-streaked brow.
"What the hell d'you want, brat?"
Cainan followed close behind, arms folded, his cloak discarded from the heat, chains coiled loosely like a second skin. His expression was serious, and his voice steady.
"An arm," Cainan said. "For Lynzelle."
Brax snorted and didn't stop walking. "Oh, is that all? Want a crown for her while I'm at it?"
Cainan stepped forward. "I'm serious. I want you to make her a real one. A good one. Something that fits her."
Brax stopped.
Turned.
And grinned, teeth blackened by time and smoke. "Then make it yourself."
Cainan blinked. "…No? That's your job. I don't forge, I kill things. You know me."
"You know the drill," Brax said, already walking again. "You want something built, you build it. No handouts in this Forge."
"That's bullshit," Cainan snapped. "You never had that rule before."
Brax grunted. "Yeah, well, I just made it."
Cainan growled under his breath.
"Oi!" Brax barked, nodding to a circle of sparks to the left. "Look there. See him?"
Amidst a ring of young smiths stood Foxxen—the grinning, arrogant wolf-humanoid, red-and-white fur bristling with sweat and soot. His greatsword, twice his height, lay across an anvil, and its edges smoked with a faint, greenish haze. He wasn't just reforging it—he was feeding it.
Foxxen was grinding in strips of cursed bone and laying down intricate runes with a glowing chisel—blending smoke magic into the blade's spine. He tapped them in rhythm, like a song only he could hear.
He looked up, saw Cainan—and waved.
"Yo!" he barked, tail wagging. "This is fun! Still a dumbass rule, but fun!"
Cainan gave the slightest smirk. "At least someone gets it."
Brax folded his arms. "Still doing it."
Cainan sighed. "Fine. Teach me, then."
Brax's grin widened. "Now you're talking, brat."
They entered the inner sanctum of the Forge—a vault of silence and heat, lit by rivers of plasma-glow and enchanted lanterns. The room curved upward like a coliseum of flame, lined with relics and blueprints from a hundred generations.
A slab was cleared for Cainan. An anvil older than the Empire sat waiting, inscribed with deep, ancient glyphs of flame, bone, and time.
Cainan now wore a blacksmith's gown—heavy, fireproof, and form-fitting. The sleeves were rolled back, revealing his tattooed arms. The material was deep obsidian leather, with a faint shine like volcanic glass, and lined with ash-grey thread that shimmered with a dull enchantment, resistant to heat and magic alike. Over his chest was a stylized sigil of the Forge: a sword wrapped in flame and chains.
And in his hands…
…was a hammer unlike any other.
The head of it glowed with a haunting violet, pulsing gently like it held something alive. The metal looked almost fluid, humming with potential. The handle was pitch black, with veins of storm-grey running through it like petrified lightning. It felt like it weighed the world—but in Cainan's hands, it balanced like a dance partner.
"Name of that hammer," Brax said, stepping beside him, "is Vraec-Thurn."
Cainan looked to him.
"Means 'Last Word' in Old Firetongue. Once used to shape the armor of kings. Now it'll be your teacher."
He turned to a nearby forge where metal awaited—gleaming, unknown, powerful.
"You ready to make her something she deserves?"
Cainan looked at the raw material, the anvil, the glowing forge.
And then he looked down at the hammer in his hand.
"…Yeah."
"Then get to work, boy," Brax rumbled. "Lesson one—don't burn your damn eyebrows off."
The forge roared around them like a breathing god, embers rising into the dark cathedral of flame and steel. The heat never settled—it hunted. Fire licked at the walls, furnace chimneys bellowed, and hammers sang to metal in primal rhythm. But all fell quieter when Brax Trenhald stood beside the anvil, arms crossed, eyes narrowing on the boy-turned-slayer.
"Listen close," Brax grunted, as Cainan adjusted the forgemaster's gown clinging to him. "We Dwarves—some say we're born knowing how to bend flame to will. Our mothers swaddle us in soot. Our fathers name us after anvils. The Forge runs in our blood."
He turned to Cainan with a serious gleam in his deep-set eyes.
"But that don't mean you can't learn it."
Cainan raised an eyebrow, still holding the mythic hammer Vraec-Thurn—its violet head humming like thunder waiting to happen.
"Forgecraft ain't about muscle. It's patience. Heat. Precision. And pain. The same things you know how to use… just turned inward."
Cainan said nothing. But he listened.
"You might need this one day," Brax muttered, softer than usual. "More than a sword or a chain. Now get off your ass and grab me five materials. Fast."
Cainan vanished in a blur.
Within moments, the ground rumbled under his sprint. He returned carrying:
A strip of soulsteel, black and iridescent, pulsing like a heartbeat.
A shard of magma-glass, pulled from the veins of an elder volcano.
A clump of smolder-crystal ore, still hot to the touch.
A bundle of runebark, a sap-infused wood that burned with ancient glyphs.
And a sliver of bright-iron, gleaming white and known to hold enchantments with ease.
As he laid them down with a grunt, other forgers began to gather—human and dwarf alike. They stepped away from their own work, drawn by the odd sight of Kalazeth's notorious chain-dancer in an apron.
A few whispered.
"Cainan's here.."
"The strongest Bloodhunter amongst everyone."
"And now he's… forging?"
Coins clinked. Bets were made.
"How long before he quits?"
"Five seconds, tops."
"I bet he smashes the hammer through the anvil."
Foxxen, arms folded, leaned against his newly rune-scribed greatsword—hugging it like a drunken lover. His fur was dusted in soot, but his grin was sharp as ever.
"Don't count him out," he said, flicking a coin into the pot. "The bastard picks things up quick."
Brax snapped his fingers.
"Right. Step one. Heat the soulsteel. Not scorch it. Not melt it. Temper it."
Cainan approached the forge. The heat was alive. He used tongs to ease the soulsteel in—too slow, too clumsy—
FWOOSH.
"Too deep!" Brax barked. "You're gonna burn it raw! Start again!"
Cainan cursed under his breath, pulled it out. It hissed. Tried again—gentler this time.
"Better," Brax said. "Now, the hammer. Feel it hum? That's resonance. You're not striking metal. You're striking its memory."
Strike.
Sparks flew.
"Again. Lower. Follow the grain. No—the grain of the soulsteel, not the hammer's pull. Don't let the tool control you."
Strike.
Miss.
Another strike—too hard, it cracked.
Brax grunted. "You're fighting the metal like a bloody ghost. Listen to it."
Cainan slowed. Focused. He watched the ripples of the glowing steel. Matched his rhythm.
Strike.
The soulsteel responded. A note rang true.
More smiths had gathered now. Quiet. Watching. One dwarf passed Foxxen another coin.
Foxxen grinned wide. "Told you."
Brax taught him how to meld magma-glass into soulsteel, how to carve runes with a chisel dipped in fire-oil, how to breathe heat into bright-iron and fuse runebark into a nervous system of magic and movement. He even taught him the Dwarven Rune-Lacing: glyphs that meld to flesh, anchor sensation, and preserve spirit-energy.
"You can't just etch runes," Brax lectured. "You gotta feed 'em into the metal. Talk to it. Coax it."
Cainan growled, hands trembling, sweat pouring—but the rune glowed alive when it landed.
Hours passed.
Until finally—
It was done.
An arm—raw, jagged, but powerful. Made of molten-black stone, edges lined with orange-red runes glowing like lava under skin. Each symbol was carefully bonded with aether-binding alloy, forming a bridge to the body it would soon belong to.
"She'll feel with this one," Brax murmured, admiring the runes. "Won't just swing it. She'll live through it."
A few smiths clapped, muttering admiration.
One human forger elbowed another. "Shit. I lost ten gold."
Foxxen howled with laughter, a pile of winnings in his arms. "Ahh, idiots! You bet against him?"
Cainan said nothing. Just stared at the glowing arm.
Then, as the crowd dispersed, Brax leaned against the anvil beside him, arms crossed.
"Well?" Brax asked. "What the hell got into you?"
Cainan blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. Middle of the damn night, forging someone a limb? The old you wouldn't give a rat's ass."
Cainan looked away.
"I know what she's like," he said, quietly. "Lynzelle. She'll still be strong with one arm. She'll act like she doesn't care. Smile like a clown. Laugh like nothing happened."
He looked at the forge fire.
"But it'll eat her. And I can't stand that. I like when she's really happy. Not forced. Not broken."
Brax tilted his head.
"You got a soft spot."
Cainan nodded once. "Yeah."
A silence stretched. Brax let it hang.
Then Cainan asked, "Why do you forge all night?"
Brax stared into the flame.
"My home was called Yrrvengar. Dwarven stronghold under the Sky-Tombs of Grettamar. We weren't like the others. We carved symphonies into our hammers. We made blades sing your history, not just spill blood. We wove memory into steel."
He exhaled smoke.
"We took pride in perfection. In rhythm. In truth. But pride don't win wars when you're outnumbered five to one."
His voice was quieter now.
"I lost everything. Kingdom. Kin. We were too proud to run. I was the only one who made it out. Even my hammer brother, Bjalder… I left his bones in the mines."
He looked at the glowing forge.
"So now I forge 'til my back gives out. 'Til the hammer slips from my hand. I remember them that way. With every strike. Every flame."
A beat passed.
Then, he turned to Cainan. His voice went lower.
"Will you do something for me?"
Cainan straightened. "What?"
Brax's tone dropped to a dangerous calm.
"Kill Idrathar."
Cainan's breath caught.
The forge suddenly felt colder. He stared at Brax. "Why?"
Brax's eyes narrowed.
"He's not the man he used to be. He's forgotten what he stood for. I know what he did—he forced the Painters into the raid tomorrow. Had Savrec and the Dressers round them up like animals."
Cainan clenched his jaw. "He said they wanted to help."
"He lied."
Brax's voice was a low ember.
"I'm not supposed to tell anyone outside the council, as we only know. But Selvaria gave me the idea to tell you. She sees it too. She's still loyal to Kalazeth… not its ghosts."
"And you?" Cainan asked.
"I chose this," Brax said. "Not because I want him dead. But because I'm done watching men like him hollow out the world while pretending to save it. Yes, he lost his daughter. But she isn't dead…but he's making it turn him into a monster." He glanced at the arm. "I forge to remember what we were. What we could be again. If I die for that… so be it. Just make sure what comes next is real. Not rot in gold."
Silence.
Then—
Cainan nodded. "I understand."
And turned to leave.
As he stepped into the stone hallways, Foxxen fell in beside him, grinning wide.
"Y'look like someone stepped on your grave. What's up?"
Cainan forced a breath.
"Just wondering how Lynzelle's gonna react to that arm."
Foxxen's grin got wider. "She's either gonna cry… or try to beat you with it."
"She'll do both."
"To be fair," Foxxen said, patting the hilt of his smoke-greatsword, "it is romantic. In a Cainan-Lynzelle murder-ballad kinda way."
They walked together in silence, the glow of the forge fading behind them.
'I knew Idrathar was sinking…his daughter being taken took a toll on him. I don't blame him. Are the other council members in on this? Are they with me, or against me? Can I even bring myself to kill the man who basically raised me….?