The first light of dawn seeped through the cracked shutters, painting the forge in a pale, sickly hue.
Kaden sat on the edge of his cot, the scrap of paper Serena had pressed into his palm last night crumpled in his fist.
His knuckles whitened as he reread her shaky script: They… Make use of you... Test system... The system's flat warning still echoed in his mind—material contaminated—and beneath it, the low thrum of his blood, a primal alarm.
Serena stood by the anvil, her back to him, already at work.
She'd lit the forge with a flint, the fire sputtering to life as if hesitant to burn.
Her fingers brushed the cooling crucible, lingering where Isaac's mist had clung, then she turned, signing rapidly: Ready.
Her eyes were sharp, no trace of last night's tremor.
Kaden nodded, his throat tight.
They'd said little since dawn—words felt fragile, like they might shatter the resolve coiled in his gut.
"System," he muttered, voice rough.
"Activate tracking."
A blue hologram flickered to life above his palm, a pulsing red dot superimposed over a map of Grey Mane Town.
The system's monotone filled his mind: Residual soul flame detected.
Youdaoplaceholder0 [Flame tracking].
Accuracy: 73% due to contamination.
Kaden's jaw clenched.
73% was better than nothing.
Serena stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his as she studied the hologram.
She pointed to the dot, now edging toward the town's eastern outskirts, near the abandoned post road.
"The old coach stop," Kaden said, more to himself than her.
"Been derelict since the bandit raids ten years back."
They left the forge at first light, Kaden slinging a satchel of tools over his shoulder—tongs, a hammer, a vial of enchanted charcoal Serena insisted on.
The mist clung to the streets, thinner than last night but still cloying, as if the town itself held its breath.
A few early-market vendors stared, but Kaden kept his head down.
Curiosity was the least of his worries now.
The abandoned station loomed at the edge of the woods, its timbers warped and roof caved in.
Serena paused at the threshold, her nose wrinkling.
"Ash," Kaden noted, sniffing.
The air carried a faint, acrid tang—recent, not the old smoke of disuse.
They picked their way inside, boots crunching on broken glass and rotted straw.
Serena froze, her hand shooting out to grip Kaden's arm.
Her fingers dug in, urgent.
He followed her gaze: beneath a pile of collapsed floorboards, a circle of runes glowed faintly, etched into the stone.
"Teleportation array," he breathed.
The symbols were angular, unfamiliar—dark iron, by the look of it.
Not the clean lines of royal mages, but jagged, like claw marks.
Serena dropped to her knees, fumbling for the charcoal in her satchel.
She began sketching the runes onto a scrap of parchment, her movements precise despite the haste.
Kaden crouched beside her, squinting.
"These… match the ones on the sword Isaac took." The system pinged: Rune pattern identified.
Origin: Dark Iron Council.
Probability of connection: 92%.
Cold settled in Kaden's stomach.
Dark Iron.
His master had whispered that name in fevered dreams, the night before he died.
"They'll come for the blood," he'd gasped, clawing at Kaden's wrist.
"Your blood… the key…"
Serena tapped his arm, holding up the sketch.
The runes spiraled outward, converging on a single point: Astral's Reach.
The capital.
The teleportation array hummed to life beneath their feet, a jolt of magic that left Kaden's teeth buzzing.
When the light faded, they stood in an alley behind a tavern in Astral's Reach, the air thick with the stench of ale and sewage.
Serena gagged, covering her nose with her sleeve.
Kaden scanned the street—crowded, loud, a stark contrast to Grey Mane's silence.
Perfect for hiding.
"System," he murmured.
Initiate [Hidden Mode].
A cool tingle spread from his chest, blurring his presence.
To the casual eye, he'd be a shadow, a face quickly forgotten.
Serena nodded, her own plan clear: she'd slip into the tavern as a serving girl, her ability to sense metal (a quirk of her latent blacksmith talent) making her the best bet to track the soul weapon.
The tavern's basement was dim, lit by guttering torches.
A crowd had gathered, murmuring in low voices—merchants, mages, a few nobles in shabby cloaks.
At the front, a raised platform held a velvet-draped table.
Behind it stood a man in a silver mask, his voice smooth as oil: "Welcome, esteemed guests. Tonight, we offer… something no forge in the realm could replicate."
He swept back the drape.
Kaden's breath hitched.
The sword lay there, the one Isaac had stolen.
But it wasn't just a sword anymore.
The blade writhed, as if alive, veins of black smoke pulsing beneath its surface.
And embedded in the steel—a face.
A man's face, eyes wide with silent agony, mouth stretched in a soundless scream.
"Behold," the masked man—Finne, Kaden realized, recognizing the voice from the auctioneer's whispers—"the Soulshard Edge. Forged with a thief's life, bound to his essence. A weapon that feeds on pain."
The system bla