Ash didn't go straight back to the forge.
He walked.
Past the last fencepost. Past the crumbling shrine by the well. Into the hills where the grass grew too tall and the wind forgot how to whisper.
He needed quiet.
Not the village's kind of quiet—watched, wary, full of unsaid things.
Real quiet.
Where the hum couldn't follow.
He sat on a flat stone near the edge of the woods. The sun had dipped behind the mountains, but the sky still glowed faint blue.
Like his hands had.
Like his dream.
He broke the sky.
The words looped in his head.
Ash touched the dirt beside him. It felt real. Solid. The way it always had.
But suddenly, everything else felt off. Not wrong. Just… rehearsed.
Like a life played out rather than lived.
He closed his eyes.
Flashes again. Not memory. Not quite.
Fire. Screaming wind. A spear of light crashing down.
A mountain split in half.
A girl crying in the rain.
And a voice—his voice—but deeper. Other. Saying something he couldn't understand.
When he opened his eyes, his fingertips were crackling faint blue again.
He curled them into fists. Forced the light away.
Back in the village, no one asked where he'd gone.
Master Brenn only gave him a look that said, I'm not ready to ask questions I don't want answers to.
So Ash ate in silence.
Went to bed in silence.
Stared at the ceiling in silence.
And when sleep finally took him, it wasn't kind.
In the dream, the old woman stood in a field of broken mirrors.
Each one reflected a different sky. Some burning. Some storming. Some… empty.
She turned to him and said only one thing:
"You are not the first to be erased."
The mirrors stretched on forever.
Each one cracked. Each one whispering.
Ash stared at them, arms crossed. "Okay. So… either I'm having the weirdest fever dream of my life, or someone slipped something very illegal into my stew."
The old woman from earlier was floating now. Casual. Like it was Tuesday.
She didn't speak.
Ash pointed at one of the mirrors—lightning tearing through a city of floating spires. "That one? Kinda metal. Might be a past life. Or a heavy metal album cover. Who's to say?"
No answer.
He sighed. "Right. I'll do the talking. Cool. Makes sense. Totally normal dream behavior."
He stepped toward one of the mirrors. This one wasn't cracked. Just fogged.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the glass, it cleared.
A version of him stood on a mountain of ash, lightning crackling from his eyes. People bowed below. Screaming. Worshipping. Or maybe… begging.
"Whoa. That's dramatic," Ash muttered. "Ten out of ten for stage presence, though. I should get a cape."
The reflection turned.
Met his gaze.
And grinned.
Just like him.
Same sarcasm.
Same spark.
Ash stepped back. "Okay. Yeah. I've had enough self-reflection for one night, thanks."
Suddenly, the ground cracked beneath him.
Mirrors shattered.
And a voice—not his—spoke:
"You laugh now, little storm. But you were built for war."
Ash rolled his eyes even as the dream collapsed. "Oh great. More cryptic threats. Can't wait to not understand those in the morning."
He woke up with a start.
Sweat on his neck. Hay in his mouth.
And a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"…Built for war, huh?" he muttered. "Guess I better start doing push-ups or something."