Ash spent the morning in the forge, banging out sword blades like a man trying to outrun his own thoughts. The clank of metal was familiar. It was a rhythm he could lose himself in, like a heartbeat.
He hummed as he worked, a snarky little tune he made up. "If I'm built for war, guess I'll sharpen my sword. If I'm built for war, better get on board…"
His hammer met the anvil with a satisfying thud, and he grinned.
"Perfect. Someone should really pay me for my musical genius," he said, wiping sweat off his brow.
Just as he was about to start forging another piece, a figure appeared in the doorway.
It was a man. Tall, cloaked, and with a face so serious it could've cracked stone. His eyes—dark as the night sky and just as distant—fixed on Ash immediately. Not an angry stare, but a knowing one.
"You're Ash," the man said in a voice that sounded like gravel being dragged across stone.
Ash gave him a once-over. "Yup. That's me. The one and only. Who wants to know?"
The man didn't react. Just stood there, like he had all the time in the world to wait for an answer that wasn't coming.
Ash raised an eyebrow. "Okay, here's the deal: If you're a traveling merchant with bad timing, I can't help you. If you're selling snake oil, I'll be happy to get you a drink before you leave. If you're here for something more… interesting, then welcome to the greatest forge you'll ever see. But please—no drama today, okay? I'm on a strictly-forged-blades-only schedule."
The man studied him for a long moment, then stepped forward and placed a small, gleaming stone on the table between them.
Ash blinked at it. The stone was smooth, a translucent violet with flickers of electric blue running through it. It pulsed with a faint energy. "That… looks expensive. But I'm gonna need more than that to break my routine."
"It's not just a stone," the man said, finally moving closer. "It's a key."
"A key?" Ash laughed. "What am I supposed to do with that? Open a door to a world of angry demons? Or, oh, wait… let me guess—forbidden magic?"
The man's lips barely twitched. "It's for you."
Ash stopped, the half-joking smirk slipping from his face. "For me?"
The man nodded, slowly. "You'll need it. When the time comes."
Ash leaned forward. "Okay, okay. I'm getting the feeling we're not talking about swords anymore, am I right?"
The man's gaze grew sharper. "The storms are moving, Ash. They always have been, and always will be. But you—you're the one who might stop them. Or start them. Either way, it's your choice."
"Storms?" Ash repeated, a flicker of curiosity breaking through his usual teasing. "Oh, I'm definitely the wrong guy for storms, trust me. I've only just figured out how to make my hair stop looking like it was struck by lightning."
The man remained still, unwavering. "The lightning flows through you. Whether you want it or not."
Ash stood up, grabbed the stone, and examined it. The pulsing shimmer in its depths seemed to reach into him, like it was calling something inside. But he shrugged it off.
"Well, you're definitely not a traveling merchant," Ash said, his tone light. "So, what exactly do I do with this 'key' of yours? Because unless it opens the door to a cold drink, I'm gonna need a little more than a mystery wrapped in silence."
The man took a step back. "The time will come when you'll know. Until then, keep it. And keep your eyes open. There's more coming."
With that, he turned and walked out without another word.
Ash stared after him, a frown tugging at his lips. He pocketed the stone, shaking his head. "Well, that was weird. Did I miss the part where I'm supposed to be serious and brooding?"
He glanced at the stone again. "Yeah, still not getting it."
But then something flickered in the corner of his vision. A shadow darting past the window.
"Eh. Maybe a storm's brewing after all."