Sohrab stared into Eila's eyes. He searched for the spark, the hope, the determination, but found nothing. Eila's eyes were hollow. The left iris burned bright blue, but the right darkened, the color fading into a purple.
Sohrab pushed himself off the floor, leaning his weight against a wooden side table. He walked to a tall iron cabinet and pulled the heavy doors open, spilling loose scrap across the floor. He dug past the tools, retrieved a thick grey stone slab, and carried it back to the table.
"Listen to me, boy," Sohrab grunted. He took the bleeding Kharis heart from the cloth and set it onto the grey slab. "Death is always far, yet it comes quick. Humans die regardless if duties are fulfilled or not."
Eila said nothing. He watched the frail hands press into the monster's muscle. Black blood spilled over the grey stone. Sohrab picked up a brown quill from the table and drove it down into the center of the heart.
"Disorder of the world, respond to the beast," Sohrab muttered. He dragged the blood-soaked tip of the quill across the slab, tracing lines around the organ. "I present the offering of an untamed beast. Bound by the blood in its heart. The beast left, and death collected its debt. The heart remains, along with my obedience."
The traced lines ignited. A harsh purple light bled from the slab. The stone cracked under the pressure, the fractures spreading toward the edges.
A bitter smile broke across Sohrab's face, barely moving the wrinkled eyes. He brushed his thumb over the chipped edges.
"I am losing my touch," he said. "These old hands cannot wield the power they once forged."
Sohrab picked up the cracked, glowing grey slab. He hobbled over to the deep iron quenching trough and dropped the heavy stone into the stagnant water.
The reaction was violent. The purple light flared beneath the surface. The water instantly boiled into a violent, hissing steam, then snapped into solid ice, over and over in a chaotic rhythm. Lucio stepped forward, his mouth hanging open in voiceless awe.
"Runic law is volatile," Sohrab grunted, ignoring the chaos in the water as he grabbed a heavy pair of iron tongs. "The beast fights back until the world accepts it, or it goes into submission. Cruel."
He turned his hollow eyes to Eila. "Preference?"
Eila blinked, the question pulling him from his thoughts.
"Sword, lance, halberd," Sohrab listed, gesturing to a rusted spare anvil sitting in the far corner of the room. "The art of killing requires a shape. What do you wield?"
Eila didn't hesitate. "A sword. Heavy enough to crack armor, fast enough to parry."
Sohrab gave a single, curt nod. He looked from his own frail, trembling arms to the spare anvil in the corner. "Then bring that iron to the center of the room. I do not have the spine for heavy lifting anymore."
Eila stepped past the old man. He wrapped his good right hand around the horn of the spare anvil. Gritting his teeth, he engaged his core and hauled the massive block of iron across the stone floor. The screech of metal on stone drowned out the boiling water. Pain exploded through Eila's fractured left collarbone, stealing the breath from his lungs, but he didn't stop until the anvil rested directly in front of the unlit hearth.
Sohrab approached the cold furnace. He grabbed a rusted flint-striker from his apron, struck it against the stone, and dropped the spark into the coal.
He grabbed the bellows and pumped. The dead hearth roared to life, casting violent, dancing orange shadows across the bloodstained walls.
Sohrab grabbed a raw slab of blackened steel with his heavy tongs and thrust it deep into the roaring inferno. He stood up, wiping sweat from his scarred brow, and looked at Eila.
"Collarbone still cracked?" Sohrab grunted, staring at the younger man's hanging left arm. "Isn't your mana repairing it?"
"Circuits are dead," Eila replied, his voice flat. He met the old man's stare without flinching.
Sohrab held the gaze for a second, then walked over to his wooden cabinet. He pulled a small leather pouch from the shelf, dug his calloused fingers inside, and tossed a handful of rough blue stones through the air.
Eila caught them with his good right hand. He looked down at the small mana crystals resting in his palm.
He didn't hesitate. Eila tossed a stone into his mouth, placed it between his back molars, and bit down hard.
The crystal shattered like thick glass. Energy exploded down his throat, a liquid fire that forced his dormant circuits to scream back to life. The fractured collarbone began to knit together, the accelerated cellular growth sending a blinding spike of pain through his chest.
Eila gritted his teeth, his jaw locking tight against the pain. He clenched both of his fists.
Sohrab turned back to the rising fire, grabbed the blinding orange steel from the coals, and slammed it onto the center anvil. He raised his massive iron hammer.
The hammer struck the steel.
CLANG
A concussive shockwave ripped through the shack. The tortured metal shrieked, the deafening impact rattling the dust from the rotting wooden rafters.
Sohrab struck it again. The ambient heat from the forge thickened the air, baking the small room into an suffocating oven.
Lucio clamped his hands over his ringing ears, his face pale from the heat. Kian grabbed Riko's shoulder, pulling her away from the flying sparks.
"I-It's quite hot!" Kian yelled over the deafening ring of the hammer, wiping sweat from his eyes. He motioned toward the rotting door. "Get outside! Eila you too! Let the master work in peace!"
The freezing fog of the slums hit them like a physical wall. Ice clung to their cloaks. Riko pulled her hood down, her shoulders shaking.
"Let's walk to town," Lucio stammered through chattering teeth. "Find something to eat."
They waded into the thick, grey mist. The ruined road networks were a graveyard of empty stalls and shattered wood. The skewer vendor was gone.
But at the edge of the district, a brilliant orange light bled through the fog.
It was a noodle stand, untouched by the rot of the city. The lighting on it put the lights of whole Westrealis to shame. A heavy aroma of roasted bone broth and spices cut through the freezing air. Eila's hand drifted to his empty scabbard. His dead eyes scanned the shadows around the light.
The Cinders were starving. Kian stepped under the canvas awning.
"Hello," Kian rasped. "We will take four bowls, please."
A hooded vendor turned around. His face remained hidden in the deep shadows of his cowl, but a wide, gleaming smile stretched across his lower jaw. He gestured toward four wooden stools. "Ah! Welcome, Welcome. Four bowls coming right up."
The vendor worked with speed, his hands cutting the dough and pouring steaming broth without ever taking off his hood.
"You are not from around here," the vendor stated.
"Coming from the capital," Lucio trembled, eyeing Kian and Eila. Riko kept her hands tucked inside her cloak, her eyes locked onto the food.
"Heard there is a new king now," the vendor chuckled, sliding four massive, steaming bowls across the wooden counter. "I can't even remember how many times Kings change."
The vendor smiled again, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth beneath the hood.
Eila and The CINDERS devoured the food, the rich broth thawing the ice in their veins. They only sound in the stall was of desperate eating.
When the last drop of broth was gone, Kian looked up, his face flushed with warmth.
"Can we get two more?" Kian asked, pointing at the empty bowls. "For takeaway?"
The vendor's smile stretched wider. He took a single step back into the thick, swirling fog behind the stall.
"Fare only, but once," the vendor whispered, his voice echoing from the mist. "The brightest hearth in a dead empire is woven from hungry illusions."
A heavy gust of freezing wind swept through the street, dragging a blinding sheet of grey fog over the stall.
Eila blinked.
The stools vanished from beneath them. Kian, Lucio, and Riko hit the freezing mud with a heavy smack. The steaming bowls dissolved, leaving their hands grasping at the freezing air.
"Where did he go?!" Riko scrambled backward in the slush, her hands frantically rushing out of the confines of her cloak, ready for action.
Eila didn't move. His hand rested heavily on his empty scabbard, his dead eyes sweeping the impenetrable fog.
'A mage? Didn't feel like an illusion...' Eila's mind raced. 'S-tier or above...maybe he will attack now.' He turned, gazing into the night.
Lucio dropped to his knees, his fingers scraping through the wet dirt where the stall had been.
"It was an enemy," Kian choked out, his breath pluming in the cold. He clutched his stomach. "The broth. What if it was poisoned?"
Lucio pressed a muddy hand to his own throat, waiting for a burn that didn't come. "Not poison. I know the taste of most poisons. But I do not know what that man was."
The warmth in their stomachs felt like a threat. They didn't wait for the fog to answer. The party drew their weapons and hurried back through the dead streets.
When they pushed through the doors of the forge, the suffocating heat had broken. Sohrab had thrown the heavy iron windows open, venting the toxic smoke into the night. Kaito rested on a low wooden cot in the corner, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
Sohrab stood over the anvil, completely consumed by the trance of his craft.
"I need that silver melted," the old master muttered, his voice carrying the measured, authoritative cadence of the royal courts. He pointed at a thick metal pot melting the silver, not looking up. He struck the glowing steel, the sparks illuminating his scarred face. "The hilt requires a pure anchor for the magic."
"We encountered something in the fog," Kian interrupted, his voice tight. "A vendor. He fed us, and then he vanished into thin air. The stall went with him."
Sohrab paused his hammer. He looked at the trembling pyromancer, then at Eila.
"Did the food kill you?" Sohrab asked.
"No," Kian replied.
"Then let it not trouble your mind tonight," the blacksmith grunted, turning back to the forge. "For if a mage that powerful or a Dominion scout wished you dead, you would have choked on the first bite. Keep your eyes on the steel."
He grabbed his heavy tongs and plunged the raw blade into the quenching trough.
The water hissed, expelling a thick cloud of white steam. Sohrab pulled the weapon free and held it up to the firelight.
It was a brutal, beautiful piece of violence. The thick spine of the blade carried a pale, ash-white temper, while the razor edge shimmered with a volatile, violet sheen. The hilt was bare iron, waiting for a grip.
"The vessel is forged," Sohrab commanded, gesturing to the pulsing purple stone slab on the side table. "But the fusion requires the master's hand. You must address the rune yourself."
Eila stepped out of the shadows and extended his bare right hand toward the magic.