The grey stop of time over the forge shattered.
The roar of the hearth fires rushed back into the room, bringing the suffocating heat with it. Time resumed its march.
Eila looked down at the anvil. The weapon resting in his grip was no longer like the sword Sohrab had hammered. The pale steel carried a pronounced curve, sweeping upward like a crescent moon. The heavy silver crossguard was gone, leaving nothing to separate his hand from the blade except a slight raise. The dark leather grip had shrunk, fusing tight to the iron tang.
"D-did the sword just morph?" Lucio asked, the color draining from his face. For the boy, not a single heartbeat had passed between Eila focusing on the rune and the weapon twisting into a new shape.
Eila turned, lifting the curved blade toward the firelight. The color had also changed. It was violet on one side and white on the other.
"The fusion is complete," Eila stated, his voice carrying over the hiss of the coals. "The blade accepted me."
He let the blade drop to his side, feeling the center of gravity shift.
'The weight has shifted forward,' Eila noted, his fingers wrapping around the rough leather. 'Built to cut and cleave. No guard to catch on armor. It is truly built for me.'
On the torn sofa, Sohrab jolted. He dragged a ash stained hand down his face, blinking away the heavy sleep. His tired eyes adjusted to the firelight, drifting across the room until they locked onto the morphed steel in Eila's grip.
"The pact was successful," Sohrab murmured. His voice carried the formal, measured tone rusted by years of ash. "The steel will warp more to mirror your circuits. But given the absolute silence in your veins... the vessel will require time to settle."
Eila rotated the hilt. The firelight caught the blade, revealing a sickening yet beautiful duality. One flat of the curved sword retained the dead temper of ash. The reverse face shimmered with a sharp and dangerous violet.
"My gratitude to you, old man," Eila said, lowering Clementia's blade. "How much do I owe you?"
A dry sound escaped Sohrab's throat. It sounded like two heavy millstones grinding together. The ghost of a smile broke through his weathered features.
"Does the axe beg the executioner for copper?" Sohrab asked, waving a calloused hand at the Fallen Hero. "Keep your silver, boy. The Crown still deposits a pension for the slaughters I am to be blamed for. Coin holds no weight in a dead city."
The blacksmith pushed his heavy frame off the torn cushions. He moved towards the window. The brief weeks of winter sun had vanished, replaced by a fresh snowfall outside the forge.
"This rotting shack is all I have. Use it to keep your crippled boy warm," Sohrab offered, jerking his chin toward Kaito's unconscious form on the cot. "Stay until he can survive a wagon ride. Use the time to bond with the sword."
The morning offered no warmth. A thick canvas of dark, bruised clouds dominated the sky, hiding the sun. A freezing gale carried dead leaves across the frozen lake.
Inside the hut, Kaito tossed on the cot, a harsh grunt escaping his throat. Riko pressed a steaming, wet rag against his forehead, trying to offer some warmth against the biting cold. Lucio watched the bitter forest through the shattered window, while Kian flipped through a weathered grimoire in the dim light.
Outside in the snow, Eila moved.
He swung Clementia in a wide arc. The blade hissed through the freezing air, the air resisted.
'No crossguard. No shield,' Eila thought, his boots pivoting in the deep snow. 'My previous broadswords were forged to parry. Built to protect the wielder. This sword discards defense entirely.'
Sohrab sat on a heavy, flat stone near the forge entrance, his eyes closed to the wind.
"Old man," Eila called out, lowering the curved blade. "Why do you carry a katana, yet forge straight broadswords for the Vanguard?"
The blacksmith opened his eyes. He fixed Eila with a piercing stare. Sohrab reached his wrinkled hand to his hip, resting his thumb against the guard of his own weapon. He pushed the blade loose with a metallic clack.
"The Vanguard demands straight iron because soldiers fight in formations. They must block and survive," Sohrab rasped, aiming the curve of his drawn steel toward the dead trees. "A swept edge shifts the center of gravity forward. It abandons survival for a guaranteed kill."
Eila raised Clementia. He aligned the pale, ash-white spine with the horizon, loosening his grip for a fraction of a second.
The weight of the blade pulled forward, tipping toward the snow on its own. Eila tightened his fist and let the momentum carry the steel downward.
A flawless, vertical cleave. The blade parted the freezing wind without a whisper of resistance.
It requires no physical force, Eila noted, his mismatched eyes narrowing at the abyssal violet sheen on the flat of the blade. But the gravity is a lie. The steel isn't falling.
Eila stopped. His right arm gave out, a deep ache started throbbing in his shoulder.
He lowered the blade, his boots sinking into the snow as he steadied his breathing. The freezing air burned his lungs. Deep inside his chest, his mana circuits felt completely hollow.
'My mana circuits are still not producing,' Eila thought, staring at the violet sheen on the steel. 'Without mana to feed it, the weight relies entirely on my flesh. It will take months for these circuits to heal and produce again.'
He wiped the snow from his cloak and stood up. The old Vanguard scabbard at his hip was useless for a curved blade. Carrying Clementia bare in his hand, Eila turned his back on the frozen lake. He left the bitter wind behind, walking back into the heat of the forge.
_____________________
The fifth day arrived.
Outside in the freezing ash, Eila stood before the trunk of a massive dead pine. He gripped Clementia with both hands. His mana circuits remained empty. He channeled almost no magic, relying entirely on the crescent blade's unnatural gravity and the torque of his shoulders.
Eila swung.
The blade passed through the solid, frozen timber without a fraction of physical resistance. A second of silence hung in the cold air. Then, the massive pine groaned, snapped off its base, and crashed into the snow.
Eila dropped to one knee. His chest heaved, a deep ache tearing through his right arm. The steel was flawless, but his mortal flesh broke under the momentum.
'The blade cuts the world without effort,' Eila noted, forcing cold air into his lungs. 'If it does this while my veins are dead... what will it cleave when my mana returns?'
Inside the stifling heat of the forge, Kaito managed to sit up against the rotting headboard of his cot. The black bruising across his caved ribs had faded to a mottled yellow. He forced himself to eat, chewing the greasy scavenger meat and cheap wheat bread bought from the tourist traps at the city borders.
Eila stepped back inside, wiping the snow from his cloak. He sat by the hearth, his mismatched eyes shifting from the coals to the brawler.
"Three days," Eila stated. "Then we march. We have no idea what Kaelen is planning. If he figures out we are in the ruins, he will attack the forest cabin next. We cannot stay here."
Riko turned a page in Lucio's notebook. She glanced at the cot. "He cannot march on those ribs."
"I can walk," Kaito grunted. His voice lacked its usual booming bass, sounding wet and strained. He gripped the mattress, his knuckles turning white. "This is nothing."
The brawler steadied his breathing and turned his attention to the torn sofa. Sohrab sat in the dim light, rubbing his temples.
"Old man," Kaito called out. "I have a question."
He reached down and hauled the heavy twin blades onto his lap.
"Did you craft these?" He coughed, holding the hilt.
Sohrab stopped rubbing his head. He opened his tired eyes and looked at the weapons.
"I don't make twinblades," Sohrab grunted, leaning forward to inspect the metal. "I never liked adhering to a matched formula. It messes with the temper and the freedom of the craft."
The blacksmith traced his eyes over the folding pattern on the spine. He leaned back, fixing Kaito with a heavy stare.
"But I know the steel. That is work of The Kingdom of Kashtara," Sohrab said, his tone dropping. "I visited their foundries during the war. They are the only ones who forge intricate runes directly into a mirrored edge like that."
Kaito eased himself back down onto the rotting cot. A sharp hiss escaped his teeth as his ribs shifted under his weight.
He let the heavy Kashtran twin blades rest across his lap.
"He was telling the truth...," Kaito whispered, the gravelly strain in his voice barely carrying over the crackle of the coals.
He raised a hand to his head, letting light sift through his parted fingers, falling on his face.