The Forge wasn't built it had grown.
Rising from the valley's center like a wound in the earth, its walls were carved directly into black stone veined with molten silver. The structure pulsed with quiet heat, not fire, but memory old and slow-burning, like the breath of a dying god.
Eren stood at the threshold, Akreth slung across his back. The runes on the sword were aglow not in rage, not in hunger but in readiness. The time had come.
Elira placed a hand on his shoulder. "This is where it was first named," she said. "Where Akreth's purpose was spoken into the world."
He nodded, eyes fixed on the great iron doors ahead. They weren't sealed. They didn't need to be.
Whatever lay inside... wanted him to enter.
He stepped forward.
The doors opened with a whisper of steam.
Inside, the forge chamber was vast. The ceiling vanished into darkness above, and the floor was etched with six spiraling paths that met at a central dais. Around the perimeter stood statues shrouded figures, hands outstretched, faces cracked with time.
And in the center, hovering above the dais, was the Flame.
Not literal fire but a sphere of light and shadow, spinning slowly. It pulsed with Eren's every breath. The moment he stepped onto the stone, it flared.
Elira remained at the entrance.
"This part is yours alone," she said.
He nodded once and moved to the dais.
As he approached, the spiral beneath his feet lit up, glowing with white-gold light. The closer he came, the clearer the sphere became not a flame at all, but a forgeheart, made of memory, soul, and the echoes of every name the blade had ever known.
"Name yourself."
The voice came not from the forge, but from within Akreth.
Eren unsheathed the blade.
Its weight felt different now. Balanced. Complete.
But still silent.
He stepped onto the center of the dais, and the forgeheart descended slowly hovering at eye level. As it neared, it split open, revealing a mirror of fire within. In it, he saw not himself, but every version of himself that had almost existed:
The tyrant who had burned the world to bring her back.
The coward who had let the sword fall.
The hero who died before he could fail.
And one more the bearer who never chose.
They stood in a circle around him, each version watching. None judging. Just waiting.
"This is the moment," the flame whispered. "Choose who you are. And I will shape your flame."
Eren closed his eyes.
He thought of Lyria.
Of Cael.
Of the first bearer's crown of fire.
He thought of the child who had stood at a grave, too weak to fight.
And of the man who had risen again and again.
"I am not your echo," he said aloud.
"I am not your redemption."
"I am not your monster."
He raised the sword high.
"I am Eren."
The forgeheart pulsed and burned.
The mirror of fire shattered, raining sparks around him. The spirals on the floor ignited, tracing his footsteps in gold. The statues cracked and crumbled, their hands falling away.
The forge accepted the name.
And with it, the blade transformed.
Akreth flared with brilliant light, not red, not black, but silver-fire. Its edge glowed with clarity. The runes along the blade reformed, spelling not ancient curses but his name.
Elira stepped forward, eyes wide.
"Is it done?" she asked.
Eren lowered the blade.
"No," he said. "It's begun."