The fire in the forge dimmed to embers.
No more sparks. No hammer's cry. Just the settling heat of work completed, and the faint scent of stone made soft by flame.
Durik sat on the anvil, legs swinging, still chewing the heel of what remained of the last loaf.
Burik leaned against the wall, arms crossed, quiet in a way few had seen him — not brooding, not guarded. Just… present.
Then came the sound of boots.
Measured. Familiar.
They turned.
King Rurik stood at the archway, hands behind his back.
He didn't wear his flame-cloak, nor his golden rings. No crown weighed his brow. Just a plain tunic, sleeves rolled, a smear of coal across one arm — as though he too had just left the forge.
His eyes passed over them slowly.
Durik — soot-stained, grinning through a bite of bread.
Burik — taller, broader, steady as ever.
And something shifted in the old king's face.
Not command.
Not pride.
But memory.
He stepped forward, slow as a man who'd seen too many days without this sight.
"I remember," he said quietly, "when you both fought over an apple."
Durik blinked. "Which one?"
"The one you tried to slice in half with a carving knife. You ruined it."
Burik smirked. "You grounded us for three days."
"You deserved five."
They chuckled — and then, silence again.
Rurik walked forward and placed one hand on each son's shoulder.
No speeches.
No decrees.
Just warmth.
"Too long," he said. "Far too long."
Durik looked down. "We should've come sooner."
"No," Rurik said. "I should've called sooner."
He pulled them in — rough arms, tight hold, a father's grip trying to remember the shape of something he thought he'd lost.
And for a brief, brief moment, the mountain no longer felt heavy.
It felt home.
**
Meanwhile, deeper into the root-veins of the mountain, where fire gave way to moss and the drip of water shaped stone like breath over years, the Wildguard gathered.
Their camp was quiet — not lifeless, but listening. Their tents curved like petals, their torches gave off no smoke.
Kaia stood with Captain Ilyari, again cross-legged by the silver-lantern's glow.
Around them, three others sat in a ring — all cloaked in bark-threaded green, weapons laid down beside them, eyes half-lidded in a warrior's calm.
"You've changed," said one of them, a young elf with dark leaf-tattoos running down his jaw. "Since Frostfang Grove."
Kaia glanced at him. "So have you."
The elf inclined his head. "I mean no insult. But we saw you then five winters — half-wild, restless. You didn't even bow to the Matriarch."
"She didn't ask me to."
Another elf chuckled.
Ilyari poured a thin stream of pale tea into clay cups. No one drank.
"We're not here to test your loyalty," she said. "Only to understand."
Kaia raised an eyebrow. "Understand what?"
"The Riftborn," Ilyari answered.
Kaia stiffened. "He's not a weapon."
"We know," said the third elf — a tall woman with short white hair and a voice like sand on silk. "But weapons aren't always forged. Sometimes, they're shaped by what they carry."
Kaia looked into the lantern flame. "You think he'll burn?"
"No," Ilyari said. "We think he's already burning. We just wonder what will survive the fire."
Kaia said nothing.
Then, after a moment, she reached to her side and laid her blade on the ground — not in surrender, but in trust.
"You're here to guard him," she said. "Not bind him."
"Yes," Ilyari answered. "The Matriarch has no leash to offer. Only a path. One that walks beside… not ahead."
A pause.
"Will he take it?" one elf asked.
Kaia closed her eyes, then opened them slowly.
"…He doesn't know yet."
The flame between them flickered — once, twice — then stilled.
Outside, the mountain trembled faintly. Not in fear.
But in reminder.
Something old had begun to wake.
And soon, the world would remember its name.