Kael's eyes fluttered open to a heavy, red-hued haze. His muscles ached. The air smelled of burning ore, scorched leather, and… something older. Something ancient.
He wasn't in the plaza anymore.
Instead, he lay on a slab of stone inside a massive chamber carved from obsidian-black rock. Cracks in the walls pulsed with red crystal veins, glowing faintly like living arteries. Vents above hissed with alchemical steam, and molten metal ran through channels in the floor, casting everything in flickering orange and blue.
He sat up, clutching his ribs.
"So, you're finally awake."
The voice was coarse, gravelly, yet carried a peculiar weight.
Kael turned his head.
Before the great forge stood a broad-shouldered man, maybe in his late sixties. His skin was a deep bronze, hardened by decades under flame. A long jagged scar ran from his forehead across one blind white eye. His good eye was sharp—piercing green, glinting like a smith's blade. He wore a thick, rune-inscribed leather apron, patched with burn marks and fastened with brass rings. Beneath it, a black sleeveless tunic hugged his still-muscular frame, revealing arms covered in swirling tattoos that glowed faintly near the forge.
The man grunted. "You touched the forge. And it responded."
Kael blinked. "The fire… it flared when I—"
"Touched it, yes. Which shouldn't be possible," the man cut in. "I've kept this forge burning for forty years. Only the flame-licensed can approach it. Yet it didn't burn you. It sang."
Kael looked toward the heart of the forge. The flames danced unnaturally—blue tongues licking upward as if drawn to him.
The man approached slowly, boots crunching over the blackstone floor.
"Name's Varn Ironsoul. Master forgemancer. This here is the Whispering Forge."
Whispering Forge? Kael swallowed hard. He could hear something. A low, constant hum. Like a distant voice… calling?
Varn pointed at Kael's chest. "You've got Echo-Blood in you. No surprise. But something else too. Your aura—it twists around metal like a serpent to a flame. You're not a normal kid."
Kael stood up, a bit unsteady.
His ash-gray hair was damp with sweat. His lean yet toned frame—still clad in his weatherworn black jacket and combat boots—now bore soot stains and a faint shimmer of residual mana. His exposed forearms, lined with pale scars, pulsed faintly as if his blood was reacting to the ambient magic.
"I don't know what I am," Kael muttered. "But I need to get stronger."
Varn's green eye narrowed.
"You ever forged a weapon, boy?"
Kael shook his head.
"Then today's your rebirth. Come."
Varn gestured, leading Kael toward the glowing anvil at the forge's center. Runes etched into the stone glowed a soft blue. Several weapon molds lay open nearby—halberds, spears, even an enormous greatsword casing—each laced with veins of Etherium, a rare magical metal.
"You won't be handed a weapon here," Varn said. "You'll forge one. From scrap. Bone. Dust. Whatever calls to your blood. This forge? It listens. It tests your will."
Kael stared at the options. A sword? A staff? No… his eyes landed on a strange bow frame made of shimmering obsidian and silvery vines.
He reached toward it.
SHHHHKKK—! The runes along the bow sparked violently.
Kael flinched as mana surged through his palm.
Images burst into his mind. A forest in flames. A shadowy creature with wings of glass. A name.
"N'yara…"
Varn nodded slowly. "That bow's not ordinary. It's made from whisperwood—the last of it. You heard its name. That means it chose you."
Kael lifted the frame. It was light—unrealistically light—but the moment he held it fully, he staggered back, overwhelmed by pressure. It wasn't weight. It was presence.
A living weapon.
He looked at Varn.
"What now?"
"Now?" Varn smirked, tossing him a chunk of bone-glass and a flask of forge essence. "Now you bring it to life."
Kael took a deep breath and approached the forge.
The flames rose the moment he stepped forward—welcoming him.
And behind him, Varn muttered under his breath, "If the forge sings to you… then war itself might kneel."