Chapter Eighteen – Sparks of Iron, Roar of Secrets
Sunlight spilled like golden ribbons across the stone-paved streets of Northern City B, where a gentle breeze set the banners above scattered shops dancing. The calls of merchants wove together into a daily symphony:
"Apples from the northern farms of Krema!"
"Enchanted fabrics, woven with fire-resistant threads!"
"Step right up! Cheapest prices in the city!"
Children darted between the stalls, their laughter echoing through the alleys, their tiny footsteps tapping a cheerful rhythm across the cobblestones. Yet in a secluded corner behind an abandoned stand, Rashad, Asia, and Lila gathered in hushed conversation.
Asia bent over a small glass screen where glowing symbols flickered in unknown tongues. Her voice carried the weight of gravity:
"Selin's analysis confirmed it—there were traces of a child and two adults living in that cave. The walls were entirely covered in inscriptions soaked with magic… not ordinary magic, but defensive and primal. Stronger than anything we've documented."
She paused, as though reciting an ancient spell:
"The writings resembled a chronicle… perhaps rituals, or fragments of a history lost. But they do not belong to any known civilization. Stranger still—outside the cave, on every tree, every stone—thousands, no, millions of magical words were carved. As if forming an invisible barrier, guarding whatever lies within."
Lila broke the short silence with a worried sigh:
"But… guarding against what?"
Rashad did not lift his eyes. He stared into the distance, as though piecing together a shattered puzzle within his mind. At last, he whispered in a voice gone cold:
"What we can infer so far… is that Ayas is not a natural being. At the very least, not of this world."
Lila gasped softly. Then Rashad fixed his gaze on Asia:
"And that entity… the one sealed near the swamp? Was it a guardian, or a prisoner?"
Asia raised her eyes slowly, and within them shimmered a cryptic gleam:
"It was imprisoned behind barriers no force could breach. It was not asleep… it was waiting. As though it knew someone would come—someone, a key to its release."
A tense silence followed, broken only by the rustle of leaves above their heads.
Then Lila blurted suddenly, her tone a mix of awe and fear:
"And what if Ayas… is that key?"
Rashad and Asia exchanged glances. The idea struck like a bell, resonating with a truth they both dreaded. Lila's reasoning was far too compelling to dismiss.
But Rashad ended the discussion with a decisive murmur:
"Not yet. Ayas is not ready. The pieces are still scattered."
A heavy silence descended, like a stage curtain falling over a scene of secrets.
Finally, Rashad spoke:
"We must head west… to the Forge of the King of Smiths, as we agreed."
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Western City A – The Forge of the King of Smiths
The scene shifted abruptly.
A colossal iron gate rose before them, adorned with engravings of frozen flames, crowned by the emblem of a dragon coiled around a mighty hammer.
From beyond the door, the song of metal rang out—iron groaning beneath the hammer's weight:
Boom… Tak! Boom… Tak!
Smoke drifted through vents in the roof, each strike of the hammer accompanied by the hiss of fire breathing:
Fsshhhhh… Faaahhh!
Inside, the forge roared like a living beast. Furnaces blazed, casting the walls in molten hues of crimson and gray. Shadows leapt and twisted across the stone, like spirits dancing to the rhythm of fire.
At the heart of this sacred inferno stood a short, broad man, his thick orange beard covering half his face. Crystal goggles shielded his eyes, which glowed like molten gold. His hands trembled as they gripped the hammer—yet the strikes never missed their mark.
The hammer fell again:
Boom! Tak! Boom!
He seized the molten metal, plunging it into the cold water trough:
Fsssshhhhhh!
Steam erupted, filling the forge with the scent of scorched iron and raw power.
From the flames emerged a new blade—long, gleaming, flawless. He ran his fingers along the edge; a crimson line of light flared from his touch, racing along the blade and leaving behind luminous runes, as though the sword were signing its own identity.
He drew a deep breath and blew softly across the steel:
Ffffffff…
The sword pulsed. Vibrations rippled outward, rattling cups on nearby tables. Energy thickened in the air, as though the blade might slip free of the material world itself.
And then—
The old dwarf parted his lips and spoke in a voice that thundered with ancient magic:
"Submit."
Everything froze.
Even the air returned to stillness… sparks hung suspended in place, as if time itself had bowed.
Suddenly—
Knock! Knock! Knock!
The workshop door swung open, and Arya burst inside. Her violet hair streamed behind her, her gray eyes shimmering with alarm.
"Master! What happened? The ground shook all over the city!"
The dwarf turned, his expression unchanged:
"Nothing worth note. Just scrap metal… of exceptional quality."
Arya stared at him, bewildered:
"Scrap? But it radiates rare power!"
He exhaled, removing his gloves:
"Power is not everything, Arya. This piece… is incomplete."
He gestured toward the sword:
"Place it with the rest of the scraps."
With a sigh, Arya lifted the blade carefully, cradling it as she muttered under her breath:
"If it were up to me… I'd forge a legend out of it."
At that moment, the dwarf's crystal console chimed:
Ding! Ding!
A face appeared on the transparent screen. And for the first time, Arya saw her master smile—truly smile.
She asked quickly:
"Who was it? Who could make you smile like that, Master?"
The old dwarf looked at her, his eyes glowing with a gentle light:
"Prepare yourself, Arya… we have guests on the way."
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End of Chapter Eighteen