A breath of pale light bled across the eastern sky when Julian Arthel blinked awake. Where moments ago he had lain cradled by darkness and whispered promises, now he stirred to the soft cooing of doves perched upon the rotting beams of Kythorne Manor's broken gatehouse. The brazier's embers had cooled to brittle ash, replaced by a faint morning mist that drifted through the glade like restless spirits. Julian rose on trembling limbs, stretching his arms above his head as though to chase away the ghosts of the night's battles. His fingers found the iron chain draped across his chest—the cold links a reminder of both his gift and its burden. He traced the links with a quiet reverence, recalling Sir Lysandor's counsel: "Use your gift wisely. Shape metal with compassion."
The camp stirred around him. Ser Merek sat against a stout oak trunk, slowly sharpening his sword with methodical strokes of whetstone on blade. Each hiss of metal on stone echoed through the glade, a metronome for Julian's racing thoughts. Ser Ancel moved like a shadow at the forest's edge, scanning treetops with hawk-like eyes, bow in hand and arrow notched, prepared for any sign of movement. Sir Lysandor stood nearby, tending a fresh fire, stirring a small pot of cold water and dried herbs—mint and rue—into a thin, restorative broth. The scent of the herbs mingled with damp earth and the pungent tang of iron that clung stubbornly to the air.
Julian stepped into the circle of firelight, his dark cloak swirling about his calves. The morning's chill pricked at his skin, reminding him that he still wore the simple tunic and breeches beneath his travel-worn leather jerkin. He knelt by the brazier's edge and cupped his hands around the warm glow. Sir Lysandor emerged from behind the fire, offering a wooden bowl and a wooden ladle. "Drink this," he murmured. "It will steady your nerves—and soothe any wounds you may not yet feel." The envoy's gray eyes were grave, yet tempered with gentle concern. "You nearly collapsed under the sentinel's weight. Your gift is potent, but your body must catch up. Eat and drink before we move."
Julian accepted the bowl with a nod, inhaling the herbal steam. Each sip of the broth—bitter against a palette accustomed to sweet honeycakes—rekindled his spirit. He felt warmth pool in his belly, chasing away the lingering echoes of fear. "Thank you," he whispered, voice soft.
Sir Lysandor inclined his head and fetchingly refilled a ceramic cup with cold, clear water from a leather skin. "We ride at first light," he said, gesturing toward the forest's edge. "Our path leads through the manor's collapsed western wall. If the cult remains, they will attempt to channel power through the hidden forges beneath. We must find those depths before they can work their will." He paused, and his gaze flicked toward Ser Ancel, who stood poised like a statue at his sentinel post. "Have you seen any movement on the manor grounds?"
Ser Ancel shook his head. "Nothing yet. The only sound is the wind in the canopy and the rustle of dead leaves. No footprints beyond the sentinel's. If the cultists remain, they have not ventured beyond their inner sanctum—yet." He lowered his bow, though his grip remained taut. "I am keeping watch."
Julian rose, setting the bowl aside and rubbing his palm along the iron chain's cold surface. His thoughts drifted to the sentinel he had felled at Ironwood's edge—how he had called upon Metalcraft to weave a barrier between blade and flesh. He recalled Sir Lysandor's praise, but also the faint tremor of warning in the envoy's voice. "Gifts can be curses," Lysandor had said. Julian exhaled, pressing a hand to his chest. I will shape my power for life, not death. He drew in a steadying breath. I must master this before more innocents suffer.
A muted chirp announced the sun's first rays cresting the horizon, chasing away the remnants of mist that clung to the forest floor. The horses—hobbled within a safe distance—neighed softly as they stirred, nostrils flaring at the crisp morning air. Julian retrieved the clear water and drained the cup in one smooth motion, savoring the cold freshness that slid down his throat. He shouldered his satchel—light now, bearing only a change of tunic, a few ration biscuits, a small whetstone, and the iron rivet fragment that had become his talisman. The rivet, darkened by rust and soot, still thrummed faintly against his hip.
Sir Lysandor swept a hand to gather the small band. "We move," he announced. "Ser Merek and I will push through the western wall. Ser Ancel, you flank us on the northern path. Julian, take the southern approach—keep to the tree line. Do not reveal your presence unless you sense immediate danger. If all goes well, we will converge at the courtyard's threshold." He paused, placing a hand on Julian's shoulder. "Stay close enough that I can sense your power—yet far enough to cover each other's flanks."
Julian met the envoy's gaze, rising to his full height. "Understood," he replied, voice steady. He settled the iron rivet in his palm and let the power coil beneath his glove—gentle, yet alive. Guide me. He ventured a brief prayer to the forge spirits of Edran's Hollow: May my craft honor the gifts given to me. May the steel in my blood keep me true.
---
They emerged from the glade into the manor's outer courtyard, stepping gingerly over twisted iron gates stained with centuries of rust. The courtyard lay choked with choking ivy and tangled underbrush, as though Nature had attempted to reclaim every cracked paving stone. At its center, a broken fountain stood—a once-grand basin carved with the crest of Malcur Drossen: the raven's wing overlaying crossed hammers. Now, the stone basin was empty and fissured, trickles of residual water seeping from unseen channels into the overgrown cracks.
Ser Merek advanced first, sword drawn, eyes narrowed against the morning light. "No traps here," he observed in a low voice, though his hand never faltered from its grip on the hilt. "But we proceed with caution." He led the way toward the western wall—an expanse of crumbling stone overrun by ivy's tenacious vines. Here and there, gaps gaped where iron beams had once reinforced the masonry; now they lay twisted and warped upon the ground like the jackstraw bones of a colossal skeleton.
Sir Lysandor moved beside Ser Merek, shielding his gaze from stray sunlight with a raised gauntlet gauntlet—a behavior that gave him the air of a scholar more than a soldier. He traced a gloved finger along a fractured pillar, his eyes scanning each scarred surface for signs of glyphs or wards—symbols that might hint at clandestine passages. "The cult may have used these iron supports to anchor sealing rituals," he murmured. "Look for smear marks—ashes or oil applied to corrode wards." He pressed his finger against a smear of glistening residue near one gap—a mingled sheen of oil and dried embers. "Here: rubbed by ritual hands. If we pry this beam free, we might reveal an underground gate."
Ser Merek stepped aside, offering Sir Lysandor leverage to place the flat of his sword against the beam. Lysandor braced his foot on a fallen block of masonry and pried. With a groaning screech of metal, the beam yielded, sliding free of its ivy-coated socket. Sir Lysandor drew back, and golden morning light spilled through the liberated opening. The courtyard's unease stilled—the hush of anticipation that always preceded a sealed gateway's revelation.
Julian approached, studying the exposed aperture. Inside, a narrow stone stair plunged into darkness. Damp air spewed forth, thick with the scent of rust and earthen rot. He fingered the iron rivet in his glove, feeling its pulse quicken as he neared the threshold. This... is where the metal stirs most fervently. He breathed in the musty air as though inhaling a forge's first puff of smoke: smoky, sharp, and electric with promise.
Sir Lysandor knelt at the opening and pressed a gloved hand against a stone lintel. "This passage leads to an antechamber," he whispered. "Torchlight would reveal more—but in daylight, we risk alerting those within. We must move carefully." He drew a short, leather-bound torch from his belt, its head slick with pitch. "Ancel, Merek—guard the stair. Julian, stand by to aid our ascent. I will watch for traps. One misstep could bring stones crashing down." He handed the torch to Ser Merek, who took it with a curt nod.
Ser Ancel stood by the courtyard's far wall, bow at the ready, head cracking from side to side as he scanned upper windows and eaves for sentinels—human or mechanical. His boots sank slightly into the moss-laden stones. "No sign of movement yet," he reported in a low tone. "The only sound is the hum of insects and the distant water from the broken fountain. Yet the silence feels loud—too loud."
Julian swallowed, stepping forward to kneel beside Sir Lysandor. He pressed the iron rivet against a ridged stone beside the aperture, willing its latent Metalcraft to probe the immediate area. He closed his eyes, centering himself. Let me sense the lay of iron within these walls. Beneath his gloves, the rivet glowed faintly as though gathering strands of hidden metal—echoes of long-lost forges murmured just beyond reach. Through those echoes he felt the passage's slow pulse—the faint rhythm of iron girders and rusted rebar hidden within the walls. He felt the draw of a heavier metal deep below, like a magnet pulling him toward an unseen mechanism.
He exhaled, opening his eyes. "Traps," he said quietly. "The walls resonate with iron bands—strips of metal likely anchored here to hold up some contrivance. If we step incorrectly or disturb the wrong block…" He allowed a crease of doubt to surface—The weight of centuries bears down on us. He looked upward at the fragmented arch: countless shards of rusted iron hung precariously above them, held only by the decayed mortar.
Sir Lysandor's voice was low and calm. "Lead the way, Julian. Use your gift to guide us past any hidden iron sinews—whether tripwires or pressure plates. I will follow your cue." He stepped onto the topmost step, torch held high, eyes locked on Julian's gloved hand. "I trust your sight more than my own. Mark the safe path."
Julian rose to his feet and placed his left hand against the cold stone beside the opening, feeling the rivet's warmth hum against his palm. Slowly, he advanced a single foot into the passage—bayoneted darkness swallowing him to his waist. He felt the echo of iron beneath the loose flagstones: a thin band of metal trembling faintly—a tripwire scribed into the floor to trigger a collapsing lattice of iron forks and wedges. He signaled Sir Lysandor with a raised hand and slow nod, pointing to a diagonal heel print along a stone slab where the band had worn a subtle groove. Step here. He shifted weight onto his right foot and extended his left across the band—Do not disturb.
Sir Lysandor followed, stepping only where Julian had guided. The torch's flame flickered as they descended—light dancing across rusted channels and pitted stone. Julian's breath slowed, his mind echoing each thump of his heart to maintain focus: one—two—three—step. He felt a second tremor of metal beneath his glove—this time, a slender rod crossing the threshold. Another tripwire, likely rigged to release a hail of blades from hidden slots above. He froze for a heartbeat, then pointed to a widened seam between stones—Step there. Sir Lysandor shifted his path accordingly, extinguishing his torch's flicker of panic behind a measured nod.
Ser Merek remained above, the torchlight from below illuminating shifting shadows that danced upon the courtyard's ivy-choked walls. His voice rumbled from below: "All clear—no collapsing blades, no hidden shafts. The passage remains—so far—low and choked with debris, but safe."
Ser Ancel's keen voice drifted from guard: "All remains silent outside, though I caught a faint glimmer of something metal glinting from a high window near the manor's east wing. I…" He paused, and his tone sharpened. "I have a chill down my spine—like something watched me. But the corner was empty when I turned my bow."
Sir Lysandor exchanged a glance with Julian as they inched deeper. "We move swiftly. Could be a phantom or a stray beam." His voice hid any tremor—If fear seeks to unnerve us here, we must steel ourselves. He raised the torch, its light catching the distant gleam of a wide, arched doorway thirty paces below. The walls pressed close—flush plaster and limestone reinforced with iron studs to resist decay. The air thickened, the scent of rust and mold stronger than before—as though the very walls exhaled the weight of centuries spent burying Kythorne's secrets.
Julian inhaled again, ignoring the faint tremor in his legs. He recalled the golem's iron pulse, the sentinel's unnatural silence. If anyone dwells beyond that archway, they have harnessed a darker art than simple blacksmithing. A wave of cold washed over him—yet I will not falter. He placed his hand against a protruding iron stud—a remnant of the door's former hinge—and coaxed its shape into his mind: a ring of iron twisted so flawlessly that it appeared carved from a single thread of wire. He imagined the ring as part of a larger mechanism: gears and wheels that once turned beneath human hands—machines of industry now rusted into obsolescence.
He wordlessly traced a path along the archway's threshold, pointing with a gloved hand to alcoves on either side. "Step here," he murmured to Sir Lysandor. "These stones bear no iron—clean slate. The nearer ones are backed by iron studs hidden just behind the plaster." He waggled his head toward a small gap between the stones—avoid that area. Might trigger a hidden latch.
The envoy nodded and followed Julian's silent guidance, keeping low as they cooperatively passed the tunnel's first trap zone. When at last they stood before the arched doorframe itself, Sir Lysandor set his torch against the wall. The flickering flame revealed a pair of carved oak doors—once painted vermilion but now mottled with chipped paint and streaks of rust where iron reinforcements had leaked. A pair of iron handles—each shaped like a raven's claw—jutting from the door's center beckoned them to push open a threshold sealed for decades.
Sir Lysandor placed a hand on one handle. Its iron felt frigid beneath his gauntlet, as though the metal had never seen the sun. He inhaled, then let exhale guide his strength: with a deliberate pull, the doors creaked—rusted hinges complaining in mournful shrieks—as they swung inward. Beyond lay a vast hall, its vaulted ceiling lost in darkness, and the scent of burning coals strong as if the hearths still stirred with life.
---
Julian and Sir Lysandor slipped through the doors into a long, narrow hall lit by flickering sconces—their torches set aside in favor of the manor's own braziers. Each brazier burned with a ghostly blue flame—no sooner struck than it hissed, as though heated by subterranean gases mixed with iron dust. The torchlight revealed long tables of stone—etched with swirling runes that drew the eye toward a raised dais at the far end where a large furnace gaped like a yawning maw. Piles of blackened ore—iron so rich it glittered in the brazier's light—lay convenient near a scattering of rudimentary tools: hammers, tongs, and long-handled ladles used to ladle molten metal. In the rafters above, iron chains hung from broken hooks—evidence that this chamber had once serviced multiple forges, each forging weapons, armor, and perhaps mechanical constructs.
Sir Lysandor's voice was hushed as he crossed the flagstones. "So this is Kythorne's anteroom to the Great Forge—where they chiseled steel for war." He gestured to the furnace's opening—no flame burned within, yet a faint pulse of heat emanated from its depths. "The cult must have rekindled its fires recently; see how the surrounding stones are still warm." He laid a gauntleted hand on a channel of melted slag at the hearth's mouth—its edges freshly cooled to dull black. "Someone labored here not long ago." He removed his hand and beckoned to Julian. "Look for arcane glyphs—they may have used wards to guide their incantations. Those wards could reveal hidden chambers below."
Julian nodded, stepping forward and letting the flames' heat wash over his face. He ran his fingers along the dais's carved edge—each rune a looping spiral that hinted at the union of iron and will, a signature of forbidden Essence Artistry. He exhaled, closing his eyes: Feel the metal's echo. A faint hum—like the untuned string of a lute—resounded in his mind, as though the iron soared a tune he could almost grasp. He reached to the side table holding a small iron poker shaped like a slender rod; he retrieved it and pressed its tip against a runic carving etched deep into the dais's surface. Guide me. He felt the runes respond with a subtle warmth—an invitation to draw forth their power. With measured strokes, he traced a simple circle connecting each rune, as though forming a sigil of his own. Flames danced on the hearth's embers, flickering in answer to his silent invocation.
A low click issued from the dais's base—a latch releasing. The dais slid aside on hidden wheels, revealing a narrow spiral stair carved from obsidian-black stone. The stair plunged into inky darkness below, where the distant hiss of molten iron beckoned like a siren's call. Ser Merek stepped forward, placing a protective hand on Julian's shoulder. "You have keen sight," he said quietly. "But be mindful—an undertow of flame, you and Sir Lysandor venture deeper. Ser Ancel will stand guard here. You both know the path—heed each other's warnings." He settled a hand on his sword's hilt, eyes fierce with silent resolve and admiration. "If harm befalls you, our blades will sing a lament."
Ser Ancel stepped out of the gloom to take Merek's place, nocking an arrow but lowering his bow. "We'll keep the ward safe," he said, jaw set. "But I'll stay. If dark summons rise from below, I will hear them—even from this distance." He paused, his keen gaze drifting to Julian. "Your forging was masterful—blunt strength paired with subtle art. I… I cannot wait to see what lies below."
Julian offered him a grateful nod, then joined Sir Lysandor at the dais's edge. He felt the chill of a draft rising from the stairwell—as though the molten core beckoned to feed on flesh and steel alike. He exchanged a glance with Lysandor. "If danger stirs below, remember that fire alone cannot stand against iron bent by will." He drew a shaky breath, then folded the dais closed behind them. All clear.
Sir Lysandor pressed a hand to the door's opening, ensuring it fit snugly within its frame. The sconces' flames flickered tumultuously as if perturbed by the shifting stone above. He stepped into the black stairwell, torch in hand, while Julian followed, the echo of each footstep swallowed by damp stone. The air grew hotter with each descent—ashen, acrid, and alive with the sizzle of cooled magma.
---
At the stair's base lay a vast cavern pierced by veins of glowing ore—ribbons of iron ore inlaid in the rock overhead, glowing faintly like embers beneath a bed of ash. The cavern's walls trembled with the low roar of distant fires. Gravel crunched beneath their boots as they stepped onto a ledge that jutted above a pit of molten metal so bright it burned ashen gold. The metal's surface rippled like a second sun, and sparks shot upward like fireflies into the cavern's vaulted ceiling of stone. Suspended from iron chains overhead were massive hammers—each one balanced on a pendulum of wrought iron, designed to drop upon bellows-fed fires. A shallow pool of quenching water lay beyond the metal pit—its surface flickering with the reflection of flames.
Julian felt the heat wash over his face, sweat beading at his brow. He drew in a shuddering breath—the molten iron's scent both exhilarating and suffocating. This forge—ancient and almost alive. He traced a finger along the cold iron railing guarding the platform's edge: a twisted lattice of metal vines, interwoven with glyphs of warding. Beneath each vine roared the molten iron—like a beast slumbering in its lair.
Sir Lysandor stepped forward, careful to keep the torch's glow cast upon the path ahead. "This is the heart of Kythorne's forge," he whispered reverently. "The last time it burned, armies marched south under Drossen's command. If the cult intends to rekindle this fire, they need only stoke these bellows and feed them ore." He swept his gaze across the cavern's expanse. "We must ensure no one stands ready to fuel it. If Drossen's wards remain intact, we may have to undo them—but that could release the forge's full fury. Choose carefully."
Julian swallowed, feeling the rivet pulse against his side as though echoing the molten core's heartbeat. He knelt beside the railing, pressing the rivet's tip against a glyph—etched in deep copper lines. Flames shifted across the forge's reflection. Show me the wards. He closed his eyes and let the rivet's warmth fuse into the glyph's metal. Beneath his glove, metal awakened: the ward's script curled under his touch, revealing a double loop—a binding circle—that channeled heat from the pit into a net of protective wards. If those wards were broken, the molten iron might flood the entire chamber—an uncontrollable inferno.
He inhaled, drawing power from the rivet's glow. Seal this circle—or guide the conjuration so that the forge sleeps. He exhaled, letting his will merge with the runic lines: with a gentle hum of Metalcraft, the copper lines dimmed—no longer feeding on the pit's heat, but chilling to a dull gray. The runes sank into the rock as though absorbed by the wall; the ward's binding shimmer vanished like dew at sunrise. Julian rose, wiping soot from his glove. The forge is sealed.
Sir Lysandor exhaled a breath he seemed not even to realize he held. "Your craft grows stronger," he murmured. "If more cultists lurk below, they will have to work harder to stoke this fire." He paused, then extended a gauntleted hand to Julian. "Come. We must search for the cult's inner sanctum—if they seed iron golems here, those golems will need tempering in this molten cauldron. No master offers such mastery for free."
Julian accepted the hand and rose, heart thundering. He glanced down at the molten sea: a horizon of living heat that radiated power. Each step he took across the iron-grated walkway sent tremors echoing through the cavern's depths. Shadows flared and receded as his torch bobbed, revealing half-formed statues of steel—gestures of winged humanoids suspended in molten larval form, like metal birthed from fire itself. The half-finished sculptures reminded him of Meepy's final form—an idea he once entertained in a distant dream—yet here these shapes served only chaos.
They reached the forge's opposite end—a wide platform where squat furnaces lined stone walls. Each furnace's grates lay scorched with embers, and over them, wrought iron chains held battered molds shaped like torsos, limbs, and heads—sculpted in the form of warriors, beasts, or blunt-edged automatons. A large, iron-bound door—festooned with the weeping ravens crest—gaped in the center wall, its frame warped by heat. Thick iron bolts lay broken at its base—scored by rust and black soot.
Sir Lysandor advanced toward the door, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "This must lead to the cult's inner sanctum," he said in a hushed voice. "If the golems have seeds of molten iron within, their cores would have to be forged here—beneath this chamber. The door may still hold keys to lock out unwanted intruders." He reached for the broken bolt's remnants and pried aside a battered rune plate on the door's frame. Another broken binding rune lay beneath—a shattered piece of copper etched with the Raven's wing. "If we can reposition these pieces, perhaps we can lock this door permanently." He pocketed the rune shards, storing them within the folds of his cloak. Then he turned to Julian. "But first, see if these molds bear any sign of recent use."
Julian stepped forward, torch held aloft. He traced a gloved hand across one of the iron molds—once shaped like a muscular torso fused with overlapping plates. Dried molten metal pooled in its crevices, now cooled to matte bronze. Beneath his finger, he sensed a faint tackiness—the metal had not fully cooled before being cast. Faint ash smeared across the mold's interior revealed traces of a forge brand: an undeniably sharp pattern of a stylized raven's wing carved into the mold's back panel—an insignia of the Raven's cult. Julian felt a knot tighten in his chest: They have worked here in the last moon cycle—by their own seal they have shaped golems from molten iron.
He moved to a neighboring mold—a blocky head with a single central porthole shaped like an inverted triangle. The metal inside still carried the faint warmth of the forge's dying embers. Julian placed a gloved palm on its surface. He felt minute tremors—like a heartbeat barely sustained. As though half-formed, the golems within these molds awaited final shaping. If sparks revive, they will rise in wrath. He stepped back, each breath stuttering as the enormity of the cult's ambition struck him: They sought to resurrect Drossen's armies—an unstoppable host of living iron. We must destroy every fragment.
Sir Lysandor allowed a faint smile to tug at his lips—a smile that held both relief and sorrow. "You have uncovered their blueprint—these molds hold the seeds of terror. We will not let these shapes see dawn's light." He raised his torch to the cavern's rafters, illuminating a row of iron spikes set into the stone, each angled like a vulture's talon. "If we shatter those molds and seal this chamber, the cult's power will wane." He drew his sword, steel shimmering with dawn's glow. "Destroy the molds."
Julian's pulse hammered as he retrieved the iron rivet in his glove. He raised the rived's butt to the nearest mold and struck—a crisp clang through the cavern, as metal met metal. The mold cracked, blood-red iron seeping from between the fissure lines as though the metal within cried out in agony. Julian raised the rivet again, striking the mold's edges until the shape collapsed into jagged fragments that clattered onto the stone slab with hollow echoes. Molten remnants hissed as they spat upon the cold floor—steam rising like wraiths disturbed in slumber.
Sir Lysandor nodded at Julian's display of craft—steel shaped by mercy rather than conquest. "Well struck." He turned to Ser Merek's archers—Ser Merek and Ser Ancel—now gathered at the chamber's entrance, watching in solemn respect. "Dismantle every mold," Sir Lysandor commanded. "Raze them beyond repair." He advanced toward the second mold—a skeletal frame cast to receive molten metal—his sword's edge gleaming as he drove it through brittle iron until the mold shattered like a mirror cracked.
The cavern trembled with the repeated strikes of blade upon iron. Sparks flew upward, fleeting embers that danced like fireflies against the forge's vault. Each mold yielded in turn—tombs of potential reawakening—crumbling beneath the measured hammering of sword, rivet, and pick. Ser Merek used his mace to crush the largest fragments; Ser Ancel looped thick ropes around broken plates and hauled them into a heap near the furnace's edge. Julian moved between them, wielding the rivet with practiced precision. Each strike hummed through his bones—the warmth of his Metalcraft guiding his blows, ensuring none of the shards retained shape.
At last, only one mold remained: a massive block shaped like a broad-shouldered golem head—its half-etched features frozen in silent vigil. Julian approached it with reverence—as though confronting a final gate between today's peace and tomorrow's war. He pressed his gloved palm against the mold's rim, seeking the warmth of recent forging. His glove tingled beneath his palm: This is their core—once revived, these shapes would rise in fury. He exhaled, raising the rivet and striking the mold's neck with resolute force. Now. Metal yielded—first in long cracks, then in a final crunch that shattered the mold into shards that scattered across the stone floor.
For a heartbeat, silence claimed the forge's heart. The molten pit roared like a proud beast deprived of its meal, until the embers faded and the molten surface cooled to dull, ashen bronze. The braziers' blue flames flickered and dimmed, as though sensing the forge's death knell. Sir Lysandor stepped to Julian's side, both of them watching the final echoes of molten heat fade. "It is done," he murmured, voice heavy with relief. "No more seeds of living iron linger within these walls."
Julian exhaled, voice tight. "All is still." He turned slowly to the others. "But we should seal this chamber—undo the stair latch and set loose the iron bars so none can reforge the molds. Even a single fragment could rekindle the forge's wrath." He pocketed the shattered rune shards—each a monument to the Raven's ambition. He approached the hidden latch Sir Lysandor had released the previous day—this time, placing his palm upon the cool iron band that circled the dais's runic circle. He exhaled, threading his Metalcraft into the runes with deliberate care—this time to lock them in place rather than free them. The copper lines hummed once more, but instead of glow, they went dark—sealed.
Sir Lysandor sheathed his sword and crossed to the dais, lifting the heavy stone slab. "We've done what we came to do." He raised his torch, its flame dancing across the cavern's dark roof. "Now—let us return to the surface and see that Kythorne's halls shake no more." He nodded to Ser Merek. "Guide us back, ser." The veteran knight gave a curt bow and led the way toward the spiral stair, each step retracing their path through traps and hidden bands of iron. Ser Ancel followed at a distance—bow held high, watchful for unwelcome surprises.
Julian stepped last, his heart swelling with relief and exhaustion in equal measure. As he ascended each tread, the cavern's roar faded behind him, replaced once more by the hush of overgrown courtyards and rusted gates. He exhaled one final breath when he emerged beside the sealed dais in the anteroom. The glazing sun filtered through cracks in the ceiling, illuminating airborne motes of dust like drifting snowflakes. In that golden light, the runes before him glimmered faintly, a testament to sacrifice and vigilance. He traced a finger along the cold dais—may this seal endure beyond our lifetimes.
Sir Lysandor and the guards emerged seconds later. "Kythorne's forge sings no more," Sir Lysandor declared, voice echoing across the silent hall. "At least, not until madness reclaims mortal hands." He faced Julian, admiration and gratitude shining in his eyes. "Your craft saved countless lives today. I cannot say what your legacy will be—whether king's counsel or blacksmith's hammer—but know this: you have forged a new path."
Julian pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the iron heart pendant. A rush of warmth pulsed through him—pride tempered by humility. "I… did what I could," he murmured. "But it was your wisdom that guided me. I—" He blinked away dust in his eyes. "Thank you, Sir Lysandor." His gaze drifted to the broken molds at their feet, then to the scrolling runes that sealed the forge's power. Rest now. Let no one disturb your bones. He exhaled, letting the weight of the forge's destruction settle around him.
Ser Merek replaced his sword within its scabbard and offered a rare, warm smile. "Let us return to the square at Edran's Hollow," he said in a gruff voice softened by genuine warmth. "The villagers await word that their blacksmith has vanquished the Raven's wing." He saluted Julian—a gesture of respect earned in steel and flame. "Ride with us. Let the people hear how guardians of iron stand firm against twisted artifice."
Julian nodded once, heart full. He turned to Ser Ancel, who lowered his bow, eyes clear and unwavering. "Lead the way from here," Ser Ancel instructed, scanning the gloom one last time. "I will be ready should more shadow rise."
With their small company reunited, Julian, Sir Lysandor, Ser Merek, and Ser Ancel departed Kythorne Manor's halls—leaving behind the hushed reverence of molten iron's final silence. As they stepped through the broken doors into the courtyard's open air, Julian inhaled deeply. The scent of moss, oak, and morning sun filled his lungs. He felt the words of his father and friends resonate within him: Use your gift wisely; shape steel for life, not death.
They mounted their horses where the worn beams of the gatehouse let in the fresh light of dawn. Julian's gaze swept across the ruined façade of Kythorne Manor, its stone walls now silent and powerless. The path before him led away from the forge's ghostly heart, carried on the promise of return—an ember of hope forged in the crucible of duty and compassion.
As the horses carried them back toward Edran's Hollow, Julian felt a new resolve settle in his bones: his Metalcraft was no longer simply a fledgling talent discovered in a humble forge—it was a beacon of hope that could stand between tyranny and freedom, forging a future from the echoes of molten steel.
And so, beneath the rising sun and the watchful ravens carved into Kythorne's ruined stones, Julian Arthel rode at dawn's first light—his heart tempered by fire, his spirit bound by the unwavering faith of those who believed in him, and his destiny shaped before an anvil of cold iron and crimson flame.