A Soul Like Glass (Kingdom of Betrayal #4)

Chapter 41

Chapter 41

“ W e will be your witnesses,” the dragon king says.

With that, he steps back from the rock that has become my anvil. He joins the other dragons, who all settle down under the moon to wait.

Erik remains in the distance with Galeia while Cailey steps to Graviter’s side, reminding me of the way she floated at his shoulder when Erik made my hammer.

“I don’t have tongs,” I whisper, even though it feels like such an insignificant hurdle after everything that has been given to me.

“You don’t need them,” Graviter rumbles. “The eternal flame will not burn the one to whom it is given. You alone can plunge your hand into this fire and remain unharmed.”

I’m relieved to hear this. Brushing my fingertips across the tops of the scales, I take in the different textures and colors, even thicknesses. Torva’s scale is smooth. Graviter’s is rough. Lily’s is flexible. Vargo’s is opaque.

They have given me different strengths, but also different perspectives, the collective gifts of a dragon family.

At one end, I place fury, and at the other, I place peace. I line them all up side by side, each one as important as the other. Each one influencing the other. All of them are parts of a whole.

Then I scoop them up in my right hand, gratified when they slot neatly against each other in my palm.

I pause before I would extend my hand into the fire.

All I have is the echo of my mother’s long-ago commands as she ordered her students to plunge their strips of metal into the fire and then beat them. She would order the students to heat and forge until they were collapsing from exhaustion, creating their medallions with cruelty. For cruelty.

It can’t be her voice that I follow.

It has to be my own.

To do this, I need to listen to my own heart and accept all of its needs as well as its flaws.

“Heat,” I whisper.

Slowly, I extend my hand into the fire, aware of its warmth and the impact it has on the scales.

Each one begins to glow, the same way dull iron will blaze a lustrous amber when heated correctly, except that these scales were already luminescent.

Now, their beauty is both terrifying and astonishing.

I count my heartbeats, feeling calmer…

And calmer.

And there .

I remove my hand from the fire, placing the pile of scales carefully onto the flat part of the rock, my hammer already in my left hand.

I don’t wait. I can’t allow the scales to cool.

But I will not force them, either. I will respect their structure and allow them to be what they wish to be.

I give them the lightest tap. The contact rings out clear across the clearing, a soft, mesmerizing chime.

Clang!

My power flows through my hammer like a newly released stream. Golden light spills through the scales, filling every tiny crack between them.

With the next hit, the scales compress, the energy from my heart streaming down through my arm, through my hammer, and into the scales.

And now the work begins.

For the next hour, I beat the scales with my hammer and fold them with my hands, beating and folding, over and over. At intervals, I plunge my hands into the fire to reheat the scales before I start all over again, beating and folding, pouring my power into the scales, making them mine.

I work to a rhythm of my own making, molding the scales into one whole piece that I fill with all the parts of me, strong and flawed. My medallion will not be perfect, but it will be true.

The perfect conduit.

I expect the process to take days, but within the hour, the scales are no longer scales.

They are gold.

I lift my hammer, intending to beat the metal one last time, but I stop.

Wisdom is knowing when something should not be entirely mine. There is still a thread of the dragons’ natures in this metal.

It’s the finest possible thread, nearly invisible, practically imperceptible, but I don’t want to beat it out.

It’s the same thread that has given me purpose and kept me alive: a sense of family.

I lower my hammer as a hush settles around me.

The dragons have remained quiet, and now they hunch low to the ground, their focus on me becoming even more intense.

Now, I must claim the medallion as my own.

The final clangs echo in my ears, a melody that washes away in the wind, whipped out to sea.

The golden band I’ve created is wider than any other medallion. It will cover more of my palm.

Lowering my hammer to the ground and leaving it there, I lift my left hand, hovering it over the medallion for a moment.

You belong to me.

My power is mine.

I press my palm down onto the golden band. The metal I’ve created responds instantly to my touch, wrapping itself around my palm, fitting itself to my skin, and sealing across the back of my hand.

I inhale and exhale, breathing through the moment, letting my power settle, taking in the ebb and flow of it and the way it changes how the world appears to me.

First, the wide expanse of water, countless droplets churning with energy, then the makeshift anvil itself, all its striations and grooves, and its ability to take the force of my hammer and carry the heat of the eternal flame without breaking.

Then the dragons and the immense energy rippling through their scales, the life-force in their hearts so powerful they could set the world on fire.

Followed by the fading glow from the heart of a dying star that fills me with sadness.

And then, at the edge of a massive forest, which itself carries so much life, stands the man I love.

He is holding on to Galeia and protecting her, simply because I asked him to.

He is the storm in my calm, a force more powerful than every dragon here because he, alone, has the power to break me.

“It is done,” I whisper.