23. Chapter 23 #2
The Iron Maw was a living beast. The forge roared with heat, and the walls were built of rough-hewn stone and daub, the kind of structure meant to withstand centuries.
Smoke curled from the tall brick chimney.
The fire hearth, a waist-high structure of dry-laid brick, glowed, its heat searing.
Nearly stacked piles of charcoal were kept just beyond the forge’s reach, safe from stray sparks.
Within the open-faced workshop, Ren caught movement of flashes of steel and sweat, hammer-strikes falling in sharp rhythm, purposeful as a battle drum.
The air smelled of iron, heavy with the promise of creation.
Ren paused at the entrance. Blades hung along the inner walls, gleaming axes, curved swords, bone-handled daggers. Some bore runes that glowed faintly, whispering of bloodshed and magic.
“Hey, you.” Elira swaggered toward her, iron bars resting over her shoulder, her muscular arms dusted with sweat. Soot streaked across her cheekbones like warpaint, and her forge leathers clung to her like a second skin.
“Miss me?” Ren asked.
Elira dropped the iron with a clang , wiped her brow with a gloved hand, and gave Ren a once-over. “What’s got you sniffing around the market this early? Looking for something sharp and deadly?”
Ren stepped closer, eyes drifting past her into the glow of the forge. “Just browsing. ”
Elira snorted. “Bullshit. You need a weapon.”
Ren’s gaze met Elira’s with steady resolve. “You’re from House Tharowen, aren’t you?”
“What gave me away? The smoldering glare or the divine biceps?”
Ren nodded to the mark inked into Elira’s left shoulder, an intricate knot of flame and steel. “The Forgemark. Hard to miss.”
That earned a full grin from Elira, fierce and wicked. “Perceptive. I like that.” She leaned one shoulder against the stone wall. “We take the mark at thirteen. Call fire our first teacher. If it doesn’t burn you, it’ll forge you.”
Ren gave a low whistle. “That’s one hell of a teacher.”
“Damn right it is. We forge our first blade during what we call the Tempering . We work side by side with a master smith. When it’s done, the forge brands your skin.”
A voice bellowed from inside the forge. “I don’t have long,” Elira told Ren. “What are you hunting?”
Ren’s expression darkened. “Monsters I don’t have a name for. I don’t know what it’ll take to kill them, but I need steel that won’t fail.”
Elira’s eyes widened. “By the Hollow... that bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
For a beat, Elira just studied her. Then she straightened. “Alright, then. I’ll make you something that sings fire when it swings and drinks fear when it cuts.” Her eyes sparked. “Give me a week.”
Ren offered a crooked smile. “Thank you. Use whatever you’d use to protect someone you actually like.” She pulled a small coin purse from her belt and held it out, the weight of it soft but promising in her palm. “Here,” she offered, giving it a little shake. “Will this cover half to get started?”
Elira accepted the coin purse. “I’ll put a blade in your hand that makes monsters rethink their life choices.” She turned to return to work, then paused, adding over her shoulder softly, “You don’t need to thank me, Ren. Just come back alive.”
Ren wove her way through the outer edge of Pyraelia. She passed a crooked bookshop tucked beneath a narrow archway, where a raven sat perched above the door. It tilted its head as she walked by, as if weighing her soul.
Next came a bakery, its windows fogged with heat and scented with cardamom and clove.
But no laughter spilled into the street, no footsteps echoed on cobblestone.
The market square, where she had her first meal with Talen and Elira the day they arrived in Pyraelia, was smothered under the looming dread of the Witherblight.
Then she saw Zakhar.
He stood before an apothecary, handing over a pouch of coins to the weary-eyed keeper before noticing Ren.
“Getting ready to bunker down,” Zakhar called, his voice bright despite the gloom. “Planning a few fresh brews for the warehouse. Useful things. Potions to make you run faster, leap higher... maybe even dance with death and walk away smiling.”
Ren lifted a brow, stopping just short of the step. “Any chance you’ll tell me what other kinds of potions you keep stashed in there? Or is that one of your many secrets?”
Zakhar just winked, his tall staff in his left hand. It towered over him, crowned with a twisted crystal that pulsed faintly, like it was breathing.
“Where’s the fun in telling?” he quipped, a wicked grin flashing. “But truly, shapeshifting? Memory tampering? There’s a spell for nearly everything. Even fire, if you’re asking.”
“Do you work with elemental magic?”
“I know the theory. I’ve studied the nature of magic. But I’m no battlemage. Still, you’re welcome to visit. There might be a tome or two tucked away in my shelves that you may find enlightening.”
They began to walk. Zakhar whistled softly under his breath, a low, unsettling melody that didn’t quite sound like a song.
Then he clicked his tongue and pulled his hood low, muttering as if annoyed with the wind or perhaps with himself.
Ren had quickly learned to tread carefully around Zakhar.
His moods shifted like storm fronts, sunlight one moment, thunder the next.
“Strange,” he murmured. “Now that I think about it… the last time a flamebearer walked the realms, the stars themselves seemed to tremble. That was generations ago. ”
Ren froze mid-step. “What did you just call me?”
Zakhar didn’t stop walking. “Hmm?”
“That name. Flamebearer.”
She said it like it burned her tongue. The same name she’d heard whispered in her dreams, those visions of a woman wreathed in fire.
Zakhar looked at her for a long moment, as if weighing whether to speak or to flee into silence. But at last, he muttered, “It is an old title. These days, it’s only murmured in hushed voices around firesides, buried in legends.”
Ren folded her arms. “Continue.”
Zakhar’s gaze darted. “The Flamebearer is a soul born with dragon fire in her blood and the strength to carry it. The last Flamebearer brought an age to its knees. Some say to save it. Others say to end it.”
Ren’s mouth had gone dry. “And you think that’s me?”
Zakhar tilted his head ever so slightly. “Elemental mages wield fire that already exists. Think of a candle’s flame, a burning torch. But your magic creates itself. That kind of magic doesn’t come from elemental discipline. It comes from something older.”
Zakhar stepped back slightly, as if distance might protect him from whatever storm he’d just stirred.
Then, he continued walking. Ren hurried her pace to keep up with him. His pace didn’t falter. He only offered a distracted hum, as if she’d asked about the weather.
He turned a corner before she could press him again.
“I’ve seen many deaths in my time,” he swiftly changed the subject.
“Too many to count. But this illness… this Witherblight is different. It doesn’t behave like sickness should.
” Zakhar’s gaze slid sideways, the usual gleam in his eye dulled by something darker.
“With most plagues, you can trace a pattern. Eventually, scholars can record how they spread, how they are cured. Even the worst of plagues follows rules. This one unravels them.”
“You think it’s magic?”
Zakhar’s staff tapped against the stone road. His voice lowered to a whisper, just loud enough for her to hear. “There are no known herbs, no natural remedies that so much as slow it. Every attempt to treat it with traditional healing fails. It drains life… and something else.”
He hesitated. “ Magic . It leaches the very essence from those who have even a spark. And the stronger their gift, the faster it withers them. The only cure? Magic itself.” He clicked his tongue, in deep thought. “Tell me, does that sound natural to you?”
He paused. He looked at her then, truly looked, and Ren felt the weight of something vast pressing in around them, like the stars themselves were listening.
“No,” he said softly. “This illness was crafted with a dark purpose.”
Zakhar met her gaze, and for a heartbeat, there was no trace of his previous mischief.
“Curses crave legacy, and this one was made to endure. You don’t create something like the Witherblight without knowing exactly who you want to destroy.”
He turned from her then, staff tapping the stone again.
“The question isn’t what it is, Ren. It’s who .” He walked in the direction of the palace and murmured over his shoulder, “Be wary where your curiosity leads, Flamebearer. The answers rarely come without a price.”