The wind howled across Ironveil Valley, carrying the smell of metal and dust. Every morning it whistled through the half-collapsed huts, a reminder that the world beyond their small village was sharper than steel.
Arin Kael tightened his grip on the worn handle of his shovel. Frost crusted his fingers, yet he kept digging. Behind him the forge's dying fire coughed out its final sparks. His father's hammer no longer rang there; only silence and memory filled the space.
"Enough, Arin," the village elder called from the path. "The ground's frozen solid. You'll only break the shovel."
Arin did not answer. The shallow pit before him was the last thing he could give his father, a grave no raider would dare disturb. His muscles screamed, but he forced the shovel down again.
When the final clump of dirt fell into place, he pressed his forehead to the mound. You said strength came from patience, Father. But patience didn't save you.
A harsh laugh echoed from the road. Three older boys, their tunics marked with crude flame patterns, stood watching.
"Still playing grave-digger, weakling?" their leader sneered. "Your father's bones weren't even worth stealing."
Arin straightened slowly. The shovel shook in his hands. He wanted to strike, yet his body, thin and underfed, could barely lift the tool.
"Leave him," one of the others muttered, uneasy.
The leader spat in the dirt and turned away. Their laughter trailed off toward the forge district where they served the local militia.
Arin watched until the sound faded. Then, without meaning to, he whispered, "One day, you'll kneel."
That night Ironveil Village slept early. The torches sputtered out, and the wind carried their smoke toward the hills. Arin stayed by the grave.
Moonlight glimmered on something half-buried near the mound: an old tablet of black stone, cracked and carved with symbols that pulsed faintly in the cold.
He brushed away the dirt. The markings stirred, glowing like veins of molten iron.
A whisper touched his mind.
Do you seek strength, child of dust?
Arin's breath caught. His instinct told him to run, but another part of him, raw and desperate, held still.
"I do."
Then offer what you fear to lose.
The glow spread. Heat seared his palm as blood dripped onto the stone. A pattern flared—a human figure surrounded by coiling chains.
Pain slammed into him. Every muscle locked, every tendon twisted, every bone ground together. Yet beneath the agony was something else: power, steady and deep, like a heartbeat beneath the earth.
He collapsed, gasping. The tablet's light faded to embers and sank back into the soil as if it had never existed.
When he pushed himself up, the night felt different. Sounds were sharper. His pulse thundered like a drum.
He looked at his hands. The veins were darker, faintly metallic beneath the moon.
For the first time, the cold did not bite.
Dawn crept over Ironveil Valley. Arin dragged himself to the forge and lifted the hammer that had once been too heavy. His body trembled, but it rose.
He swung. The impact sent a shock through his arms, yet instead of pain there was a thrill—a rhythm that urged him to strike again.
Swing. Breathe. Swing.
Villagers passed by, whispering about the mad boy at the forge. Arin did not hear them. Each strike drowned out the ache, and every spark felt like a promise.
By noon the anvil was dented, the hammer handle splintered, and Arin's body no longer felt fragile. The weakness that had clung to him since birth was receding, burned away by something fierce and ancient.
He stared at his hands again.
"What are you doing to me?" he murmured to the silent forge.
But deep down, he already knew.
The Iron Path had opened, and he had taken his first step.