Forgehome woke to fear.
It crept through the village like cold fog, seeping beneath doors and settling in every whispered prayer. The night had not passed quietly. No bells rang, yet everyone knew something was wrong.
The ancient forge was sealed.
Iron plates had been dragged across its mouth, hammered into place by trembling hands. Guards stood watch in shifts, gripping their spears too tightly, eyes darting toward the stone structure as if expecting it to breathe.
Elara felt the silence before she saw it.
From inside her small stone house, she sensed an absence—an unnatural stillness where warmth and rhythm had always lived. It was as if the forge were holding its breath.
Her door opened with a scrape of iron.
"Smith Ironhand," a guard said stiffly. "The council summons you."
Chains rattled as they were removed from the doorframe, but none were placed on her wrists. They did not need to be.
The village square was crowded.
Villagers gathered in tight clusters, murmuring as Elara passed. Some looked away. Others stared openly, fear etched deep into their faces. She recognized many of them—people whose tools she had repaired, whose weapons she had reforged, whose children she had greeted each morning.
Now they watched her like a stranger.
The elders sat in a semicircle before the sealed forge, stone chairs carved with ancient symbols few remembered the meaning of. Elder Bram stood as Elara approached.
"Forgehome stands because we respect boundaries," he began. "Because we bury the past and learn from its mistakes."
Elara lifted her chin. "I broke no law. I reforged a blade."
"A blade that should not exist," Bram replied sharply.
Another elder spoke, her voice shaking. "Starforgers once walked this world. Cities burned for their ambition."
Elara clenched her fists. "I am not a mage."
"Then why does the forge answer you?" Bram demanded.
Before she could respond, heat bloomed against her chest.
The silver pendant beneath her tunic pulsed.
Elara gasped as it grew warm, then hot. She pulled it free, and the village gasped with her.
Star patterns shimmered across the metal, lines of light forming a sigil older than Forgehome itself.
The elders recoiled.
"That mark…" one whispered. "A royal sigil."
A deep sound rolled through the ground.
Not an earthquake.
A heartbeat.
The sealed forge split with a thunderous crack. Stone fractured outward, iron plates warping as if struck from within. Blinding white light spilled into the square as ancient star runes ignited, burning through centuries of ash.
Villagers screamed.
Heat washed over them, fierce but strangely controlled, stopping short of destruction. The forge stood revealed—not as a simple structure, but as something vast and layered, its core alive with power.
"Elara!" someone shouted. "Stop this!"
She staggered back, terror and awe colliding within her. Memories surged—her grandfather's warnings, his silences, the way he had looked at the forge when he thought she wasn't watching.
He had known.
The reforged sword tore free from where it had been hidden and rose into the air, orbiting Elara like a living thing. Its light synchronized with her heartbeat, each pulse echoed by the runes beneath her feet.
"This is her doing!" an elder cried. "She will doom us all!"
Fear turned sharp.
Anger followed.
Guards raised their weapons.
Elara lifted her hands instinctively, the air bending around her. "I never wanted this," she said, voice breaking. "I only wanted to create."
The forge answered.
Another pulse shook the village. Far beneath the mountains, ancient seals weakened. Stone shifted. Something vast stirred from endless slumber.
In the depths of the Iron Mountains, Kaelros opened his eyes.
Silence fell at last.
The elders conferred in hurried whispers before Bram turned back to Elara, his face hard with resolve.
"You have awakened forces beyond this village," he said. "We will not allow Forgehome to be destroyed for your destiny."
He raised a hand.
"You will choose."
The words struck deeper than any blade.
"Submit to imprisonment," Bram continued, "your power sealed, your voice silenced."
A pause.
"Or accept exile. Leave Forgehome forever, and draw the danger away from us."
Elara looked around the square.
Fear met her gaze.
No one spoke for her.
She understood then.
Creation always demanded sacrifice.
"I will leave," she said quietly.
The forge dimmed, as if acknowledging the choice.
As Elara turned away, the pendant pulsed once more, warm and certain. Somewhere beyond the mountains, a path awakened.
And far away, in the endless dark, Seraphyne smiled.
Destiny had chosen its messenger.