The clang of metal echoed through the Emberreach forge like a war drum, steady and unyielding. Sparks danced in the smoky air as Kael struck iron to steel, his hands blistered, his brow slick with sweat. The forge was hot—always hot—but he liked it that way. It reminded him of control. Fire could be shaped, hammered, commanded.
Unlike everything else in his life.
"You're bending it wrong again," grumbled Master Varek, wiping soot from his beard. "Hit with purpose. Not like you're apologizing to the blade."
Kael nodded, adjusted his grip, and struck harder. The sword-in-progress hissed under his hammer, glowing orange in the low light. Outside, the sounds of the Emberreach market drifted in—children laughing, coins clinking, someone shouting about roasted dates.
But Kael felt it again.
A pulse.
It started low in his chest and throbbed out to his fingertips—a kind of pull. It happened sometimes, like a second heartbeat, strongest when he was angry or afraid. He never told anyone, not even his best friend Dain. Not even Varek, who'd raised him like a second father.
He didn't know what it meant. Only that it was growing.
"Enough for today," Varek said, placing a rough hand on Kael's shoulder. "Tomorrow's your seventeenth. Take the evening. Enjoy the Firelight Festival."
Kael nodded again, setting the hammer down and stepping out into the gold-streaked dusk. The air smelled of smoke and spiced bread, banners fluttering above rooftops like living fire. Lanterns floated skyward already, soft as stars.
But as he walked toward the festival square, the pulse came again—harder this time.
And this time… it answered.