Ren Vael's voice
They say every flame begins with a whisper.
For me, it began with hammers—not fate. Just iron,
sweat, and the weight of repetition.
The clang of metal was my morning song.
The hiss of steam, my evening lullaby.
Uncle Torik's forge sat at the edge of Kureth, tucked between the river and the woods. A squat stone building blackened by years of honest work. I spent more time there than I ever did in my own bed.
Not that I minded.
In the forge, things made sense. Metal yielded to pressure. Heat obeyed patience. You could shape something real with your hands—blades, tools, horseshoes when coin ran thin.
Better that than dreams.
I was seventeen, and if you asked anyone in town, they would've said I was headed for a quiet life. Maybe even a good one. I was strong, steady with a hammer, and decent enough with a throwing knife to earn nods of approval.
Almost decent enough.
None of them knew about the dreams.
None of them saw what waited when I closed my eyes.
Ash.
Fire.
Screams that clawed at my ears.
And always—always—that shadow.
A figure wrapped in darkness, wearing my face, whispering:
"I await."
I stopped telling Torik after the third time. He laughed it off, said it was a boy's hunger for something bigger than a village forge.
Maybe it was.
But hunger didn't feel like this.
This felt like drowning in smoke.
"Grip higher, Ren."
Torik's voice cut cleanly through the sparks.
He stood over me, arms crossed, broad shoulders dusted with soot. Age had thickened his hands but hadn't stolen their strength.
"You're letting the weight do the work—that's good. But don't forget who's holding the hammer."
I nodded and shifted my grip.
The bar of steel glowed red-orange, like a vein torn from the earth itself. I brought the hammer down again—this time with intention.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
"Better," he said. "Again."
There was comfort in repetition.
Something honest about shaping metal into purpose.
Still, my gaze drifted—past the forge doors, past the rooftops, toward the woods beyond Kureth. Toward the sky.
Kureth rested beneath two moons.
Nara, small and silver.
Kaal, large and blue.
Lovers, my mother used to say. Forever chasing, never touching.
Some nights, I felt like they were watching me.
That night, after dinner, I climbed the hill behind the forge. From there, the village looked peaceful—rooftops like folded hands, streets glowing with lantern-light. The moons rose slowly, pale and distant.
"Beautiful, aren't they?"
I flinched.
Seren stood behind me, cradling a basket of leftover sweetbread. The baker's daughter had a talent for appearing without sound, like mist slipping through a door.
She held out a piece.
"You looked like you were about to start a conversation with the sky."
I took it. Warm. Sweet. Real.
"Maybe I was."
She smiled. "Do they answer?"
"Only when I'm half-asleep."
Her laugh was soft, unforced. She sat beside me without asking.
"You dream strange things, Ren Vael."
I didn't answer.
She didn't push.
That was why I liked her.
When she left, I stayed. The night grew quiet. Eventually, sleep claimed me.
This time, I knew I was dreaming.
The forge was burning—but the fire was wrong. Black and violet, twisting through the air like it was alive. Like it was thinking.
I walked through ash. Each step left smoldering prints, my feet glowing as if made of coal.
At the heart of the flames, he waited.
Me.
But not me.
Taller. Sharper. Wrapped in a cloak of stars and shadow. His eyes weren't eyes at all—only voids that swallowed light.
He smiled.
My smile.
"You're beginning to hear it," he whispered.
"The pulse. The pull. The promise."
"What are you?" I asked.
His answer was simple.
And terrible.
"You."
The world shattered.
I woke gasping, hands shaking.
The smell of smoke filled my lungs, and for a breathless moment I thought the forge was on fire.
But the flames were only in my head.
Or so I thought.
Because when I looked down—
The sweetbread in my hands had turned to ash.