The wind across the rocky terrain cut sharply against Kael's ears. He stood motionless atop the cliff. Fostalen was no longer visible. The smoke, the red glow of the Galm furnace—all of it swallowed by the mist at the mountain's base. (I have to do this here.) It didn't take long to steel himself. If anything, his body moved first. He found a depression in the rocks and descended. Loose stones tumbled beneath his feet with a grinding sound. A rocky hollow in the cliff's shadow—deep enough for two palms, wide enough to spread his arms. This would be his furnace. He picked up stones and slowly scraped at the edges. Hard. His fingers burned as the skin rubbed raw. Still, he kept scraping. A crude hollow took shape—nothing like the furnace back at the workshop. His master Yorn Galm's voice echoed from the depths of his mind. —If you have no furnace, make your own aether your furnace. Words spoken carelessly in the workshop long ago. Back then, he'd let them pass without understanding. Now was different. No furnace meant burning his own aether as heat. Wringing out every ounce of aether in his body to create a heat source hot enough to melt iron. That was all. He pulled out the red iron ore. Aether-infused mineral from the upper reaches of the Tora River. It glowed orange in his palm. He placed it at the center and struck it with Ur's iron hammer. Channeling aether, drawing out the power of flame. Just do it. The moment his hand gripped Ur's hammer, the back of his hand grew warm. Nothing new. But today, that warmth changed quickly—from a gentle warmth to a searing sensation. The feeling of wringing out aether began. A sensation close to pain. From shoulder to arm, a burning crawl spread through him. Aether burn—the symptom where nerves seared from overusing aether—he recognized the early stages. Still, his hand didn't stop. If it stopped, it was over. First strike. Kael swung the hammer in the rhythm his master had drilled into him. With each strike, he exhaled, listening to the ring of metal—the basics of forging magic. No response. The red iron ore glowed faintly. Then it died. Ur's hammer was warm only in his hand; nothing reached the ore. Second strike. Third strike. He steadied his rhythm, consciously flowing aether. His master would control temperature here. Conscious of the metal crystal arrangement, adjusting the aether flow with precision. Kael tried to mimic it. The hammer's handle slipped in his grip. Too much force. The more he focused, the more unnecessary tension crept into his shoulders. The aether flow scattered. The ore's light died again. (Why?) His head burned. His shoulders ached as if on fire. The sensation in his fingertips dulled gradually. He felt his aether draining away. Yet—the hammer wouldn't respond. Kael dropped to one knee on the ground. He tried to steady his breathing. It wouldn't steady. The night the workshop burned came back to him. Gerda Haul's face. The Iron Fang Brigade—armed mercenaries based in the Verga Mountains—surrounding the workshop in flames. That fire still burned behind his eyes. (Master's way won't work?) Then, suddenly, he remembered. The night aether infusion first succeeded—when he first gripped Ur's hammer behind the workshop. That night, Kael hadn't been conscious of anything. His master's steps, the rhythm—all of it vanished from his mind. There was only the hammer in his hand. His mind had gone blank. And the aether flowed. He closed his eyes. He stopped trying to steady his breathing. He listened to the wind. He felt the cold of the rocks against his knees. Then—he turned his awareness inward, to his own chest. His heart beat. Thump-thump. Fast. Fast because he was afraid. Fast because he was exhausted. Yet it beat, unmistakably. Proof that he lived. He swung the hammer in time with that pulse. First strike—Ur's hammer grew faintly warm in his hand. Kael opened his eyes. Second strike. In rhythm with his heartbeat. One of the ancient characters on the handle glowed faintly. An electric sensation ran up his arm. The aether flow changed—no, not "changed." It began to flow. Like water finally rushing through a channel that had been blocked. Third strike. All the characters on Ur's hammer's handle blazed at once. The rocky terrain flooded with orange light. Kael held the hammer, his breath catching for an instant. The heat from the handle didn't just warm his hand—it enveloped his entire arm. This tool—it didn't teach technique. It didn't amplify technique. It responded to what lay within its wielder. While he mimicked his master's way, it wasn't truly his. He tried to put his reason for striking into words in his mind. "To forge the flame blade is—" The words wouldn't come. As he tried to think of something impressive, his stomach rumbled loudly. *Grrrrr.* (Ryla had the food...) Bad timing. But in that moment, the tension drained from him just slightly. Ryla's face appeared. Her profile in the abandoned mine, turned away as she said "go." The trembling voice as she shared her past by the campfire that night. The warmth of her hands as she wrapped the scarf around him. Then Kieran appeared. His face swollen from torture, yet drawing his sword to let them escape. That man's back. And—the night he saw the vision of the flame blade in the depths of the Tireno ruins. That sensation of a small flame kindling deep in his chest in the darkness. An orphan left at the workshop, striking for five years, never becoming a forger—the night he first felt he could move forward. It all mixed together, wordless, flowing into the hammer. The red iron ore blazed crimson. Something ignited from deep within his body. Aether was drawn from every part of him. His arm trembled. His shoulders burned. The edges of his vision began to white out. Aether burn was progressing. But his hand wouldn't stop. The rhythm was his heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump—the hammer answered with light. The red iron ore grew hot, changing shape. The flame-attribute infusion of forging magic ran true. Kael felt it. This sensation was real. Just a few more strikes, and— Torchlight appeared from all sides. One, two, three—he stopped counting. Human silhouettes lined the edges of the rocky terrain. No fewer than thirty. The faces lit by torchlight shared something in common. The eyes of predators. The Iron Fang Brigade. He knew it by instinct. Heavy footsteps approached. The moment he saw who made them, Kael's arm nearly stopped. One eye. A black eyepatch over the right. Short-cropped black hair. Iron rivets studded her leather armor at intervals. A woman of about thirty-eight, torch-bearing mercenaries in tow, trampled across the rocks. Gerda Haul. Leader of the Iron Fang Brigade. The woman who burned the workshop. "[cold]Give me that blade." A low, quiet voice. Not a command—closer to a pronouncement. "[cold]Or I kill you this time for certain." Her one eye stared straight at Kael. No emotion in it. Only the will to eliminate an obstacle. Kael didn't release the hammer from the red iron ore. Aether burn made his legs unsteady. His shoulders trembled in small spasms. The edges of his vision darkened. His body and aether were nearly spent. Sensation in his fingertips was almost gone. Yet the hand holding the hammer wouldn't let go. Just one more strike. One more and it's done. Gerda signaled the mercenaries with her eyes. The encirclement tightened. Footsteps drew closer. The heat of torches pressed against his face as they closed in. Kael closed his eyes. He gripped the hammer tighter. (Does it end here—) The moment that thought crossed his mind. A stone tumbled on the southern side of the rocks. "[angry]Not that way!" One of the mercenaries shouted. A dull sound followed. Someone had fallen. Two human silhouettes—three—moved at the southern edge of the rocky terrain. Red-purple hair caught the torchlight. Ryla. She hurled stones at the feet of two mercenaries to draw attention, then slipped behind Gerda's lieutenant. Fluid movement. The body techniques drilled into her during her days with the thieves' guild. Gold and violet odd-eyes gleamed in the darkness. Then. Heavy footsteps thundered across the rocks. Staggering forward, yet moving with certainty. His right cheek swollen, blood seeping through his leather armor. A thin scar across his left eye caught the torchlight. Kieran. He drew his blade and stood directly before Gerda. Bloodied, yet his spine remained straight. "[serious]Made you wait, boy." A low, composed voice. "[serious]Your allies have arrived." Kael's vision blurred. Ryla had come back. Kieran had come back. It wasn't that he hadn't believed. But he'd resigned himself. He'd steeled himself to finish alone. Yet— He wasn't alone. That feeling reached the hammer before words could. The characters on Ur's hammer's handle blazed at maximum brightness. Kael gritted his teeth. His vision was white. His legs unsteady. He felt his aether being drawn from the very depths of his being. Not pain. This was—the sensation of pouring everything out. He swung with all his remaining strength. A heavy *THUD* echoed across the rocks. The red iron ore shattered with a sound. Light erupted from within. Not orange—red, hot, flickering light. Flame itself condensed into the shape of a blade, manifesting before Kael's eyes. The flame blade. The blade wavered. As if alive, the flame danced and flickered. Heat struck his face. The handle felt impossibly light in his grip. The first of the legendary Three Blades of Astra. Complete. Kael dropped to one knee. His strength drained away. His body, emptied of aether, could no longer stand. But his hand—his hand held the flame blade and wouldn't let go. The air across the rocky terrain seemed to shift. Gerda froze for an instant. Her one eye fixed on the flame blade. For the first time, something unreadable flickered in that gaze. Ryla, still restraining the mercenary's movements, glanced toward Kael. Kael's face, lit by the flame's glow—whether crying or laughing, impossible to tell—Ryla saw it, and her expression moved. Relief, or something else entirely, something she couldn't name herself, crossed her face before she quickly looked away. That profile lingered in the torchlight. Kieran, eyes still fixed on Gerda, spoke quietly. "[serious]The rest is three against one. ...What now, Gerda?" The mercenaries stirred. The flame blade's light illuminated the rocks. Thirty mercenaries surrounded them. But the air of that encirclement had changed. Kael, still on one knee, gripped the flame blade tight. It wasn't over. The final reckoning with Gerda lay ahead. His body was in tatters; standing would take everything he had. But—he wasn't alone. Wind swept across the rocky terrain. The flame blade's light wavered. Ryla's red-purple hair swayed in the night. Kieran's sword caught the moonlight. Three stood facing Gerda.