Dawn's rosy glow had barely touched the horizon when Julian Arthel and Sir Lysandor Corvain emerged from the mists that clung to the rolling hills east of Edran's Hollow. Beneath them, the narrow dirt road wound between groves of birch and ash, their trunks slick with dew. Two armored guards—Ser Merek, a broad-shouldered veteran with a jutting jaw and quiet dignity; and Ser Ancel, lean-faced and sharp-eyed, ever ready with a wry grin—flanked Sir Lysandor's black stallion. Julian paced his mount beside them, chestnut cloak streaming behind him in the cool morning air. The world felt new yet unsettling: every breath laced with the tang of pine and wildflowers left over from spring's budding. Yet beneath that fresh scent lay something darker, carried on the breeze from the north—a metallic tang that whispered of iron and danger.
Julian adjusted the reins on his horse, noticing the animal's taut muscles beneath its sleek coat. The black stallion's eyes flickered toward Julian's gauntleted hand each time he brushed the iron pommel of the saddle—perhaps sensing, like others in Edran's Hollow, that Julian's touch carried a subtle glow of latent Metalcraft. The thought both comforted and unnerved him. Though he had shown minor shaping ability—smoothing the hinge pins in his father's forge—he knew there was much he did not yet understand, much that might betray him in the presence of these noblemen.
Sir Lysandor's gray eyes flicked toward him. "The soil here is rich," the envoy observed quietly. "Yet already the wildflowers tremble with fear. I have heard no worst edict than that of living iron marching upon free folk. Tell me, Julian—do you think these golems truly exist, or are they merely rumors spun from frightened tongues?"
Julian breathed deeply, recalling Korrin's warning: powers can be gifts or curses. He chose his words carefully. "In Edran's Hollow," he began, voice measured, "illusions fade under the anvil's hammer. If rumors alone birthed metal golems, then someone must forge the idea in fearful hearts. Yet I have also felt… residue. Fragments of rhythm and shape in metal that do not belong to any smith's hand. I—cannot say for certain, but my conviction is this: if these golems are real, they are crafted from forbidden Essence Artistry—metal shaped by will and dark intent. We will know soon enough."
Ser Ancel chuckled quietly, the sound sharp as a whetstone's rasp. "You speak with quiet certainty for one who has only just left his home, Master Julian." He swept a gloved hand through his short, iron-gray hair. "I have faced war in the Border Marches—axe in hand—and never did I see constructs of iron move with purpose. If these golems stand, it will be by means I do not yet understand."
Ser Merek, ever the more patient of the two, inclined his head toward Julian. "We trust your skill," he said in a low voice. "Duke Halvian's orders carry weight, but his faith in your name carries more. We have journeyed far, yet thus far seen no sign of living iron. If this threat is real, it sleeps beyond the Ironwood's edge, awaiting those who dare approach."
The mention of Ironwood Forest—the dense, tangled woodlands that marked the northern border of Tharevyn—sent a shiver through Julian's spine. Legends spoke of that forest as a place where stones whispered, and roots writhed beneath moonlight. In his past life's teachings, he had studied maps marred by warnings: "Here lie lost temples of artifice. Here, mortals trespass at their peril." The urge to recall fragments of Celian's knowledge tugged at him, but he shoved it away. For now, he would rely on what he had learned in Edran's Hollow—and trust in the skills his father and friends had imparted.
They rode on for several miles, the road gradually gaining elevation as they passed through narrow valleys dotted with wild grasses and clusters of purple valerian blossoms. At mid-morning, they reached a shallow creek bed where water—still more ice-chilled trickles than a full stream—rippled over smoothed stones. Sir Lysandor signaled for a halt. The guards dismounted, their polished breastplates catching the sun's first ardent rays.
Julian slid from his saddle, patting the stallion's flank with a gentle hand, whispering soothing words. "Easy, friend. Drink well." The horse lowered its head to sip from the rushing water, dark mane brushing the ripples. Julian felt a flicker of kinship in those liquid depths—as though the water recognized a kindred element to his own nascent Aqueous Weaving affinity, nothing remarkable yet, but a latent potential that his friend Mariel had hoped would one day emerge. He knelt by the water's edge, cupping a handful of the cold liquid and splashing it onto his face, the freshness invigorating his senses. He allowed himself a brief moment of gratitude: for his friends, for the life he had known, and for the path he now walked.
Sir Lysandor approached, reaching into a leather satchel and withdrawing a flask of spiced cider. "Drink, Master Julian," he offered, voice soft. "We journey still farther, and I have heard that the road ahead becomes less forgiving." Julian accepted the flask and tipped it in a single swig. The spices—clove, cinnamon, ginger—spoke of forests far to the south, where winter's chill yielded earlier to spring's bounty. He exhaled, setting the flask aside. "Thank you. This… helps."
Ser Merek knelt to refresh his water skin and offered a short nod. Ser Ancel tugged an arrow from a quiver slung across his back, nibbling on a small chunk of jerky as the others drank. Around them, the chorus of birdsong rose and dipped—warblers, thrushes, and the occasional croak of a distant raven. This pastoral scene contrasted starkly with the stories of iron monstrosities lying in wait beyond the forest's edge. Julian drew in another deep breath, clenching his fists to steady his resolve.
Sir Lysandor's gaze flicked toward the distant outline of a ruined watchtower, its stone walls cracked and crowned by ivy's twisting tendrils. "That tower marks the border of Sprinkle Vale," he said. "Rumor holds that timber raiders from the Ironwood have battled our border lords here for years, yet none have ever reported living golems. If the rumor is true, the golems must lie deeper, perhaps near the old ruins of Kythorne Manor"—he glanced back at Julian, curiosity in his eyes—"a place once legendary for its ironworks. It burned during the Bladed Crown War, its forges consumed by flame. Some say the spirits of its artificers linger still."
The mention of Kythorne Manor—its ruins said to sit at Ironwood's southern fringes—pricked at Julian's memory. Celian had once listened to envoys' accounts of that manor: a sprawling complex where master Metalcrafters had shaped war machines of unparalleled cunning. He recalled discussions of iron carapaces that marched without human guidance—rumors dismissed as superstition. Yet here, centuries later, the possibility loomed. Julian felt a knot tighten in his chest. "We should proceed with caution," he said quietly. "If someone has rekindled the artifice once laid to rest, the metal we face may not answer to ordinary forging methods."
Sir Lysandor inclined his head. "Agreed. We leave Sprinkle Vale behind at dusk. Until then, we march." He turned to the two guards. "Ser Merek, keep watch from the tower's ruins at midday. Ser Ancel, scout the nearby groves. Report any signs of unnatural movement or metal glinting among the trees. Should you find anything resembling golem fragments—or worse, hear the grinding of metal—ring three times on your warhorn to summon aid."
Both guards nodded grimly, and with that, Ser Ancel slung his bow over his shoulder and veered off into the dense foliage, upper body hidden by a cloak of camouflaged green. Ser Merek hefted his sword and trudged toward the watchtower's base. Sir Lysandor and Julian mounted their horses and rode forward, crossing the shimmering creek by stepping upon half-submerged stones. The water lapped around their boots—numbing but unbroken by ice—and Julian felt a thrill of determination: he would meet the iron with metal, and, if necessary, with fire and water and earth and the currents of emotion he could barely sense.
---
By midday, the sun climbed high, turning the grasslands of Sprinkle Vale into a tapestry of gold and green. From a distance, the ruins of the watchtower looked improbably fragile—a ring of broken stones crowned by a single, battered archway. It perched on a gentle rise amid waist-high grasses, its eroded battlements standing guard over a narrow path that led deeper into Ironwood's shadows. The once-proud walls, now scarred by age and battle, bore the marks of ancient flaming: blackened scorch marks snaked around crumbling buttresses.
Sir Lysandor and Julian unsaddled their horses beneath the tower's lee, leading the stallion to graze on tender grasses. The horses, though restless, nibbled cautiously; none appeared spooked by the ruins. Julian surveyed the crumbling edifice, noting chunks of iron reinforcement peeking from the collapsed walls—remnants of the tower's original metal framework. Here and there, the rusted tang of iron lingered among the moss and ivy, as though the metal itself refused to relinquish its hold upon the earth.
Sir Lysandor dismounted, drawing a dagger from his belt. He crouched at the tower's base and ran the tip of the blade along a fissure in the stone, carefully prying loose a fragment. The fragment clattered—at once heavy and brittle—onto a plinth of broken flagstones. "This stone was once bound with iron rivets," he murmured. "The forging here was said to be of unmatched quality—steel enriched with rare ores. Yet centuries of neglect have left it brittle and worn. Still, if someone has unearthed remnants of Kythorne's forge… we might find clues." He replaced the fragment and rose, wiping residue from the dagger's blade.
Julian joined him, running a fingertip through the dried moss. He felt a subtle hum of latent Metalcraft thrumming beneath his gloves, as though the buried metal within the stones pulsed with ancient power. He inhaled, steadying himself. "I can sense… something," he said quietly. "Not strong—yet—just echoes." He pointed to a patch of ground near the tower's arch, where rust flakes shimmered beneath a pale patch of sunlight. "Iron. Too much iron. It feels… restless."
Sir Lysandor's brow furrowed. "Restless metal is no benign sign," he said, sheathing his dagger. "Ser Ancel's warhorn should not remain silent long. We will see soon enough." He gestured toward a collapsed wall that afforded a narrow opening into the tower's interior. "Let us explore within—prudence over speed. Keep your senses keen, Master Julian."
Julian nodded and entered the tower's base, ducking beneath the jagged archway. The interior lay half-submerged in shadow. Sunlight, filtered through jagged gaps overhead, created shifting patterns on broken flagstones, where once polished floors reflected torchlight. Now, the floor was cracked, and thick vines curled along broken columns. Rusted iron fragments lay scattered like fallen bones—a few curved plates that might have formed a breastplate, lengths of twisted rebar, and a half-buried gear that appeared too large for any ordinary mechanism.
Sir Lysandor tapped the gear with a gloved finger. "Larger than any grinder I've seen," he murmured. "Perhaps a mill component repurposed—or part of a greater contraption." He paused, listening intently as a soft, metallic tap-tap sounded from deeper within, echoing among the ruined walls. "Gunmetal whispers," he said, turning slowly. "Stay close."
Julian swallowed, heart pounding. He flexed his gloved fingers—imagining Metalcraft coils unfurling within them. Though he felt only faint tugs of power, he resolved: if he encountered a metal threat, he would summon courage rather than fear. He followed Sir Lysandor through the rubble-strewn corridor, the flow of morning air carrying the scent of wet earth and rust.
A sudden clang reverberated ahead—like a distant hammer striking an unseen block. Sir Lysandor froze, lifting a gauntleted hand. The two guards, returning from their scouting patrols, emerged simultaneously from opposite entrances: Ser Ancel first, wiping sweat from his brow, and Ser Merek, dusting dirt from his cloak. Both wore serious expressions.
Ser Ancel's gaze snapped to Sir Lysandor. "I heard it from the western wall—a rhythmic tapping, like metal on metal. It is not recent—more like the echo of something. I found carve-marks on the trees—lines where metal scraped stone." He produced a small scrap of paper inscribed in charcoal: a crude sketch of a triangular plate with three rounded protrusions—like the head of a massive rivet. "It matches ancient descriptions of Kythorne's iron-infused automata."
Ser Merek interrupted, voice low and steady. "I found tracks to the east: footprints too broad for a man, heavy tread patterns embedded in the soft earth. They led into the thickest part of the Ironwood and did not return. No signs of a campfire or horse prints. Two hours ago, I lit three signal fires as ordered. The response came—one horn blast—then nothing. Sir"—he inclined his head—"we cannot delay."
Sir Lysandor exhaled, expression taut. "Prepare for movement, then. If these automata stir, we must stand between them and Tharevyn—or the villages will be slaughtered." He turned to Julian. "Master Julian, do you sense anything more?"
Julian gestured toward a large metal plate protruding from the collapsed wall. "There. Feel how the iron's presence weighs upon the air. Something… lingers. But I cannot yet tell if it is active or dormant." He knelt and pressed fingertips against the corroded plate, feeling a faint pulse—an echo of purposeful design. He closed his eyes, trying to still his thoughts, seeking the iron's resonance. Faintly, he perceived a rhythm—as though metal sought to recall a pattern of movement. Each heartbeat surged with the image of a massive form stepping through the forest's gloom.
Sir Lysandor's voice cut through the whispering air: "We move now. Ser Merek, Ser Ancel, find high ground to watch the forest's edge. Master Julian, you and I will inspect deeper into these ruins—for maps, crude mechanisms, any clue to their design. If you can sense a pattern, it may guide us. But proceed with care: your power is untested."
Julian rose, nodding resolutely. He gripped the leather-wrapped hilt of his dagger—a simple blade honed by his father's hands—in one gauntlet, and in the other, held a small iron rod resting against his palm. The rod, forged the previous evening by Willeu, Harric's close friend and traveling smith, was meant to serve as a focus for Julian's nascent Metalcraft—something solid to anchor his thoughts. If he had to reshape a fragment of steel to defend them, the rod would be his conduit.
Together, Sir Lysandor and Julian pressed further into the tower's husk, stepping over broken stones and past vine-wrapped columns. Faint sunlight crept through fissures overhead, illuminating rust-flecked relics: a battered brazier scorched by soot; iron rings embedded into loops in the wall—once used to tether horses or hoist supplies; a series of shallow troughs cut into the stone floor—likely channels for molten metal in the tower's original forge. Now, these troughs lay clogged with debris and sludge, but Julian could feel the latent heat echo: as though the metal had once flowed here like living flame.
He knelt to inspect one trough: its iron lining corroded yet still discernible beneath a layer of hardened slag and earth. He pressed a gloved fingertip against the slag, feeling a faint hum—an afterimage of metal's song. His breath caught; though he could not shape it yet, he sensed the history embedded in every corroded ridge. "These channels once fed the forge's fires," he mused. "Master Artificers must have stood here—hammering red-hot ingots, stirring molten steel in these very grooves. If anything of that power remains…it waits beyond."
At his words, a sudden tremor shook the tower's base, dust falling from fissures overhead. Sir Lysandor drew his sword with a practiced motion—steel singing from its scabbard—while Julian sprang to his feet, heart pounding. From the tower's northern wall, a deep rumble rose: the dull croak of metal interlocking—like gears winding to life. Clang… clang… clang… The noise echoed, each beat closer than the last.
Sir Lysandor hoisted his sword. "Stand back," he murmured, voice steely. "If any creature emerges, hold your ground. Arrow or blade—whatever you can muster."
Julian nodded, fumbling in his cloak for the iron rod. He gripped it tightly, knuckles whitening, and felt the faintest pulse of power beneath his glove—an ember of Metalcraft responding to the tower's stir. "I… will try." He exhaled, planting his feet firmly against the uneven stone floor.
A jagged crack split the ruined wall, and through the gap emerged a massive silhouette: a mechanical golem crafted from rusted iron plates, each segment riveted together like the rings of a warrior's hauberk. Steam hissed from its joints, and each step it took sent an icicle-sharp ring echoing through the corridor. Its head—shaped like an inverted cone crowned by a single glowing porthole—tilted forward, as though scanning the darkness. In its chest cavity lay a crest: a faded engraving of a raven's wing overlaying crossed hammers—a symbol rumored to belong to Kythorne's Grand Artificer, Malcur Drossen, whose final betrayal had sealed the manor's doom centuries past.
Julian's breath caught. The golem's legs moved with uncanny precision—massive plates interlocking like clockwork, its entire form shifting with a grinding hum. Rust flakes fell with each motion, as though the creature exhumed itself from the tower's skeleton. Its porthole glowed a dull ember-red, as though stoked by some hidden furnace within.
"Steady," Sir Lysandor whispered, shifting behind Julian. His sword glittered in the half-light. "Its presence here confirms our fears—Kythorne's artifice is alive once more."
Julian swallowed, legs trembling. He felt the metal rod's pulse intensify—an iron heartbeat reaching out to him. Though fear crawled across his skin, he steadied himself, anger and resolve coursing in twin streams through his veins. I am a craftsman. I can shape metal, not merely face it.
He planted the rod's tip against a broken wall pillar and focused on the golem's slow, measured steps. He closed his eyes, recalling his father's words: "Feel the metal as if it speaks to you." He sent a silent plea into the rod: Guide me, show me how to shape this fractured steel into something that might halt it. The rod thrummed with a gentle warmth beneath his glove, as though recalling the first sparks of forging.
Sir Lysandor raised his sword high, silhouette cutting against the golem's dim porthole glow. "On my mark—attack its joints. Aim for creaking plates, pry them loose." He sank into a fighting stance, every muscle taut. "Julian—if you can shape iron to your will, do so now!"
Julian opened his eyes. The golem's portly silhouette loomed, pitted with rust. Its porthole flickered as if sensing his presence. He inhaled, centering himself, and exhaled in a slow, measured count. He felt the rod's warmth spreading up his arm. Flow through me, he commanded the iron. Give me strength to bind your fragments into a shield.
The moment bristled with tension. The golem raised a massive arm—plated steel covering its forearm in overlapping layers—hinged with bolts that gleamed dully. Each movement was deliberate and weighty, like a siege engine awakened. It lifted its arm and brought the elbow down, aiming to crush anything beneath.
Instinct and fear warred in Julian's chest. Not with brute force— he told himself. With craft. He slammed the rod's butt against a rust-speckled plate set in the tower's wall. Bind the iron. He groped in his cloak's folds for a shard of scrap metal—a rusted hammer spur he had pocketed earlier—holding it fetal in his gloved hand. Then he called into the rod's pulse: Let the unseen bonds of my will fuse with the golem's iron, even this fractured steel. Give me a shape to block its path.
A sudden flare—like a spark from a striker—ignited within the rod. Julian felt a lurch of raw energy ripple through his glove and into his bones. The scrap in his hand rattled. He pointed the rod toward the corridor's center, envisioning a crude barrier: an iron plate rising to intercept the golem's crushing arm. Form. Shape. Rise.
A breathless hush fell. The rod flared brighter—silver-blue veins of light coursing through its length. Julian felt as though he was forging in midair: the shapes of plates coalescing before him, the clangor of hammer on anvil echoing in his mind. He struck the rod's tip against the stone floor: Now. The rod's pulse surged outward. In an explosion of shimmering force, a flat wall of iron—scabbed with rust, jagged at the edges—sprang forth from the ground, slicing across the corridor. The plates aligned chaotically—an improvised shield born of raw will rather than precise hammer strokes.
The golem's arm crashed into the barrier. CRACK! Metal on iron on iron roared. The barrier buckled under the impact, bent like heated steel. Yet it held for a moment: shards of iron flaked off, and sparks cascaded, but the barrier's presence pushed the golem's arm back. Sir Lysandor seized the moment: he lunged forward, sword aimed at the golem's elbow joint. Slash! The blade bit into a gap between plates, and black ichor—thick grease and ancient oil—spurted. The golem's arm spasmed as darkness trickled from the wound.
The barrier collapsed in a shower of rust flakes, and the golem advanced again. Sir Lysandor circled, drawing another strike, but the iron behemoth pivoted on its heel, swiping out with its other arm. CRAAAAAAAAASH! His sword flew from his hand, clattering across the stones. He leapt back to avoid its arcing path, landing inches clear of the jagged metal blade.
Julian staggered slightly as the rod's pulse faded, leaving his arm numb as if struck by a hammer. The improvised barrier had held only a moment, but that moment had allowed Sir Lysandor to turn the tide—if only briefly. The golem ground its teeth—a sound like a massive anvil raked with a spade—and advanced, head tilting, porthole glowing brighter. It looked as though it would crush them both.
Julian's heart thundered. Stay calm. He recalled his father's voice: "When you shape steel, do not let fear rush you. Steel is merciless; do not be merciless." He dug within for the same focus that had conjured the barrier. Skirting the corridor's edge, he stumbled toward a broken column once used to hoist scalding cauldrons of molten steel. Its iron base remained mostly intact, though engulfed in a tangle of moss and vines. He seized the base with both hands, feeling the cold iron across his palms. Help me shape this into a tool. He concentrated on forging a spiked ram—something to gouge at the golem's plates and slow its advance. Form it around my will: a fist of iron.
Black-blue veins of energy flared through his gloves. The base trembled, as though the iron obeyed his command. He wrestled it from the vines—and the fragments of vine decayed instantly, as though the living wood recoiled from the metal's unnatural pulse. He hefted the iron chunk—a solid, squat form—and thrust it forward. Rise. Break its stride. A crude spike jutted from one side, iridescent beneath the faint glow of the corridor's dying light.
The golem took another step. Julian squared his shoulders. As the golem raised its other arm—bolted plates rattling—Julian swung the improvised ram upward in a lurching arc. CRUNCH! The spike bit into a seam at the golem's shoulder joint. Sparks roiled as Iron met Iron in a collision of raw force. The golem roared, and Julian was shoved backward, stumbling against a fallen pillar. His vision swirled, but he forced himself to stay upright. The spike held firm in the joint, preventing the golem from bringing its heavy arm down. Its entire form quaked—iron plates rattled, joints groaned, and then its chest cavity opened in a hidden panel: a conduit of piping and gears emerged briefly, as though propelled by an unseen engine.
Sir Lysandor seized the moment to step in again, pressing his sword into the gap. With each press of steel against steel, the golem's groan deepened. Then, as if realizing the threat, the golem spun on its heel, shaking free from Julian's spike, sparks cascading. It took a stumbling step back, its power disrupted by the assault, but it remained resolute.
Julian gasped for breath, sweat pearling beneath his leather gloves. He felt the rod's residue of energy within him—a spent ember slowly cooling. He staggered forward and retrieved Sir Lysandor's fallen sword. He faced the golem, which—though battered—stood unbowed. The porthole's glow dimmed, as if the golem sensed the urgency in his mind: metal must be mastered, not merely halted.
He gripped the sword with both hands, closing his eyes. I shape not to harm blindly, but to protect. He pictured the golem's plating in layers—like the ridges of a fortress wall. He focused on a single rivet near the golem's knee—a thick copper-grey bolt binding plates. Release that bolt. His gloves pulsed. The sword blade vibrated in his grip, as though the iron itself danced in response. He pressed the tip of the sword against the rivet. The metal around the rivet flickered into molten threads, twisting free. With a final push, he wrenched the rivet from its socket. Let go. The plates separated, and the golem's knee buckled, sending its leg crumpling to the ground. The behemoth lurched, one knee bent at an unnatural angle, and hobbled forward on its remaining foot, top-heavy and unsteady.
Sir Lysandor moved in, raising his sword overhead. With a furious cry, he brought the blade crashing down between the golem's shoulders. CRACK! The blade sank into the joint where the neck met the torso. A hiss of steam erupted as the golem's inner furnace was breached. Its porthole flickered red twice, then went dark. The massive form shuddered as plate by plate collapsed inward, and with a thunderous groan, the golem's gears ground to a halt.
Silence fell—deep and profound—only broken by the faint hiss of cooling steel. Julian sank to one knee, trembling as adrenaline ebbed from his veins. Sir Lysandor dropped his sword, sheath and all, and knelt beside him. "Your skill… surpassed all expectations," he said softly. "If you had not shaped that sword… it would not be stilled." He placed a hand on Julian's shoulder. "You have a rare gift, Master Julian—one that could turn the tide of war or forge peace. Use it wisely. Remember who taught you to wield power with mercy."
Julian exhaled raggedly, tracing a finger along the shattered rivet he had extracted. In his mind's eye, he saw Celian's face—steel-gray eyes blazing with compassion. Yet Celian's memories felt fragmented, like a mosaic missing pieces. He shook his head, returning his focus. The golem's body lay strewn as heavy plates and twisted gears, each shard still humming with faint afterimages of motion. He closed his eyes and sent a final thought into the remains: Rest now. May your purpose be laid to sleep once and for all. The cooling metal stilled beneath his fingers.
Ser Ancel and Ser Merek emerged from the tower's labyrinthine corridors, breathless. "The forest—" Ser Ancel gasped. "Nothing yet, but the birds have grown silent. I fear more of these constructs might lie within."
Sir Lysandor rose, sheathing his sword with a solemn nod. "We have halted this one. Let us bury the remains—lest scavengers unearth and reanimate them. Then we press on. Kythorne Manor lies half a day's ride beyond these ruins."
Julian lifted himself from the rubble, legs shaking with exertion. He wiped soot from his brow, feeling the gritty residue of iron on his fingertips. The corridor's air felt heavy—laden with the spent breath of a former guardian. He exhaled deeply, trying to muster calm. "I will assist with the burial," he said quietly. "But first, I must rest—my strength wanes."
Sir Lysandor offered a brief, approving nod. "You have earned it." He looked to the guards. "Remain vigilant. Gather the plates and hide any gears that might be repurposed. Dismantle the golem's core—no scrap should remain to tempt someone's ambition."
As Ser Ancel and Ser Merek set to work—a grim task of heaving metal plates and carefully stowing gears—Julian sat on a shattered pedestal within the tower. He removed his gloves, inspecting the rivet he had pried free. It was thicker than his finger and pitted with rust, yet still warm from the melting heat of his Metalcraft. He placed it gently on his lap, as though it were a fragile relic. Each rivet held a story: used to bind plates in the final conflagration of Kythorne's ruin, then reawakened to march once more under some nameless will.
Sir Lysandor knelt beside him, producing a waterskin. "Drink," he said, voice softer than Julian had heard since leaving Edran's Hollow. "You will weaken if you do not replenish. Metalcraft takes more of your strength than you might imagine." He poured a careful stream of water into Julian's open lips, ensuring he swallowed. "You did well. If your gift grows, the duke will find you quite valuable."
Julian swallowed the water, forging the words he wished he could speak: "Valuable—yes. But I would rather be trusted than prized." Instead, he murmured, "Thank you." His mind drifted to his friends: Mariel, whose hope had shone in her eyes; Korrin, whose gift had brought healing; his parents, whose love forged him. Trust—an ember he would hold fiercely.
Sir Lysandor placed a hand on Julian's shoulder, then rose. "Rest now. We will take another two hours to secure these ruins. When the sun dips, we continue to the Vale's edge. Come evening, we may catch sight of Kythorne's silhouettes beyond the treeline." He offered a small, encouraging nod before striding out of the chamber.
Julian exhaled, eyes fluttering. Each inhale felt heavy, but he drew strength from the quiet: the gentle hiss of cooling metal, the faint rustle of ivy through the tower's gaps, the steady breathing of Sir Ancel and Ser Merek as they worked beyond the corridor. Though the battle with the golem had shaken him—body and spirit—he found solace in the knowledge that he had acted not with reckless violence, but with mindful craft: bending steel to purpose, not wielding it as a blunt instrument.
He closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting to the iron heart pendant tucked beneath his tunic. He fingered its cold surface, remembering his mother's smile and her whispered hope that it protect him. Now, amid these ancient stones and the half-buried secrets of Kythorne's artifice, he felt bound by a promise: to shield the innocent from the darkness that sought to reignite lost powers. He inhaled deeply and allowed himself a moment of peace, cradling the rivet and the pendant within his palm. For Edran's Hollow… for my family… for myself, he vowed in silent prayer. I will not fail.
---
As the sun sank low, gilding the forest canopy in molten gold, the group emerged from the tower's crumbling portal. Ser Ancel had fashioned crude sacks of iron plates and gears, bound them in straps, and secured them behind their mounts. The bells at their waists clinked with each step—a reminder that steel could serve both as a tool and a weapon.
Sir Lysandor mounted his stallion first, glancing back at the ruins. "Kythorne's influence remains here," he said softly, as though speaking to specters in the stones. "But it sleeps once more—thanks to you, Master Julian. May it never again rise."
Julian climbed into the saddle, adjusting the sorts of the iron drag behind him. The weight felt reassuring—an anchor to his purpose. The others remounted swiftly, and they set off down the narrow path toward Ironwood's looming silhouette. As they rode, the forest's shadows lengthened, transforming the birch and ash into a realm of amber gloom. The air grew denser, charged with the autumnal tang of decaying leaves and the musk of ancient earth. It felt as though they crossed an invisible threshold: civilization's order gave way to primeval unrest. The songs of birds faded; twitching underbrush hinted at creatures stirring within the gloom.
Sir Lysandor rode beside Julian, voice hushed. "Be mindful, Master Julian. As darkness falls, so too can metal creatures awaken unseen. If I were to advise you… trust your instincts. And if at any moment you feel the need to test the earth, call upon your father's teachings. Even a faint whisper of Metalcraft can reveal hidden dangers." He spared Julian a look of genuine concern. "We ride into Ironwood's heart tonight. The path is narrow and winding; no herald's banners to guide us, only the stars—should they not hide behind clouds."
Julian swallowed, tightening his grip on the reins. He thought of the iron rivet in his cloak—warm from his palm during the battle. He touched it lightly, willing its presence to anchor his senses. Guide me, he whispered. Show me the path.
The forest's edge loomed closer. Hollow boughs, skeletal beneath a late-spring's lingering chill, arched overhead, creating a vaulted corridor. Moss draped like languid hair from twisted branches, and the soil beneath the horses' hooves squelched with damp earth. Crickets chirped in nervous staccato, and occasionally, a distant hoot of an owl pierced the gloom. Julian's horse snorted, as though sensing unseen forces at play. He placed a steady hand on its neck, whispering calm. "Easy, friend. I watch for shadows."
Ser Merek rode ahead as ground guide, scanning the path for pitfalls: half-submerged stumps, loose stones, or snags that might unseat a rider. Ser Ancel followed at a short distance, bow at the ready, arrow nocked to string if danger emerged. Sir Lysandor and Julian brought up the rear, side by side like an unspoken bond—mentor and pupil, each mindful of the other.
They had traveled only a few furlongs into Ironwood when the air shifted—an abrupt hush that smothered even the horses' soft footfalls. The forest breathed around them in tense anticipation. Julian felt the iron rivet in his cloak pulse against his side, as though the whisper of metal urged him forward. He glanced ahead, where the path bent sharply between two gnarled trunks. Pale shafts of moonlight, struggling to pierce the canopy, illuminated a small clearing at the bend's apex. And there—half-hidden behind a tangle of undergrowth—stood a sentinel of living iron.
The creature was smaller than the golem from Kythorne's tower: about the height of a tall man, composed of overlapping iron plates that gleamed faintly beneath the moon's wan light. Its head, shaped like a truncated pyramid, bore two narrow slits for eyes—dark hollows that seemed to devour light rather than reflect it. It moved with uncanny silence, each step gliding over the forest floor without a leaf stirred. A faint hum pulsed from within its chest cavity—like a distant forge's bed—though the rusted seams betrayed its age. In the creature's palm rested a jagged blade forged from blackened steel—patterned with swirling rivulets that hinted at ancient masterwork.
Sir Lysandor reined in his stallion, raising his sword in a clear signal. "A sentinel," he whispered. "Guard of Kythorne's making—perhaps awakened to patrol the forest's edge. Ready, Master Julian?"
Julian pressed his heels into the horse's flank, spurring it forward with careful speed. The horse leapt across the clearing's edge, clearing the sentinel's path by a scant half step. Julian seized that moment: with an exhale, he drew a long arc with the iron rivet's tip toward the sentinel's waist—envisioning a stanchion of iron that might halt its glide. Bind it. He blocked out the forest's looming forms and focused on the sentinel's plated form. He struck downward at the rivet's butt against a mossy stump: Rise, O iron, as barrier against this foe.
The rivet's pulse brightened. A half-formed wave of metal blossomed from the ground—crackling lines of molten steel that braided into a twisted, arc-shaped barrier between Julian's horse and the sentinel. The barrier gleamed silver-blue for a heartbeat, then cooled to dull gray. The sentinel's blade flicked forward, attempting to slice the arc's apex. Instead, its steel blade struck the barrier—CRACK!—echoing through the clearing. The barrier buckled but remained intact, searing a jagged scar into the sentinel's forearm plating. The sentinel recoiled, lurching back on two legs, its helmeted head tilting as if registering the affront.
Sir Lysandor used the moment to sprawl his stallion sideways, bringing the creature broadside between its pectoral plates. With a thunderous cry, he brought his sword crashing down. BANG! The blade roared as it split through brittle iron plating; sparks erupted as steel met steel. The sentinel staggered, a hiss of steam and smoke erupting from its damaged chest. It stumbled—but then, with inhuman speed, lunged forward, heel-first.
Ser Ancel loosed an arrow. The golden tip struck the sentinel's shoulder—embedding deep enough to crack the plating. The sentinel spun on its heel, slamming the ground with brute force. The iron barrier collapsed in a shower of dark shards, sending Julian tumbling to one knee. Dirt and charcoal dust rose around him as the horse snorted, rearing back, confused. Sir Lysandor's voice cut through the chaos: "Fall back, all of you!"
Ser Merek raced forward, sword gleaming beneath the stricken moonlight. Ser Ancel nocked another arrow. Julian rose, hobbling slightly, sensing a new surge of metal singing beneath his glove. Bind again. He raised the ancient rivet, driving it into the earthen floor again—with trembling confidence. Share your strength with me—form a shield. A second wave of metal shimmered into ephemeral existence—a slender, crescent-shaped shield that blazed with molten heat; its inner surface glowed with rivulets of silver-blue energy. The sentinel's blade sliced toward Julian, and he angled the shield to intercept. CLANG! The metal barrier resisted, absorbing the blow. Sparks cascaded across the shield's surface; cracks formed, but the barrier held long enough for Julian to deflect the sentinel's second charge.
Sir Lysandor seized the opening, stepping in under the sentinel's armpit and sweeping with his sword. The blade bit into the sentinel's inner plating, severing two cables of piping. Hiss! Oil and steam hissed as the sentinel lurched off balance. Ser Merek rushed in, driving his blade into the sentinel's knee joint. The limb buckled, and the sentinel collapsed face-first into the undergrowth. It remained still, unlit as a coffin—its single porthole eyeless, its hum extinguished.
Julian's barrier dissipated, the molten rivulets cooling. He exhaled, knees trembling, and slid to one side. The forest around them exhaled into sudden stillness—only the horse's snorts and Ser Ancel's heavy breathing marked the moment. Julian sank to one knee, pressing a hand to his chest. Each beat pounded with adrenaline and relief.
Sir Lysandor approached, sheath drawn. He examined the sentinel's body—half-buried among brambles. "Your gift grows," he murmured, voice awed. "You bend iron not as a novice, but as a true Artificer." He reached into the sentinel's crushed chest cavity, pulling forth a broken gear caked in oil. "This gear—etched with the Raven's wing crest—confirms that Malcur Drossen's legacy stirs once more." He crushed the gear in his fist. "We must ride faster. Tharevyn's border lords cannot withstand more of these guardians. At Kythorne Manor we will find answers—if answers remain to be found."
Ser Merek sheathed his sword. "We leave no witness," he said curtly. "The forest should never stir with such terrors again." He kicked at the sentinel's iron breastplate, embedding it deeper among roots. "Let the land reclaim this folly."
Julian rose shakily, brushing dirt from his knees. The forest's hush wrapped around him like a mantle. He pressed a hand against the iron rivet he wore at his belt—warped now but still solid. He met Sir Lysandor's gaze, gratitude and determination burning in his own eyes. "I will ride as swiftly as my strength allows. I… I must master this gift before more innocents fall."
Sir Lysandor placed a hand on Julian's shoulder. "You have only just begun. For now, trust your heart, and the rest will follow." Then, raising his voice, he ordered, "Mount! We press on to Kythorne before night fully claims the sky."
---
They rode for several more miles through Ironwood's labyrinthine trails. The forest seemed to part before them grudgingly—a tapestry of twisted roots and flickering shadows. Occasional glimmers of moonlight guided their path, but more often, they relied on Ser Merek's intimate knowledge of border paths and Sir Lysandor's memorized sketches of ancient roads once laid by Kythorne's servants. Each step deeper into the forest brought a hush darker than the last, as though the trees themselves swallowed all sound—save for the horses' hooves and the mournful creak of leather saddles.
At some point, Ser Ancel raised a hand—four fingers extended, indicating the distance: half a league more until Kythorne Manor's ruins. Sir Lysandor nodded, leaning close to Julian's ear. "We make camp at the edge of the manor's grounds. Rest, eat sparingly, and ready yourselves for reconnaissance at first light. We face possible hostiles—those who might still harbor loyalty to the Raven's wing cult. Trust no sound and speak only when necessary."
Julian's jaw clenched. "Yes, sir."
A hush fell over their small company as they descended a gentle slope. There, through a narrow gap in bramble and ivy, lay the shattered silhouette of Kythorne Manor—once a sprawling estate crowned with spired chimneys, now nothing more than a haunted cathedral of stone and steel. Its highest tower, half-collapsed, jutted like a broken tooth into the starless sky. Ivy choked the walls, and trees—ancient oaks and beeches—held the remains in gnarled embrace. A faint glow, like dying embers, flickered beyond the western gate: the remnant of Kythorne's ironworks hearth—likely stoked by intruders seeking to rekindle the forge.
Sir Lysandor dismounted and offered a hand to Julian. "We remain vigilant until morning's first light. Secure the perimeter. Should any creature stir, call thrice upon your horn." He laid a heavy steel chain—once used to seal the manor's massive gates—across Julian's saddle. "This may shield your chest should iron storms arise. Wear it if need be."
Julian nodded, strapping the chain across his chest over his jerkin. Its cool weight anchored his thoughts. He dismounted, and the horses were immediately led to a small, sheltered glade just beyond the mansion's gate. Ser Merek tended their mounts with careful hands, while Ser Ancel swept the trees' edges, bow at the ready.
Sir Lysandor produced a small brazier and kindling from his pack—his errand kit as a ducal envoy. He set it alight with flint and steel, and soon a gentle fire crackled, its flickering light dancing across their faces. "We have provisions for tonight," he said, distributing thick bread and cured meats, olives, and hard cheese. "We eat sparingly. Water is cold but drinkable. Save your strength. We press into the manor's depths at dawn."
Julian accepted a hunk of bread, dampening it with fruit preserve he had tucked in his satchel. He chewed slowly, each bite grounding him; each swallow telling him to remember whose cause he served. Sir Lysandor and Ser Merek exchanged hushed conversation—strategies for infiltrating the manor's depths, locating its buried forges, and ensuring no lingering artifice could be resurrected. Even from his vantage, Julian sensed the fragility of their situation: they were few against unknown numbers of cultists or rogue Artificers; they were weary from travel and haunted by the golem sentries they had dispatched.
Mariel's voice drifted through his mind—her promise that he would return. He closed his eyes, allowing her memory to warm him as he finished his meager meal. He retrieved the iron rivet and affixed it to his belt—no longer a mere relic, but a symbol of forging power in service of protection. He took a final draught of water—cool and crisp—and prepared to lie upon a bedroll under the glade's canopy. He stoked the brazier's fire small—enough to ward off wild beasts and rust-colored shadows, yet dim enough not to betray their position to watchers within the manor.
Night deepened. Cicadas hushed; only their distant, mournful hum lingered like a heartbeat. The horses rested, hobbled with leather straps to prevent runaway—though they, too, sensed the forest's uneasy watch. Sir Lysandor lay upon a second bedroll—eyes half-closed, hand on the pommel of his sword. Ser Merek dozed against a mossy stump—whispering threats of a guardroom raid in his dreams. Ser Ancel stood sentinel near the camp's edge, his arrow resting against a tree trunk, bow grasped in both hands.
Julian cradled his knees under his chin, hugging the iron chain across his chest. He closed his eyes, each breath measured, and listened: the crackle of the brazier's embers, the soft rustle of leaves stirred by a sighing breeze, and the faint creak of ancient wood somewhere beyond the glade's threshold. In that silence, memories flickered: a throne hall's hush, Celian's regal voice debating peace treaties, the hush of a rising crowd. He opened his eyes, chasing the phantoms away. I am here now, he told himself. My past life must wait. For Edran's Hollow, for my friends, for those who trust me, I press on. He confirmed the iron rivet's cold presence at his side—heavy, yet comforting, like a silent oath.
As his lids fluttered closed, Sir Lysandor stirred and whispered, "Rest, Julian. Dawn will demand all our strength." The envoy's voice, gentle and unwavering, carried a fatherly warmth. Julian nodded, though his eyes remained open a moment longer, gazing at the dancing flames. He raised a gloved finger and traced the rivet's outline thoughtfully: the porthole iris of Kythorne's golem, the layered plates of the sentinel, the molten tendrils of his improvised barriers—all threads entwined in a tapestry of iron, each demanding mastery over craft, not simply force.
Finally, Julian let darkness enfold him. Though the forest felt thick with shadows, he clung to a single image: the maypole of Edran's Hollow, ribbons swaying beneath the lantern-lit sky—a promise that, if he wielded his gift with compassion, he would be welcomed home with open arms. As sleep took him, he whispered to the iron rivet at his side, Guard me as I press into the darkness. Guide me to shape steel for life, not death.
And so, under the midnight canopy of Ironwood Forest—amid the hush of ancient trees and the watchful gaze of rusted specters—Julian Arthel's vigil began. Dawn's light would find them poised to breach Kythorne Manor's silent gates, feet upon the threshold of destiny. Whether his craft would save or condemn remained unwritten; yet in that fragile moment between life and legend, he vowed: I will shape metal as I shape my heart—steadfast, true, and tempered in compassion.