Chapter 31 – Embers That Remember
The palace ruins whispered like ghosts in the silence. The crimson banners, once proud, now fluttered in tatters across blackened walls. Rayan stood amid the ash, boots sinking into the cinders of what was once his mother's garden. The lilies were gone—burnt into memory. Only a twisted metal fountain remained, dry and cracked, like a throat begging for water.
He didn't speak. The fire in his chest did.
Beside him, Kael adjusted the straps on his shoulder guard. "Still think this place is worth saving?"
Rayan's jaw tightened. "No. It's worth rebuilding."
The Echo Furnace—the underground forge beneath the royal estate—had survived the siege. It had to. It was the last place his father's voice had touched, and perhaps, the only place left that could breathe steel strong enough for the coming war.
"I'll go first," Kael said, pulling a torch from his pack.
The stairs spiraled downward, heat rising from the depths like the breath of a beast still dreaming. Rayan followed, each step echoing like drumbeats of the past. He remembered the forge's roar, the rhythmic clang of hammers. As a boy, he used to sneak down and watch the blacksmiths shape the royal blades. One of them—old Halven—had once said, "Fire remembers what hands forget."
Now, all that remained was the memory.
They reached the bottom.
The furnace still burned.
A strange crimson hue pulsed from its core. The ancient anvil stood untouched, surrounded by forgotten tools and melted chains. At the center lay something Rayan had only seen in prophecy scrolls:
A blade. Half-forged. Its hilt embedded in the heart of the furnace. As if the fire itself refused to let go.
"Is that…?" Kael stepped forward.
Rayan nodded. "The Embersteel. The sword my father never finished."
He approached slowly, the heat licking his skin. As his fingers touched the hilt, a burning tremor shot through his veins.
A vision erupted behind his eyes—
A younger King Darius, forging in silence. Flames rising. Blood dripping onto molten steel. The sound of crying. A child taken. A crown falling.
Rayan gasped, stumbling back.
Kael caught him. "What did you see?"
Rayan blinked. "The truth. He was making this for me. Before… before everything."
He turned to the anvil, heart pounding. "We finish it here. Tonight. This blade will answer for what was lost."
---
Chapter 32 – Smoke Over Silence
The forge roared louder than the thunder above.
Rain fell in sheets outside the ruined palace, but inside the Echo Furnace, it was dry—except for the sweat soaking Rayan's back.
The hammer felt heavier than he remembered. Kael worked the bellows, the crimson flame dancing like a living thing. Rayan placed the Embersteel blade on the anvil, sparks flying as steel met steel.
"Again!" Kael shouted.
Rayan struck harder. The sword screamed as if in pain, each hit echoing memories of the war—the fall of the Crown, the betrayal by General Varek, the night his sister was dragged into fire and shadow.
This wasn't just forging a weapon.
It was re-forging himself.
Hours passed. The blade began to take shape—sleek, dark with veins of molten red. It pulsed when touched, as if alive.
Then, the final strike.
A shockwave rippled through the forge.
Silence.
The flame died.
Rayan stared at the finished weapon. The Furnaceblade. He knew its name the moment he held it. Not given. Earned.
Suddenly, a gust of wind blew through the forge entrance.
A figure stood in the doorway.
Cloaked in silver, face veiled, soaked from rain. A woman. She carried something in her hands—wrapped in cloth and tied in black ribbon.
Rayan stepped forward. "Who are you?"
She lowered her hood. A scar across her lips. Eyes burned with quiet sorrow. She dropped the bundle at his feet.
A crown. Bent. Bloodstained.
"Your brother is alive," she whispered. "But he wears this now. And he waits."
Rayan's blood froze.
She vanished before he could speak.
Kael bent down and unwrapped the crown. His fingers brushed the dried blood. "You had a brother?"
"I had a twin," Rayan said, voice hollow. "He died. Or so I thought."
The storm outside intensified, as if the sky mourned with him.
But the furnace behind them began to burn again—slow, steady. The blade pulsed in his grip.
There would be no peace.
Only reckoning.