Ashfen was a town of sparks and smoke. Its forge-song rose every morning with the sun, hammer strikes ringing like bells across the valley.
Mira had grown up inside that rhythm—heat on her skin, soot beneath her fingernails, Brenn's grumble filling her ears more than birdsong. She had long since learned to measure days by the hiss of quenching steel and the creak of bellows, not the turning of clocks.
The forge was both prison and hearth.
When she leaned over the anvil now, sweat sliding into her eyes, she could already hear Brenn's correction before he spoke.
"Wrist steady. Don't slap the steel like it's a fish."
"It's fighting me," she muttered, jaw tight.
"It's not fighting you. You're fighting you."
His big hands enveloped hers, repositioning the tongs. Mira bit back the retort on her tongue. To argue with Brenn was to wrestle a mountain: unyielding, exhausting, and never ending with victory.
Outside, the market square had begun to stir. Children's laughter threaded through the clang of iron. Peddlers called their wares—salted fish from the coast, dyed cloth from Keldra, even rare spices for those with coin. Ashfen wasn't rich, but its crossroads kept it breathing.
Mira's eyes drifted to the open doorway. Sunlight spilled across the cobbles, and in that glow she saw Lysa dart past, red braid bouncing. She paused just long enough to wave.
"Don't scorch your eyebrows again!" Lysa shouted, grinning.
Mira flushed. Brenn snorted. "Maybe she'd keep them if she watched the fire instead of the street."
"She saved me from falling in last week," Lysa defended, stepping right into the doorway now, hand on her hip. "That's worth a little scorch."
Brenn glared, but his scowl softened ever so slightly. Lysa had that effect on people.
"Go on," Brenn muttered. "But if you come back with soot in your hair, I'll shave the rest off myself."
Mira rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. She tugged off her gloves and slipped outside, heart lifting with relief.
The square smelled of baking bread and coal smoke. Stalls were draped in rough canvas, and jars of honey caught the light like captured suns. Mira walked with Lysa, who immediately looped her arm through Mira's.
"You looked about ready to melt in there."
"Brenn thinks sweat makes the blade stronger."
"Brenn thinks everything makes the blade stronger."
They laughed, and for a moment Mira could almost believe life was simple. She breathed in the air—familiar, safe—yet something beneath it tugged at her nerves.
She noticed it first in the well. Frost rimmed the wooden edge, though the day was warm. Lysa dipped her hand curiously, then yanked it back with a hiss.
"Cold," she said, rubbing her fingers. "Too cold."
Mira frowned, leaning closer. The water shimmered strangely, as though a thin film of glass lay across the surface.
Before she could ask, a shout split the square. Smoke curled from a nearby merchant's stall, and then a beam cracked with a noise like snapping bone. Lysa's younger brother, no more than six, stumbled beneath the collapsing frame.
Mira didn't think—she moved.
The fire roared hotter than it should have. She thrust her arms forward, willing it back. Heat licked her skin, but instead of consuming, it bent, curled, and bloomed green. Roots of flame spiraled from her palms, wrapping the beam just before it could crush the child.
Gasps rippled through the square.
When the fire cleared, the boy scrambled into Lysa's arms, coughing but alive. The villagers' eyes, though, were not on him. They were on Mira.
And on her hands, where glowing vines still pulsed, dripping sparks like dew.
Brenn dragged her back inside, furious, but there was no time to scold before the sky itself tore open.
The shardfall came suddenly: a spear of crystal stabbing upward from the northern horizon, higher and higher until it pierced the clouds. The sound was wrong, like ice grinding against bone. A chill fell over Ashfen, frost curling across doorframes and cobblestones.
Mira stumbled into the street with the others, mouth dry.
"What is it?" Lysa whispered, clutching her brother.
No one answered.
Then came the hooves.
At first, faint—a dull drumming carried on the frost-bitten air. Villagers turned as a horse crested the ridge, its rider cloaked in black and silver. The Keldran crest gleamed on his chestplate, recognizable even beneath grime and travel-stains.
Whispers surged. "An emissary? Here?"
The rider slowed, surveying Ashfen as if weighing its worth. His horse's breath came out in thick, unnatural mist. The emissary dismounted, stiff-legged, eyes sharp.
"I seek the keeper of the forge," he declared, voice echoing across the hushed square.
Brenn stepped forward. "You've found him."
The emissary withdrew a parchment sealed in red wax. He did not hand it over immediately. Instead, his gaze swept the crowd until it settled on Mira.
"Has anyone here shown signs of… change?"
A hush fell. Mira's skin prickled. She wanted to hide, but she felt the weight of eyes already upon her.
"No," Brenn said quickly, stepping between them. His voice carried steel. "We are smiths. That is all."
The emissary's eyes lingered a moment longer, then he pressed the parchment into Brenn's palm. "The north bleeds into the south. Ice where it should not be, fire that does not burn. If such signs appear, send word. Or the council will come themselves."
He mounted without waiting for reply. Hooves struck frost, and in moments he was gone.
Inside the forge, Brenn slammed the door. His hand shook on the parchment.
"You should've let the fire take you," he said hoarsely.
Mira recoiled. "What?"
"Better ash than a curse we don't understand. Ashfen can't protect you, girl. Can't protect itself, if they decide you're dangerous."
Her anger rose, fierce and trembling. "I saved a child, Brenn. I saved our people."
He closed his eyes. "And they'll thank you with fear. You'll see."
She turned away, choking on heat and hurt. In her small room, she collapsed onto the cot, pressing her hands against her knees to quiet the glow. But it only grew.
Light unfurled between her fingers, curling upward into branches. A sapling emerged—no taller than her hand, bark shimmering like coal, leaves smoldering with ember-light. It rooted itself in her palm, alive but unburning.
Mira stared, breath ragged. The sapling's glow cast shadows against the wall.
"What are you?" she whispered.
The sapling gave no answer. But in its silence was promise—of power, of danger, of change that could not be undone.
And beyond Ashfen, where shardfall lanced the horizon, forces stirred that had already taken notice.