The forge roared like a living beast, its breath thick with heat and smoke. Sparks danced across the stone walls of the workshop as Elira's father brought the hammer down again, shaping iron with rhythm born of decades. Outside, the wind howled through the snow-heavy trees, but in the heart of the forge, it was summer.
Elira leaned against the doorway, a smudge of soot streaking her cheek. She'd been watching him since dawn, waiting for the moment he'd need her to step in. Her fingers itched to work the bellows, to feel the metal's resistance beneath her calloused hands.
"Lost in thought again?" her father asked without turning.
She smiled faintly. "Only watching a master at work."
He chuckled, setting the hammer aside. "Then you've seen my mistakes, too."
Outside, the village of Norwyn stirred to life. Children's laughter echoed between snow-dusted rooftops, and the scent of fresh bread drifted in from the baker's hut. It was a simple life—but it was theirs. And that was all Elira ever wanted.
But shadows lingered on the horizon.
Rumors of war had traveled faster than snowmelt. Merchants spoke in hushed voices of Duras—the iron-fisted kingdom to the east—arming itself for conquest. Atheria's royal guard was stretched thin, and the king, they said, was too old to fight and too proud to ask for help.
Elira's mother, a skilled healer, had told her to stay away from such talk. But Elira couldn't help overhearing. She knew something was coming. The wind felt different. The birds had gone quiet. Even the forest beyond Norwyn—normally full of life—had grown still.
That evening, as the forge cooled, Elira sat with her younger brother Ren by the hearth. He was only eight but had already begun to mimic sword forms with a wooden stick. She corrected his grip with a laugh.
"You'll hurt yourself holding it like that."
"I want to be ready," he said with a stubborn frown. "If war comes here, I'll fight."
Elira tousled her hair, masking the dread curling in her chest. "If war comes here," she whispered, "I'll be the one to fight."
That night, the drums of war came not in stories, but in flame.
She awoke to screams.
Smoke poured into her room before she even reached the door. The village was ablaze—Duras soldiers storming the streets, torches in hand, blades wet with blood. Her mother fell first, struck as she pulled Ren behind her. Her father dragged Elira to the forge, shoved a sword into her hands, and slammed the door shut behind her.
"Run," he said. "Don't look back."
But she did.
She saw him cut down in the doorway, surrounded. And then the forge—their forge—was consumed in fire.
Elira ran into the woods, bare-footed, heart pounding, her world reduced to cinders. The screams of Norwyn haunted her through the trees.
By morning, her family was gone.
The forest was silent.
Not the peaceful kind, but the hollow, dead quiet that follows ruin. Elira moved like a shadow between the trees, her bare feet torn and numb, her father's sword strapped awkwardly to her back. She hadn't eaten in two days. Snow fell in ghostly flakes, catching in her tangled hair.
She didn't know where she was going. Only away. Away from Norwyn, from the smoke that still clung to her clothes, from the images she couldn't blink away.
By the third night, she collapsed beneath a fallen pine. Her body curled in on itself, teeth chattering violently. She hadn't cried—not yet. Grief was too heavy for tears.
Just before sleep claimed her, she heard it: the snap of a twig.
She froze.
A figure emerged from the dark, cloaked in gray and moving with the grace of someone trained not to be seen. A dagger flashed in the moonlight—but it wasn't raised. The figure knelt beside her.
"You're not Duras," the voice said—low, calm, male.
Elira flinched, too weak to run. "Does it matter?"
"It does if I don't want to kill you."
A flick of cold humor in his voice. He studied her face for a long moment, then offered a waterskin.
She drank greedily, coughing.
"I'm part of the Veylan Circle," he said. "You heard of us?"
Elira shook her head. "Should I have?"
"Not if we're doing our job right."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a piece of parchment, held it up to the firelight from his small lantern. The symbol etched on it looked like a coin split in half, each side marked with a different crown.
"Atherian spies," he said. "We've been tracking Duras movements for months. Your village…" His mouth twisted. "It wasn't supposed to happen yet."
Elira stared at the parchment, then back at him. "Then you knew they were coming."
His silence answered for him.
She lunged—not gracefully, not powerfully, but with desperation. Her hand closed around the hilt of her sword, but before she could draw it, he was behind her, hand on her wrist.
"Stop," he said gently. "You won't survive another night out here."
"Then let me die."
His grip didn't loosen. "You're not going to."
He paused, as if choosing his next words carefully.
"There's a rebel camp about a day's walk from here. I'll take you there. But once we arrive, you'll need a story—and a disguise. They don't take girls into their ranks."
Elira's breath caught.
"You want me to lie."
"I want you to live."
She stared at him. Something in his eyes—sharp, steady, unreadable—made her believe he wasn't just trying to save her. He was testing her.
"What's your name?" she asked.
He hesitated. "Call me Kael."
It wasn't his real name. She knew that instantly. But she nodded.
"I'm Elias," she said, surprising herself.
He blinked once, and then smiled. Just a flicker.
"Well then, Elias," he said, helping her to her feet, "welcome to the war behind the war."