The shopfront smelled of oiled leather, polishing wax, and quenched steel[1]. Tools, weapons, and armors lined the walls in orderly rows. Yemila stood behind the counter, sleeves still rolled, the familiar scent of the forge clinging to her nose.
A figure filled the doorway—lean, broad-shouldered. Her heart lurched, familiar and unwelcome. Raya. He looked tired. Only a month had passed, yet new lines etched his eyes, and a coiled tension shaped his stance.
"Raya," Yemila said, her voice sharper and quicker than she intended. He flinched, just slightly.
He stepped inside, his standard-issue gear in hand. "Got room for a repair?"
Her gaze dropped to the bundle he carried: a dented shield, a cracked helm, and a sword scarred with burrs and dents. She gestured toward the counter. "Set them down. Where's your halberd? Don't tell me you finally broke the haft[2] Father made you."
"The halberd's fine," he answered, placing the mundane weapons before her. "Wouldn't bring it out for simple drills. Too much lightning for a sparring match."
Yemila picked up the sword, running her thumb along the warped blade. A simple, mass-produced piece. Repairing it was muscle memory, a world away from the seven years she'd spent at the University of Tadagran wrestling with theories and papers. It was honest work, but it wasn't the work that had cost her the tip of her left pinky finger—a stupid, arrogant mistake on a piece of useless ornamentation that now gathered dust in a museum under the name Layzabar.
"The edge is chewed, the hilt[3]'s loose, and the tang's half-bent," she muttered, frowning at the damage. "What did you do? Swing it at stone walls?"
Raya rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes sliding away. "Training got... a little out of hand."
She raised a brow. "A little?"
His chuckle was low, sheepish. Yemila set the sword flat on the counter with a sigh. "Fine. One gold coin for the lot."
Without hesitation, he drew out his pouch and placed the coins in her palm. Their hands brushed. Yemila froze. Her pulse hammered, a frantic, traitorous rhythm against her ribs. She forced her gaze up and met his.
Calm down, Yemila.
She curled her fingers around the coins. "I'll take it, then."
Only then did she notice the shadow behind him. A boy, hardly more than eighteen, wearing a plain tunic.
Yemila's chin tilted toward him. "And him?"
"Him? Ryumun. A fisherman's son, a new conscript[4] in my retinue[5]," Raya remarked with a brief pat on the boy's shoulder.
The boy managed a nod, wide-eyed at the shop's deadly array. Awe was plain on his face. Her lips curved. "Father's been complaining about military orders nonstop. These new conscripts running you ragged?"
"Something like that," Raya smirked, then added, "It's been… tense. The new commander has us on double drills." He gestured toward Ryumun. "Broke his shield in the process."
She stacked the damaged gear behind the counter. "Come back in three days."
"Three days, then," Raya smiled.
As they turned to leave, his name escaped her lips. "Raya." He leaned back through the doorway. "It's nearly dinner. Stay. Eat with us. You know it's been a month."
Raya blinked, a faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Wouldn't that be imposing?"
"Imposing?" Yemila countered, the word sharper than she intended. "You've been a stranger for a month. Stay. Mother always makes to much." Ryumun's eyes widened, and Raya glanced at him before answering. "If you're certain."
Yemila nodded once, sharply, then turned toward the back. "Come on, then."
She led them through a heavy wooden door. The moment it opened, the real forge hit them. It was a physical force, a dry, oppressive wave that slammed into Ryumun. The sound was a deafening, rhythmic concussion—the coordinated song of seven hammers on seven anvils. The air was thick with coal dust, hot iron, and the sharp scent of ozone, like the air after a thunderstorm.
In the heart of the inferno, a full team was at work. At the main anvil, a mountain of a man swung a sledgehammer. Ryumun saw a young man holding the glowing steel, and six other apprentices at different stations—some grinding, some polishing, some working the bellows[6].
"I'll just say hello to your father first," Raya informed over the din. Standing before the massive anvil was Tamba. As the final hammer strike rang out, he let the head of the sledge rest on the floor.
"Father," Yemila said. "We have guests for dinner."
The big man turned. This was Tamba, the master blacksmith. When he saw Raya, a slow, welcoming smile spread across his face.
"Raya, you old dog," he boomed. "Broke something else, did you?"
"A little, Mister Tamba," Raya replied.
Tamba's eyes shifted to the stunned recruit. "And who's this? Looks like he's seen a Northern Tiger."
You're one to talk, Father.
"This is Ryumun, a new conscript," Raya explained.
Tamba laughed. "Well, son, any soldier who follows Raya and lives is welcome at my table. Dakan! Ligdan! Bank the fires[7]!" he bellowed. "Arbay, you and Klanoy see to the tools! The rest of you, wash up! We're done for the night!"
A chorus of weary "Yes, Master Tamba!" answered him.
"Come," Tamba rumbled, clapping a heavy hand on Raya's shoulder. "Layra will be wondering where the noise is coming from." He gestured them to another door, into the kitchen.
The change was immediate. The oppressive heat gave way to a fragrant warmth. A woman with kind eyes, Layra, turned from a massive bubbling pot. But she wasn't alone. A boy of about five with Yemila's dark hair, Altan, was sitting on the floor, meticulously arranging small wooden carved soldiers. Her twin sisters, Zarine and Zarina, were still chopping vegetables—some already destined for tonight's pot, others set aside for tomorrow's stew. The smell of onions and herbs mingled with the bubbling broth that filled the room with warmth.
Altan was the first to spot them, his eyes going wide. He scrambled to hide behind his mother's legs. Raya smiled at him. "Getting bigger, Altan. Soon you'll be tall enough to work the bellows." Altan offered a shy smile back before hiding again.
"Raya," Layra said warmly. "I thought I heard your voice. It's been too long."
"Miss Layra," Raya greeted, the tension bled from his shoulders. "I hope we're not intruding."
"Nonsense," Layra interrupted, gently nudging Altan forward. "There's always a place for you." Her warm gaze fell upon Ryumun. "And you've brought a friend. Welcome, son. Sit down. Dinner is almost ready."
"Raya-brother!" the twins shouted in unison. Zarine groaned, "Now we have to chop more potatoes!" Though her smile betrayed her delight. They both shot Yemila a teasing look. Yemila silenced them with a single, stern glare.
"Why haven't you visited?" Zarina asked, ignoring the warning. "It feels off when you're not here."
Yemila found herself waiting for his answer.
"It's been… tense," Raya replied, his gaze distant for a moment. "The new commander from the capital has us on double drills, sunup to sundown. It's been hard to get away."
"Have a seat, Raya," Tamba's voice interrupted.
The long wooden table dominated the kitchen, barely enough for the sixteen souls crowding around it. Tamba took his place at the head of the table near the hearth. Layra claimed her spot to his left, with Altan beside her, while the twins claimed their spots on his right. Yemila gestured for Raya to sit next to her, leaving an open seat for the newcomer.
"Don't just stand there, son," Tamba's voice rumbled at a still-standing Ryumun. He gestured to the unoccupied chair. "Sit!"
The apprentices lingered in the forge to bank the fire, scraping ash over the coals and damping the bellows. Only after the glow was safely smothered did they trickle into the kitchen, washing blackened hands before finding their places at the long table.
The apprentices trickled in, filling the remaining spaces around the table. Dakan took his usual spot next to Altan while the others, Ligdan took the far end, facing Tamba on the far end of the table—Hagdan, Arbay, Klanoy, and Tayamberina—settled in with the low murmur of tired, hungry people. Layra and the twins moved with practiced efficiency, setting down a steaming tureen of stew, loaves of bread, and a heavy jug of water amidst a clatter of wooden plates and mugs.
Tamba placed his hands on the table. "Let us give thanks," he proclaimed, his booming voice softening. He bowed his head, and the entire crowded room fell into a profound silence. He gave thanks for the food, the hard-working men and women, the blessings of family, and their home. Short and warm.
"Amen," the family and apprentices murmured. The clatter of spoons filled the room as everyone satisfied their deep hunger.
Ryumun ate gratefully, his shyness replaced by the commotion from the apprentices passing food around the table. Amid the chatter, it was Yemila who broke the silence at the dinner. "So, then," she inquired of Raya, "what really happened?"
"He's a beast, ma'am, in the training," Ryumun blurted out. "Every strike was like a hammer blow."
Tamba chuckled. "So you were the anvil, eh, son?"
"Did it hurt?" Altan asked from his mother's side.
"A lot," he replied with a grin. "My hand went numb."
"He held his ground," Raya corrected. "So well, in fact, that I got frustrated and put too much shoulder into a strike. My mistake."
Yemila's expression softened. "Impatience," she mused. "Is that what you call it when you get your halberd tangled in a reindeer's antlers?"
The effect was immediate. Ligdan barked with laughter, and Arbay slammed his fist on the table. "Not the reindeer story again!" Zarina groaned, though she was grinning.
Raya shot Yemila a betrayed look. "It was a massive stag, and it was charging me in a blizzard."
"And you were trying to be so quiet," Yemila added, her grin widening. "Right before you slipped on the ice, and it ran off with your lightning."
"I got it back!" Raya insisted, pointing a piece of bread at her.
"After half a day, yes," Layra chimed in, and the twins giggled.
"Raya-brother, silly!" Zarine inserted, adding to the laughter in the room.
As Layra rose to clear away the first of the empty bowls, a lull settled over the table. Tamba leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the wood, his expression turning serious. The shift was subtle, but it changed the atmosphere of the room instantly.
"Raya," he began, his voice a low rumble, "Aymar mentioned you're drilling the new conscripts hard. We're seeing it from our end, too." He paused, catching the soldier's eye. "The quotas from the military… I haven't seen orders like these in perhaps five years or so. Arrowheads by the thousand, spear points, mail repair… It's more than just restocking the armory. This is preparation."
The lighthearted warmth of the kitchen seemed to cool. Ryumun stopped chewing, the bread suddenly tastedless in his mouth. He looked from the master blacksmith to his senior, feeling the weight of a conversation he didn't fully understand.
Raya's posture straightened, the easy slouch of a familiar guest disappearing, replaced by the rigid spine of a soldier. He placed his spoon down carefully beside his bowl. "The commanders want every garrison at full strength and fully supplied, Mister Tamba. That's all I know."
Tamba nodded slowly. "Preparation for what, though? More skirmishes with the Zhayagrab Theocracy, or something bigger?"
Yemila watched the exchange in silence. This was the terrible truth of her life. She would spend her days perfecting the very steel that would send men into battle.
"That's for the generals and their commanders to decide," Raya returned, his voice flat.
Tamba added, "I also heard rumors that the Hagamay Ganate Confederation is clashing with our army, led by General Myur, on the eastern border. Well, that's far from us. Still, news is news."
"For that part, at least, it's true," Raya confirmed.
A heavy silence settled on the table, broken only by the bubbling of the pot on the hearth.
It was Layra who gently broke the spell. She returned to the table with a small wooden bowl of honey and a plate of hard cheeses. "The worries of commanders are best left to them," she confirmed softly, her voice a calm anchor in the suddenly tense room. "Here, at this table, we are just men and women, and we are hungry." She smiled at Ryumun, whose eyes were wide with a mixture of awe and anxiety. "Have some cheese, son. It's from my sister's farm."
Tamba seemed to let the matter go. He looked at Raya, the master smith now. "Just be careful out there, you old dog. My best customer, and a friend of mine, is no good to me dead."
Raya finally met his gaze. "Don't worry, Mister Tamba," he reassured, a smile touching his lips. "I've got your steel to keep me safe. Ten years and it hasn't failed me yet. Moreover, I have Yemila to repair my equipment. That's all I need."
The comment was aimed at her father, but everyone heard it. A surprising warmth crept up Yemila's neck, hot as a freshly forged billet[8]. She flushed, quickly looking down at her scarred hands, hoping the dim light would hide the sudden rush of color to her cheeks.
It was one thing to be praised for a fine edge. It was another thing entirely for Raya to say it so plainly, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world.
That's all I need.
Not the University's theories, not the acclaim of creating a museum piece like Layzabar, but her. Her strength. Her steady hands. The very skills she had returned home to in shame, he held up as a shield between himself and death. In that moment, the seven years of wrestling with impossible equations melted away, leaving only the simple, terrifying weight of his trust.
Tamba saw it all, and a booming laugh escaped him. "Hah! You hear that, girl? Even this stubborn Raya knows good work when he sees it!" He tore off a piece of bread and pointed it at Ryumun, who was watching the exchange with wide eyes. "So, son. The army. Is it what you expected?"
"I… I didn't know what to expect, sir," Ryumun said honestly. "The city, the walls… it's all so much bigger than home."
"It's a nation in itself," Tamba agreed. "Hub of trade, frontline fortresses. Home to the best artisans and engineers. We've got the University, too. Yemila graduated from there. Majored in Elemental Metallurgy."
"Is that true?" Ryumun asked, his eyes wide.
"It took me longer than most," Yemila admitted.
"But you graduated." Raya said, his gaze flicking for a fraction of a second to her left hand.
Raya…
A silence, thin and sharp as a shard of glass, threatened to fall. Yemila felt her shoulders tense. But before it could settle, Layra's voice cut cleanly through the tension. "And Ryumun, where is home for you?"
"A small village on the banks of the Arkas River, ma'am. Zelar village, southeast from here," Ryumun replied, his voice gaining a bit of confidence. "My father is a fisherman. We lived by the river's generosity."
"A world away from Tadagran, I imagine," Tayamberina added, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.
"Quieter, I'd wager," Dakan said, his first unsolicited words of the night.
"A fisherman's son," Layra mused. "That's hard work. Different from this city," Dakan added.
"Yes," Ryumun agreed, a little of his awe returning as she spoke to him directly. "The river has its own rhythms. Its own dangers. But it's… quieter. The only shouting is when you land a big catch." He paused, a wry look on his face. "Or when you have to out-paddle a crocodile for it."
The comment hung in the air for a second before Tamba let out a booming laugh that made the table rattle. "Hah! A crocodile, you say? Now there's a proper fight! Not like these city brawls over a spilled ale." Even little Altan looked at Ryumun with newfound respect.
Tamba leaned forward, his eyes glinting. "Come now, son. A hard knock on the snout, is that all it takes? I've seen the hides on those beasts. Tougher than boiled leather."
Ryumun shifted, uncomfortable with the attention. "Well, usually. Most are just curious."
"Usually?" Yemila echoed, her eyes sharp..
The table grew quiet. Ryumun flushed. "There was… one time. It was bigger than most. Bolder." He took a deep breath. "My friend Kayel and I were pulling in nets near the mangrove roots. We didn't see it coming."
His voice dropped. "It came straight for the boat, trying to capsize us. Kayel tried to fend it off with a pole, but it snapped the wood in its jaws, and the lurch threw him into the water."
A collective gasp went around the table. Layra put a hand to her mouth.
"I didn't even think," Ryumun continued, his eyes distant. "I just jumped in after him. The water was chaos, all teeth and tail. It had Kayel's leg. I knew if it started to roll, he was gone."
Ryumun looked down at his hands. "So I… I did the only thing I could. I got on its back and wrapped my arms around it, trying to use my weight to keep it from turning. It was like hugging a thrashing boulder made of muscle and rage."
"By the forge..." Tamba whispered, his boisterousness gone, replaced by focused awe.
"Kayel was screaming, and I just held on," Ryumun elaborated, his voice barely a whisper now. "I had my fishing knife on my belt. I just… pulled it out and started stabbing upwards, under its stomach, where my father always said the hide was softest. I couldn't see anything, I just kept pushing."
A heavy silence fell over the kitchen, broken only by the crackle of the hearth.
"For a heartbeat, I thought it would roll us both under, but its thrashing slowed. Kayel kicked free, and together we clawed our way back to the boat. It was… terrifying…" Ryumun finished. "Kayel's leg was torn up badly, but he lived. We did it."
For a long moment, no one spoke. The image of the quiet fisherman's son locked in a deadly embrace with a river beast hung in the air.
Tamba stared at Ryumun, his voice low with profound respect. "Son, that's not a story. That's a saga."
Raya, who had listened to the entire tale with an unreadable intensity, finally spoke, his voice cutting through the silence. "Most trained soldiers would have frozen or fled. You went into danger to save your friend. You found the weak spot under pressure, and you didn't stop until the threat was gone." He gave Ryumun a single, sharp nod—the highest praise a man like Raya could give. "That's not something you can teach in a training yard. That's instinct. That's what keeps people alive."
"Well," Tamba said, draining his mug. "The river, the forge, the training yard… they all demand respect. You learn that lesson, and you'll do well anywhere." He looked at Ryumun, then at Raya, and then back to the half near-empty tureen of stew. "Now, who wants more?"
Before anyone else could answer, a hand went up. It was Dakan. He lifted his empty bowl and gestured it forward, his eyes meeting Layra's. Layra's warm smile was immediate. "Of course, Dakan. A growing man like you needs his fuel." She took his bowl and ladled it full.
Ligdan, Arbay, and Klanoy followed.
Tamba chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "There you have it, Raya. The quiet ones are always the hungriest." He then looked at his wife, his gruff expression softening with an undeniable affection. "No one makes a stew that can fill a man's belly and warm his soul quite like you, Layra."
She simply patted his hand. "Oh, Tamba." Layra replied, exchanging a glance with him.
"Mom, me too," Zarina piped up, breaking the moment. Layra startled briefly, then took Zarina's bowl and filled it. Therefore, the rest of the meal passed in easy conversation. Raya, prompted by Tamba, told a story about his first month as a conscript.
"My commander sent me to the quartermaster[9] for a standard-issue pike," Raya began, a nostalgic grin on his face. "But I was trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about, so I asked for a 'reaping blade for infantry.' The old man just stared at me, then came back with a war scythe as tall as I was."
The tale drew a surprised bark of laughter from Ryumun.
"You've been telling that story for nine years," Yemila teased, recovering her composure. "And Father still has that scythe hanging in the back. Says he keeps it to remind the apprentices to know the name of what they're asking for."
The laughter settled into a comfortable hum, mingling with the crackle of the hearth and the distant, cooling sighs of the forge. For a long moment, no one felt the need to speak. Tamba leaned back, the wooden chair creaking in protest under his weight, and patted his stomach with a contented sigh. Layra began to gather the empty bowls, her movements quiet.
"Leave those, my love," Tamba rumbled. "The boys will see to the washing." He nodded to Dakan, who immediately began stacking plates with silent diligence.
"I should help," Ryumun offered, half-rising.
"Sit," Tamba said, though his voice was kind. "You are my guest. The next time you come, you can earn your keep."
Raya watched the exchange, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "He's right. Enjoy it while it lasts, recruit. Moments of peace are a currency more valuable than gold." His gaze drifted to the blackened doorway.
Yemila's heart clenched. She saw him slipping away, back to that other world. "The night is still young," she said, her voice pulling his attention back. "Must you go so soon? Mother has honey cakes."
Layra laughed, a soft, musical sound. She brought a small stoneware jar to the table, lifting the lid to reveal dark, sticky cakes.
The offer hung in the air, sweet and tempting. Raya looked genuinely torn, the weariness returning to his features now that the meal's energy was fading. For a heartbeat, Yemila saw not the senior soldier, but the man beneath—a tired man, who carried a weight he wouldn't name, and who clearly found a solace in this house that existed nowhere else.
"The cakes are a powerful lure, Miss Layra," he remarked, a genuine smile softening his face. "But Aymar is a petty tyrant who sleeps with his ledger book[10]. If I don't log those repairs tonight, he'll have me on latrine duty[11] for a week for 'failure to properly steward Republic resources'." He parodied the last words in a perfect imitation of the officer's pinched, nasal tone, drawing another chuckle from Tamba.
But it's been a while since your last visit, she thought, biting back the words.
Raya pushed his chair back slowly, the decision made. The spell of the evening began to gently unravel. He eventually rose to his feet. "Mister Tamba, Miss Layra," he announced, his voice sincere. "Thank you for your hospitality. It was… a much-needed reprieve."
Layra smiled. "The door is always open, Raya. You know you're like a son to us." Her warm gaze then fell on Ryumun. "And you as well, son. You are welcome here anytime."
Ryumun, flustered but filled with warmth, scrambled to his feet. "Thank you, ma'am. Sir. It was the best meal I've had in a long time."
Yemila, with Altan clinging to her leg, walked them to the shop door. The cool night air was a shock after the crowded kitchen, "I'll have the repairs done in three days, Raya."
"I know you will," he replied.
As Ryumun was about to follow, Yemila's eyes found him.
"And you," she teased, her voice losing its professional edge. "Next time, just call me Yemila. All that 'ma'am' business makes me feel as old as my father."
A surprised, choked sound escaped Ryumun. "Okay... Yemila. Thank you."
Yemila watched them go. Altan, who had followed her, tugged on her tunic.
He's gone…
"Someday, I want to be strong like Raya-big-brother, and brave like Ryumun-big-brother," Altan declared.
The words were a sharp, sweet ache in Yemila's chest. She turned back to her little brother, cupping his face in her hands. His skin was soft, his eyes full of innocent soldier-worship.
"You must be strong to be a proper man," she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Altan held her hand, his small thumb tracing the back of her knuckles. "Yemila big sister," he asked, his voice full of innocent curiosity, "why is your hand weird?"
Yemila looked down. At her left hand. The one with four fingers.
The night air, the smell of leather from the shop, the lingering warmth of the kitchen—it all vanished, replaced by the acrid sting of vaporized flux[12] and the ozone-charged air of the University's deep forges.
…The pressure had been immense. Her final thesis piece. Not a tool of war, but a demonstration of pure theory—the Layzabar sword. She was twenty-one, arrogant, and stubbornly hard-working, about to prove a principle of Multilinear Branches Storm-Channel welding[13] that her professors had deemed too unstable.
Laybar-Kalas[14], an elemental ore, is the rarest and most dangerous material to work with, which is why Tamba's forge is one of only two in the city that practice the art. It requires a unique set of tools and an iron will, a true masterwork combining brute strength with an understanding of volatile, instantaneous forces.
It cannot be powdered; it must be used as a solid piece. A smith must obtain a rod of the ore, then painstakingly grind it to the desired shape using diamond-dust files. This alone can take days.
The process begins with a thick bar of steel. Using a fuller[15], the smith hammers a deep, perfectly uniform channel down its center. The shaped rod of Laybar-Kalas is laid inside, and the steel is folded back over the ore, encasing it. This is the most difficult forge weld of all. The smith must bring the billet to temperature without overheating the volatile core, then weld the seam shut perfectly, creating a solid billet with a lightning ore core. This is Tamba's true art—the strength to move steel and the control to protect what lies within.
The final step is the quench[16]. The glowing blade is plunged into a special bath—an oil mixed with conductive carbon powder. As the steel cools, the ore unleashes its energy in an electrolytic heat treatment[17]. The discharge travels through the steel's crystalline lattice[18], flash-hardening it from the inside out. The smith must use tongs with thick leather and wood grips to avoid being electrocuted, and the quenching tub must be earthed by a heavy copper chain bolted to the stone floor. A flawed weld will cause the blade to explode, sending shards of superheated shrapnel across the forge.
The result is a weapon that feels electrically alive in the hand. Polishing reveals a dark, branching pattern on the surface—the captured path of the lightning that tempered it. To a wielder, the world can seem to flicker into moments of slow-motion during combat, their reaction speed honed to an impossible edge.
She was alone in the forge, late at night, the way she preferred it. The billet was perfect, the Laybar-Kalas rod seated flawlessly in its channel. Everything depended on the quench. The conductive solution roiled in the trough, a black, viscous fluid waiting to unleash the storm inside the steel.
Sweat dripped from her brow, sizzling on the hot flagstones. Her calculations were perfect. Her hands were steady. She lifted the glowing blade from the forge, a perfect, sun-bright orange.
Impatience. A fatal flaw.
She wanted to see the lightning. She wanted the triumph. She plunged the blade into the conductive quench. For a heartbeat, there was a perfect, humming silence. Then, a sound she had never heard before—not the clean hiss of cooling steel, but a high-pitched, harmonic scream.
A flaw.
A microscopic imperfection in the weld seam, stressed by a forge run just a few degrees too hot. The Laybar-Kalas core discharged its energy not into the steel, but outward.
There was no fire, only light. A blinding, instantaneous flash of blue-white energy that bleached the world of color. The sound was a sharp, deafening crack, like the sky splitting open directly overhead. The blade didn't just break; it detonated.
A shard of the superheated billet, no bigger than a thumbnail, screamed past her face. She felt the wind of its passage. Another piece, smaller, spun through the air. She didn't feel the impact on her hand, which was gripping the tongs. There was no pain—only a sudden, shocking numbness.
The light faded, leaving dancing spots in her vision. The ringing in her ears was absolute. She stared at the quenching trough, at the ruined, twisted hilt still gripped in the tongs. Then she looked at her left hand.
The tip of her leather glove was gone. And so was the finger inside it. Blood welled darkly, dripping onto the stone floor in a quiet, rhythmic pattern…
"Yemila?" Tayamberina's voice, soft and concerned, pulled her back from the silent, ringing memory.
She was standing in the doorway to the shop, the cool night air washed her face. Altan was still looking up at her, his eyes wide and worried.
Yemila gently pulled her hand from her brother's grasp and curled it into a protective fist. "I was careless once, Altan," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "A long time ago."
She looked past him, her gaze meeting Tayamberina's in the dim light of the kitchen. She saw not pity in her friend's eyes, but a grim, shared understanding of theory and consequence.
"The fire teaches you lessons," Yemila finished, more to Taya than to the boy. "You just have to be strong enough to survive them."
She took her little brother's hand. "Come on. Let's go inside."
[1] Steel rapidly cooled in water or oil after heating, making it hard but brittle.
[2] The long wooden handle or shaft of a pole weapon like a spear or, in this case, a halberd (a weapon with an axe blade and spear point on a long pole).
[3] The entire handle assembly of a sword, including the grip (where you hold it), the guard (which protects the hand), and the pommel (the counterweight at the end).
[4] A person who has been drafted into military service, rather than volunteering. They are often new recruits with minimal experience.
[5] A group of soldiers, attendants, or followers who serve under an officer or person of importance. Here, it refers to the squad Raya commands.
[6] A device with an air bag and handles that is used to pump a strong, consistent stream of air into a forge fire, making it burn much hotter.
[7] A smithing term for safely shutting down the forge for the night. It involves covering the hot coals with ash to smother the flames and preserve the heat, allowing the fire to be easily restarted the next day.
[8] A solid bar or block of metal prepared for forging.
[9] A military officer responsible for providing troops with housing, equipment, supplies, and food.
[10] An account book used by officers to track supplies, money, or equipment.
[11] Cleaning the toilets; one of the lowest punishments a soldier can get.
[12] In welding and forging, flux is a chemical cleaning agent used to prevent oxidation on the surface of the metal, allowing for a pure and strong weld.
[13] The branching marks left on the blade after being tempered with lightning ore, like frozen lightning scars.
[14] A fictional rare lightning-charged ore; extremely volatile when forged.
[15] A rounded tool used to create grooves or channels in metal, often in sword-making.
[16] Rapidly cooling hot metal (in water, oil, or other solutions) to harden it.
[17] A (semi-fantasy) process where electricity passes through steel to alter its internal structure and strengthen it.
[18] The microscopic, repeating structure inside metal that determines hardness and durability.