The clang of metal echoed through the small forge, mingling with the faint hum of the town outside. Sparks leapt from the anvil with every swing of the hammer, bursting into brief constellations before fading into smoke. Stephen Stormcloud sat cross-legged near the doorway, chin resting on his knees as he watched his father work.
To most people, the heat of the forge was unbearable, but to Stephen, it was home. The faint scent of iron and oil, the rhythmic hammering, and his father's steady breathing were as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.
"Hand me that rod," his father said without looking up.
Stephen scrambled to his feet and passed the half-finished steel bar. His father, broad-shouldered and dark-haired, streaked with grey, took it with a grunt and set it against the anvil. Sparks flew again.
It was a small workshop tucked on the edge of Ravelton, a quiet border town several leagues away from the Imperial City. Most days, the streets were filled with chatter from merchants and hunters passing through—people chasing glory, carrying weapons forged by men like his father.
But for Stephen, the world beyond those steel walls still felt impossibly distant.
He'd grown up hearing tales of Hunters—those who awakened Aspect Souls and fought the monsters that once poured from the cracks in the sky. Some of his classmates already dreamed of standing among them, their eyes bright with childish ambition. Stephen's dreams, though, were simpler.
He just wanted to make his father smile again.
"Father," Stephen called over the hammering. "What kind of Aspect Soul do you think I'll awaken?"
His father paused mid-swing, the silence that followed filled only by the hiss of cooling metal. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he placed the hammer down and turned, his face half-hidden by the glow of the forge.
"That depends on what kind of man you become," he said finally. "Aspect Souls reflect the heart. Some awaken mighty beasts. Others, simple tools. What matters is how you use what you're given."
Stephen frowned. "So… it doesn't matter if it's weak?"
His father's expression softened. "It matters to others. But it shouldn't matter to you."
He reached over and ruffled Stephen's hair, leaving faint soot stains behind.
"Remember, a rank doesn't decide your worth. Not everyone needs to be a hunter."
Stephen wanted to believe him—but he couldn't forget the promise his father had made on his tenth birthday.
If you awaken an S-rank or higher Aspect Soul, I'll tell you about your mother.
It had been two years since then, and the question still burned quietly in his chest. Who was she? Why wouldn't his father ever talk about her? He'd overheard whispers in the town once—rumors that his father had once been a powerful hunter, before an injury crippled him.
But the truth… the truth felt deeper than that.
That night, as rain pattered softly against the wooden roof, Stephen lay on his small bed beside the window. The forge had long gone quiet, but the glow of dying embers still flickered faintly in the dark.
He turned the small pendant he wore—a simple piece of azure metal—in his hands. It was the only thing he had of his mother's. Sometimes, when the moonlight hit it just right, faint runes shimmered across its surface.
He didn't know what they meant, but it always made him feel… safe.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly. Stephen closed his eyes and whispered to himself,"Just two more years. Then I'll know."
The words lingered in the darkness—soft, hopeful, and unaware of how much they would change everything.
The morning after the storm, the air was heavy with the scent of wet earth and iron. Stephen stood outside the workshop, sleeves rolled up, helping his father hang newly forged blades to cool under the eaves. The steel gleamed faintly in the misty light.
"Careful with that one," his father said. "It's for the guards up north. Their captain doesn't take kindly to chipped edges."
Stephen grinned, adjusting the blade's position. "Then maybe you should deliver it yourself."
The older man snorted, though a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "And leave you here to burn the house down? Not a chance."
It was moments like this — quiet, ordinary, and fleeting — that Stephen treasured most. Yet beneath the calm rhythm of their days, something had begun to shift. Ever since the posters for the Awakening Ceremony had gone up in town, he'd felt the weight of the future pressing closer with each sunrise.
Every year, the ceremony marked the day when the town's twelve-year-olds were tested by the Federation's Awakening Orb. It was a chance for ordinary children to step onto the path of hunters. For most, it was the first and last glimpse of glory they'd ever see.
For Stephen, it was everything.
That evening, as the forge quieted and the light dimmed, he found his father sitting by the window, sharpening a blade with practiced motions. The orange glow of sunset painted the room in fading gold.
"Father," Stephen said softly. "Tomorrow's the ceremony."
The sharpening stopped. The older man's gaze lifted — sharp, searching, then softening. "I know."
They sat in silence for a while, the rasp of metal filling the air again.
"Remember," his father said at last, "whatever you awaken — strong or weak — it doesn't change who you are."
Stephen nodded, but the words only deepened the ache in his chest. He wanted to believe that, but he also wanted to know — truly know — why his father had always looked so haunted whenever he mentioned his mother.
When his father finally rose and went to douse the forge fire, Stephen lingered by the window, staring out at the distant mountains. Lightning flickered somewhere far beyond them, illuminating the faint shimmer of barrier lights protecting the city walls.
"Whatever I awaken…" he whispered, clenching his hands, "…I'll make it matter."