Chapter 1 – The Day the Sky Fell Silent
The first sound that reached me was the hammer.
Not the clean, ringing stroke of my father's forge, but a dull, broken rhythm — a heartbeat echoing through iron. When I opened my eyes, the world outside our hut glowed the color of dying embers. The air was thick with soot; the dawn wind carried the stench of oil and prayer smoke.
Myrrh had never been quiet. Even in poverty, we were a village of sound — of goats bleating, forges clanging, children shouting. That morning, all of it was gone. Only that hammering remained, slow, relentless, like someone forging a coffin.
Father was gone from the bed. Mother sat beside the firepit, her hands clenched around a rosary blackened by smoke. Her lips moved in silence. I wanted to ask what she was praying for, but the question withered on my tongue when I saw her eyes: hollow, already mourning.
Outside, silver banners floated in the wind. Priests of Luminar — twelve of them — walked between the huts, their torches held high like suns. The light hurt to look at. Each time the flames flared, a new house caught fire.
I ran toward the forge.
The hammering stopped.
Father stood before the anvil, bare-chested, soot covering his arms. His hands were bound in chains of white metal that hissed where they touched his skin. Beside him, the High Herald raised a golden rod engraved with the words: For the purity of flame
Taren of Myrrh," the Herald intoned, "you are found guilty of sin-smithing. You forged weapons bearing runes of the Dark.
Father laughed, hoarse and defiant. "If the gods fear steel, perhaps they are not gods at all."
The Herald struck him across the face with the rod. Blood dripped on the anvil.
I lunged forward — someone caught me, arms like iron bands around my chest. A villager. Someone I'd grown up with. His voice trembled:
Don't, Kael. Don't make it worse.
I struggled until my throat burned, but he didn't let go.
The priests began their chant. Light gathered around Father's hands, burning through the chains, searing flesh and bone. He didn't scream. He only looked up — right at me — and smiled the way he used to when he taught me to temper iron: calm, proud, almost gentle.
Listen to me, Kael," he said, his voice steady through the fire.
Never trust those who call themselves gods.
The moment stretched, suspended in silence — and then the light swallowed him.
When it faded, the forge was empty. Only the anvil remained, glowing faintly, blood sizzling on its edge.
The priests left behind ashes and promises. The villagers bowed as they passed, whispering blessings. I knelt where my father had stood and touched the metal. It was still warm.
Behind me, Mother's cry broke the dawn.