Morning light crept reluctantly into Forgehome.
It slid over stone roofs and frost-lined paths, touching the village as if unsure it was welcome. The Iron Mountains loomed overhead, their peaks shrouded in cloud, silent witnesses to a night that had left the air uneasy and the people restless.
Elara had not slept.
She sat at her workbench, elbows resting on scarred wood, eyes fixed on the wrapped bundle before her. The reforged sword lay beneath the cloth, unseen yet undeniably present. Even covered, it felt… aware.
The forge behind her was quiet.
Too quiet.
Its embers glowed low, obedient but distant, as if something essential had withdrawn into itself. Elara swallowed and reached for the cloth.
She hesitated.
Then she pulled it back.
The blade looked ordinary.
That was the most unsettling part.
No runes marked its surface. No glow lingered in the metal. The steel was clean, well-balanced, the kind of weapon any competent smith might be proud of. If she had seen it on a rack, she would not have looked twice.
And yet—
When her fingers brushed the flat of the blade, warmth pulsed beneath her touch.
Not heat.
A rhythm.
Like a heartbeat answering her own.
Elara inhaled sharply and drew her hand back.
"Get a hold of yourself," she muttered.
Steel did not beat.
She lifted the sword and stepped outside into the forge yard, where a block of scrap iron lay half-buried in frost. With a controlled motion, she swung.
The blade passed through the iron as if it were smoke.
No sparks flew. No resistance answered the strike. The scrap split cleanly in two, the cut surface smooth enough to reflect the pale sky.
Elara stared.
She struck stone next.
The result was the same—too clean, too effortless. The blade sang softly as it moved, a sound just at the edge of hearing.
She set the sword down and reached for another tool.
The chisel in her hand dulled the moment she brought it close.
Elara frowned. She tested another hammer, then a third. Each lost its edge, its balance subtly wrong, as if repelled by the sword's presence.
The air around the blade felt crowded.
Unwelcome.
Her chest tightened.
"This is craftsmanship," she told herself firmly. "Nothing more."
She had worked metals all her life. Balance, purity, intention—those mattered. This was simply the result of doing everything right.
Except she had not.
She had abandoned technique.
That thought refused to leave her.
Footsteps echoed from the path leading into the village square.
Elara tensed and covered the sword once more.
The elders approached in a small group, their expressions grave. They moved with the quiet authority of those used to being obeyed. At their center walked Elder Bram, his white beard braided with iron rings.
"Smith Ironhand," he said. "We felt… something last night."
Elara inclined her head. "The forge flared. I thought it was a draft."
Bram's eyes drifted past her, lingering on the ancient forge. His brow furrowed.
"This forge has stood longer than Forgehome," he said slowly. "It does not behave without reason."
A low hum vibrated through the stone beneath their feet.
Elara's pulse quickened.
"I'll inspect it," she said quickly. "Make repairs if needed."
The elders exchanged looks.
"See that you do," Bram said. "Until then, no more forging."
Elara stiffened. "The village depends on—"
"We depend on safety," another elder snapped. "And on keeping old disasters buried."
They turned and left, their footsteps echoing like a verdict.
The hum deepened.
Elara closed her eyes.
A tremor rippled through Forgehome.
Shouts rose from the square.
The sword beneath the cloth vibrated violently, slipping free and clattering to the ground. Before Elara could react, it lifted into the air.
Starlight spilled across the blade.
This time, it did not fade.
Gasps echoed around the yard as villagers gathered, fear widening their eyes. Someone screamed.
"Star Magic!"
The word struck like a blow.
Elara reached for the sword, but the air pushed back, heavy and unyielding. The ancient forge answered with a thunderous crack.
Stone split.
Hidden runes flared to life beneath centuries of ash and soot, blazing with cold white light. Heat surged outward without fuel, warping the air.
"Enough!" Bram shouted, backing away. "Seal it! Now!"
Guards rushed forward, dragging iron plates toward the forge, but the ground shook again.
Elara stood frozen, heart pounding, as realization dawned.
Her grandfather had known.
The forge was not just stone and fire.
It was listening.
Far beyond Forgehome, in a place where light did not belong, a presence stirred.
In the endless dark of the Void, Seraphyne opened her eyes.
A smile curved her lips.
The beacon had been lit.
That night, iron chains locked Elara's door.
She sat alone in the dark, the sword resting beside her, glowing softly like a waiting star.
There would be no turning back.