Chapter Twenty-Eight · The Smith’s Last Gift

Bramor lay on the old wooden bed.

His breathing came short and heavy. Each rise of his chest cost him more than the last.

Orin sat beside him, holding his calloused hand.

Sion went to the kitchen and came back with hot water.

Outside, dark clouds gathered. Wind slipped through the cracks. The first drops of rain tapped against the roof.

Lyra rose.

“I’ll find a healer.”

“Don’t…”

Bramor’s voice barely rose above a whisper. He gave a faint shake of his head.

“There’s no need.”

Sion tightened her grip on the cup.

“Don’t say that…”

Bramor let out a slow breath.

“High Lord Torvak… told me everything.”

A moment passed.

“I’ve made amends. That blade… won’t be a thing of slaughter anymore.”

He looked at Lyra. His gaze lingered on her.

“I trust what you are.”

His breathing grew shorter.

He turned to Orin.

“Become a true smith.”

Orin pressed his lips together. His eyes stung.

Bramor looked to Sion.

“Sion… keep your heart clear.”

She shook her head, blinking hard.

The oil lamp trembled in the wind.

Bramor lifted a hand to his chest.

His eyes settled on the window, where the rain now fell harder.

“This life… was not wasted.”

A long breath left him.

No breath followed.

The room fell still. Only the rain remained.

Orin still held his father’s hand, his voice shaking.

“Father…”

His heart had stopped. His hand was already growing cold.

“Father!”

Orin broke. Sion cried with him.

Lyra stood over the old smith.

Her hand tightened on the hilt.

The cold bit into her palm.

Tears fell in silence.

He had known how this would end.

And still, he had finished the blade with his last strength.

She owed him a debt.

One she could never repay.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Bramor… I won’t fail you.”

Bramor had died to finish it.

This was not just a weapon. It was a responsibility placed in her hands.

If she used it only to prove herself, she would betray the man who had made it.

She would have to be worthy of it.

Three days later.

A new grave stood on the hillside behind the forge.

Lyra laid a small bundle of white dandelions before the stone.

The wind moved through them, the petals trembling.

“Honor to Bramor,” she said quietly.

“I will remember what I owe.”

Orin stood beside her.

He wiped the rain from the stone with his sleeve.

“He took me in when I was small.”

His voice roughened.

“No matter how poor we were… he never let me go hungry.”

Lyra let out a breath. Her hand tightened on the sword at her side.

She turned and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Take care. We’ll meet again.”

Sion pulled him into a quick embrace.

“Goodbye… little brother.”

Lyra and Sion mounted and rode off slowly along the dirt road past the forge.

Orin watched until they disappeared behind the ridge.

He turned back to the grave.

He knelt.

His forehead touched the earth.

“I’ll become the smith you wanted me to be.”

“Rest.”

The dandelions stirred around the stone.

In the distance, the old forge stood in a fine, drifting rain.

They rode for days, crossing a mountain pass and a wide river.

At last, they reached the lands of Aulith.

A dry wind swept across the road.

Lyra raised a hand to shield her eyes. Sion tucked in close behind her. The horse kept moving.

Ahead, a long stretch of barley came into view. The stalks were low and sparse, their leaves dulled and drooping.

Narrow canals cut through the fields, straight lines branching into each plot. The banks were packed earth, reinforced with stone in places.

A thin sheet of water crept through the mud.

Small wooden gates lined the banks. Most were warped. Some were half-buried in sand.

Sion slid off the horse and stepped across a dry channel.

“Why does it look like this?”

An old man straightened from his hoe.

“Our ancestors dug these hundreds of years ago.”

He came closer.

“Back then, the canals ran full. You opened a gate, and the barley drank its fill.”

He nudged the bank with the toe of his shoe.

“Now the water doesn’t reach the far fields.”

Lyra crouched and picked up a handful of soil. It crumbled in her palm.

At the far end, a few farmers still worked. A woman straightened to rest, wiping her brow.

“After the war,” she said, “half the harvest goes to the palace.”

“For the army,” another added.

No one spoke after that.

The wind moved through the barley. Dry stalks brushed together with a faint sound.

Sion walked a few steps into the field and knelt.

Lyra came up beside her and set the sword point-down in the soil.

Sion opened her waterskin and let a few drops fall at the base of a clump of barley.

“Let’s see if this helps.”

As the water sank in, the blade gave a faint tremor.

A nearby stalk shifted. Green returned to it. The leaves lifted.

Birds perched along the canal startled into flight.

Sion blinked.

“Lyra… did you see that?”

A child at the edge of the field shouted,

“It’s turning green!”

Villagers began to gather. They knelt to look more closely.

A sun-browned man dropped to one knee and touched the leaves.

“That’s not right…”

An old woman studied Sion for a long moment.

“Was that you, girl?”

Sion faltered.

“Uh… maybe it’s just the water.”

Someone murmured,

“Maybe Aulith’s soil still listens to the old gods.”

The words passed through the crowd.

Excitement flashed through Sion.

She rose, brushing dirt from her hands.

“I can try again.”

Lyra glanced at her.

Sion had already moved on, patting the ground and pouring a little more water.

A few more clumps turned green.

The crowd began to stir. Some hurried off to call others.

Lyra reached out and touched the barley.

“I think you can bring it back.”

“Really?”

“Did your aunt ever say where your parents were from?”

“No. She only said I’m not from the Gemariel fae.”

“Strange…”

By then, the villagers had crowded in close.

An old woman seized Sion’s hand.

“Child, were you sent by the gods? Please—save our fields.”

“I’ll try.”

The crowd eased back. Lyra helped refill Sion’s waterskin.

One patch at a time, the barley turned green, as if the land itself were waking.

The field seemed to breathe again.

Some villagers dropped to their knees, bowing in every direction.

By dusk, the crowd had thinned. The field’s owner invited the two girls to stay the night.

They would help the others in the morning.

Sion lay awake that night, smiling to herself.

She filled her waterskin to the brim.

If a stray like her really had magic…

this could be something.

Tomorrow, she would show them more.

Lyra sat against the wall, silent.

Her fingers traced the hilt.

Now and then, her gaze flicked to Sion.

The field had turned green.

And yet—

something felt off.

Not Sion.

The people.