Chapter Twenty-Three · Into the Dead Crown

Bramor gripped the red-hot steel with a long pair of tongs and pulled it from the coals.

He set it on the anvil.

The hammer fell.

Sparks flew, bright as fireflies.

On the workbench beside the anvil lay a few rough pieces: an unfinished pot rim, a thick pan still dark with heat, and several iron ladles fresh from the mold.

No swords. No spears. Only kitchenware.

Lyra’s step faltered.

“The High Lord of Gemariel sent me,” she said.

Bramor spared her one glance, then returned to his work.

“For what?”

“My blade broke. I need a new one.”

“Then you came to the wrong place. I make pots and pans.”

“He said you once forged a legendary blade.”

Bramor went still.

Then he threw the hammer to the ground.

The air in the forge turned heavy.

“Forget it.”

He turned and walked into the house.

The two girls stood in silence.

Orin’s eyes flickered, then dropped.

“I’ll… go make dinner,” he said softly.

Lyra didn’t move.

Sion nudged her lightly.

“We… should go, right?”

Lyra shook her head.

“No. We wait.”

Bramor was already inside.

Night settled over the valley. Insects hummed in the dark.

Orin came out after a while, carrying a few honey cakes and a flask of hot water.

“You should eat,” he said.

“Thanks to you, I can sell in the street now. I can finally afford tea… and milk.”

Sion grabbed one at once, biting in with a satisfied hum.

“Thanks. I’m starving.”

Lyra ate too, but her mind wasn’t on the food.

She didn’t know why he had stopped forging blades.

If he refused… who else was there?

The white horse had already settled down to rest. Sion leaned against it and fell asleep before long.

Orin slipped back inside. The lights went out.

Only Lyra lay awake beneath a clear sky crowded with stars.

One by one, her thoughts thinned.

At last, she drifted off, the unease still lingering somewhere beneath it all.

Dawn crept in, pale and thin. Mist settled over the valley.

Sion edged closer to Lyra, curling in on herself, shivering.

Both of them drifted in and out of sleep.

Footsteps approached. Lamplight fell across their faces.

“Get inside. Stay out here and you’ll freeze.”

Lyra’s eyes opened.

Bramor.

The glow of the forge flickered behind him.

Lyra shook Sion awake, led the horse into the yard, and tied it off.

Sion stumbled inside half-asleep and collapsed again.

Lyra crossed to the forge and sank down beside the fire.

Bramor took a drink of hot water, then moved to the workbench.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Without a blade, I’m not myself.”

He wiped the anvil with a cloth. Slow. Methodical.

“Then buy one. The forge district’s full of good steel.”

Lyra lowered her gaze.

“I don’t have magic. The road ahead is long. I need something strong enough to keep me alive.”

Bramor studied her face. She reminded him of someone, though he could not quite place whom.

“What do you want? A blade that breaks shields… or one that kills clean?”

“I can point you to either.”

Lyra drew her hands closer to the fire, warming them.

“I want a blade that can cut down the weapons of those who prey on the weak.”

Bramor reached for the hammer.

“That’s a dream. The ones with the darkest ambitions are usually the strongest.”

Lyra’s hands lowered.

“I still believe I can do it.”

Bramor glanced at her. Sharp.

“Belief is a luxury.”

She stood.

“If I didn’t believe, I wouldn’t have come.”

Clang.

The hammer struck the anvil, the sound rolling through the mountain.

Bramor didn’t look at her.

“Fine.”

“If you truly have the nerve… go to the Dead Crown. Bring me an Emberheart.”

A beat.

“Then we’ll talk.”

The sun broke over the horizon.

The sound of Bramor’s hammer woke Sion.

She stumbled out of the house, rubbing her eyes.

Lyra stepped up to Bramor.

“What’s an Emberheart?”

“A red core formed in magma. It glows.”

“Where’s the Dead Crown?”

“Half a day northeast. An active volcano. That’s the Dead Crown.”

He didn’t look at her.

“You go alone. Got the nerve?”

“I do. Wait for me.”

Lyra turned at once and strode toward the horse.

She would bring it back.

Sion had heard enough. She hurried into the yard and threw an arm out to stop her.

“Hey—wait. You don’t even know what it’s like out there—”

Lyra pushed her arm aside.

“Stay here.”

Sion froze.

“Are you out of your mind? Going alone is suicide.”

“I’ve decided. I’ll be fine.”

Lyra loosened the drawstring of her pouch.

She took a few gold coins and left the rest.

Her fingers lingered for a beat.

Then she caught Sion’s hand and pressed the pouch into it.

“Wait—Lyra, I—” Sion faltered.

Lyra was already in the saddle, snapping the reins.

The horse lunged forward.

Orin came running from the kitchen, calling after her.

“Sister—take this!”

Lyra reined in.

He held out a small baked cake, soot still smudged across his face.

“Breakfast.”

Lyra took it. A faint smile touched her lips.

For a moment, she looked toward the forge.

Then she looked away.

Sion stood there, frozen.

Bramor’s back was turned. He didn’t look up.

Lyra urged the horse on and rode away.

Hooves swept past the wildflowers along the road.

Her long hair streamed behind her, tangled by the wind. She did not care.

I can’t afford fear.

I might not come back.

But if I don’t go… I’ll never find myself again.