4. The Shard of Flame.

The forge roared like a living beast, flames licking greedily at the walls as though intent on devouring the very bones of the structure. Smoke coiled and churned in the air, a thick, choking shroud that clawed at Arin's throat and stung his eyes. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one trembling with the weight of grief. Ena's lifeless face loomed in his mind, pale and still, framed by the chaos she had given her life to delay. Her final words cut through the cacophony of his thoughts like a branding iron: Protect the forge.

It was no mere plea, Arin knew that much. The words carried a gravity that went beyond molten iron and hammered steel. Ena's cryptic glances toward the hidden chest, her whispered warnings that he had dismissed as paranoia, all fell into place now with cruel clarity. There was something in this forge worth dying for.

The heat was unbearable, a relentless tide pressing against his skin. Sweat mingled with soot on his face as he stumbled forward, shielding his eyes from the inferno. The flames were alive, writhing and twisting along the rafters as if in celebration of their destructive triumph. With every step, the forge threatened to collapse, timbers groaning above him in protest.

His gaze snapped to the corner where the chest lay concealed beneath a tattered tarp. A surge of desperation drove him forward, his boots skidding across the soot-slicked floor. He ripped the tarp aside and heaved the chest open, his breath catching as he revealed its contents. Among the rags lay an iron box, its surface battered and dull, yet emanating an air of quiet significance.

As his fingers wrapped around the box, a peculiar sensation coursed through his hand—a warmth, rhythmic and alive, like the heartbeat of some ancient creature slumbering beneath the earth. For a moment, Arin froze, his mind grappling with the unnatural pulse. Then a deafening crack split the air, and the roof gave way in a cascade of flaming wreckage.

Instinct took over. He threw himself to the ground, curling his body protectively around the box. A burning beam grazed his shoulder, the pain sharp and immediate, but there was no time to dwell on it. Scrambling to his feet, Arin spotted the forge's front doors—or rather, what was left of them, now a charred frame open to the blaze. The soldiers had seen to that.

His gaze darted to the back wall, where a narrow crawlspace offered a sliver of hope. Ena had insisted it remain clear, calling it a "ventilation shaft." It seemed Ena had also been a better liar than he'd realized. Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees and shoved the iron box through the opening, dragging himself after it.

The crawlspace was a claustrophobic nightmare. The jagged stone scraped his arms and legs, and the air was thick with the acrid taste of smoke. He pressed forward, each movement a battle against the searing heat that followed him like a vengeful specter. When he finally emerged, gasping and battered, the cool night air felt like the touch of salvation itself.

He collapsed onto the damp forest floor, his arms wrapped tightly around the iron box. For a moment, he lay there, staring at the stars winking coldly through the canopy, indifferent to his plight. The distant cries of villagers and the crackling roar of the fire were the only sounds, a symphony of destruction playing out behind him.

The warmth from the box pulsed again, insistent and alive. Arin sat up, his trembling fingers fumbling with the rusted latch. It groaned in protest, but after a few determined tugs, it yielded. Inside, wrapped in soot-stained cloth, lay a shard of crystalline flame. Its surface shimmered like molten glass caught in an eternal dance of light and shadow. The shard seemed to breathe, its faint glow pulsing in time with the warmth that had guided him this far.

Arin reached out, his fingers trembling. The moment his skin brushed the shard, a wave of heat rushed through him—not the blistering agony of fire, but something deeper, something ancient. It was a warmth that seeped into his very soul, as though the shard had reached out and touched the core of his being.

Visions exploded in his mind. A city consumed by fire, its towers collapsing into smoldering ruins. A lone figure cloaked in flames, standing defiantly against an army. Shadows stretched long and terrible, the looming presence of the Pyrelords casting the world into despair.

The shard flared, pulling him back to the present. Arin stumbled to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest. Ena had known. She had guarded this, sacrificed herself for it. And now, it was his burden to bear.

A rustling in the underbrush jolted him out of his thoughts. Torchlight flickered between the trees, accompanied by the guttural voices of the soldiers.

"Spread out! The boy can't have gone far!"

Fear clawed at Arin's chest, but the shard's glow intensified, its warmth urging him to act. It was a silent demand, a primal whisper that awakened something buried deep within him. The shard wasn't just a relic. It was power—raw, untamed, and hungry.

A soldier's torchlight illuminated his face, and a shout rang out. "There he is!"

Arin's mind screamed for him to run, but his body refused to move. Instead, he tightened his grip on the shard, its heat now a searing fire in his palm. The air around him shifted, crackling with energy.

The soldier raised his blade, and something inside Arin shattered. The shard flared to life, erupting in a torrent of flame that surged outward in a blinding wave. The soldier's scream was lost in the inferno, his form consumed in an instant.

When the flames subsided, Arin stood trembling, the shard dimming to a faint glow once more. The forest was silent, save for the crackle of burning leaves and the distant cries of the soldiers still searching.

He ran, the shard clutched tightly against his chest, its warmth a constant reminder of the power it held—and the cost of wielding it. Ena had died to protect this. Now, Arin understood why.

This shard was more than an artifact. It was a fragment of the Primordial Flame itself, a weapon of unimaginable power. A weapon that could destroy nations or rebuild them from the ashes.

And now, it was his.