Chapter 8: Iron Wings Rise

The rebel camp thrummed with the restless pulse of war as night cloaked the plateau in shadow. Kara knelt by a makeshift forge, her red hair plastered to her sweat-soaked brow, the clang of her hammer against steel ringing out like a battle cry. Sparks danced in the air, stinging her knuckles as she shaped a jagged sheet of metal into a temporary armor plate for Ashka's chest. The dragon loomed beside her, amber eyes glowing in the firelight, her black scales gleaming with a faint sheen of dew. Each strike of the hammer sent a jolt through Kara's aching arms, but she gritted her teeth, her mind fixed on the raid ahead. She wasn't just forging armor; she was forging her survival.

Dren, the rebel captain, stomped over, his broad frame casting a shadow across her work. His patchy beard bristled as he snorted, his voice rough with disdain. "An ironsmith leading a raid? What can you do but clang pots, girl? Don't drag us down tomorrow." Kara's hammer paused mid-strike, her emerald eyes flashing as she shot back, "I don't need your approval, Dren. Keep your doubts and stay out of my way." Her heart thudded with defiance, a silent vow echoing in her chest: I'll prove I belong here, not for them, but for me.

Talon lingered near the tent flap, his gray eyes cold and unreadable, his scarred face half-lit by the flickering flames. He crossed his arms, his leather armor creaking, and muttered, "Don't get cocky, Smith. If you slow us down, you're dead weight." His words cut, but Kara ignored him, slamming her hammer down harder, the steel bending under her will. She thought, He can watch me fail or watch me win, but I'm not breaking. Ashka rumbled low, her snout nudging Kara's shoulder, a pulse of heat flaring in her chest—shared resolve, unspoken trust.

The next dawn broke gray and heavy, the air thick with the scent of pine and smoke as the rebels marched toward Veyl's outer defenses. Kara rode Ashka at the vanguard, the dragon's patched wing flexing beneath the new armor, its edges glinting like a blade in the dim light. Dren led the ground troops, his axe gleaming, while Talon flanked her on foot, sword in hand. The enemy line loomed ahead—a barricade of spiked logs and archers, their bows taut with menace. Anticipation coiled in Kara's gut, her fingers tightening on her newly forged warhammer, its head etched with crude runes. This is it, she thought. Prove it or die.

The raid erupted in chaos. Ashka roared, a sound that shook the earth, and Kara swung her hammer as they dove, smashing through a wooden shield with a crack that split the air. Blood sprayed, warm and sticky, across her face, the iron tang sharp in her nose. Arrows whistled past, one grazing her arm, but she barely flinched, her focus locked on the enemy captain barking orders from a perch. She urged Ashka forward, the dragon's claws raking the dirt, and with a yell, she hurled her hammer. It spun end over end, a blur of steel, and struck the captain's chest, caving it in with a wet crunch. He toppled, lifeless, and the archers faltered, their cries drowned by Ashka's bellow.

Dren hacked through a soldier nearby, his axe dripping red, and gaped at Kara, his gruff voice breaking through the din. "Bloody hell, she's fiercer than any knight!" His shock was palpable, his earlier scorn crumbling as he watched her carve a path through the fray. Kara's lips twitched, a flicker of pride sparking in her chest, but it snuffed out as a spear streaked toward her. Talon lunged, his sword deflecting it mid-flight, the blade scraping with a screech. The spear's tip grazed his shoulder, blood blooming through his tunic, and he staggered, his gray eyes meeting hers as he growled, "Don't get smug, Smith. Stay sharp."

The battlefield was a haze of smoke and screams, the ground slick with mud and gore. Kara's heart pounded, her breath ragged as she swung again, her hammer crushing a soldier's helm, the impact reverberating up her arm. Ashka snapped at an enemy rider, her jaws crunching bone, and the heat in Kara's chest surged, a wildfire of strength and fury. She thought, I'm not here for their praise, but I'll damn well live through this. Dren fought closer now, his axe swinging in rhythm with her hammer, a grudging nod passing between them as the enemy line buckled.

Victory came hard and fast, the last of Veyl's scouts fleeing into the trees, their torches flickering like dying stars. Kara slid off Ashka, her boots sinking into the churned earth, her warhammer dripping crimson. Dren clapped her shoulder, his grip firm, his voice rough but warm. "I was wrong, lass. You're a bloody storm." She nodded, too tired to reply, her gaze drifting to Talon. He stood apart, wiping blood from his blade, his shoulder slumped from the wound. He didn't speak, just watched her with those stormy gray eyes, a flicker of something—respect, maybe—breaking through his icy mask.

Kara wiped sweat from her brow, her chest heaving as she met his stare. He saved me, she thought, but why? Talon turned away, his silhouette sharp against the smoldering battlefield, and she felt the weight of his unspoken thoughts: She's more than I expected. She could lead. The rebels cheered, their voices hoarse but triumphant, and Ashka's low growl joined them, her amber eyes gleaming with pride. Kara's hand tightened on her hammer, a vow settling into her bones: This is just the start. I'll forge my place, one strike at a time.