Forge of Winds

"Steps of the Anvil"

Where silence folds the iron's song,

 And breath aligns where wills belong,

 The path once held behind estate,

 Now opens wide to welcome fate.

A blade not drawn, a voice not tamed,

 Yet steps are taken, lives are named.

 Within the heat and hammer's din,

 The boy begins to forge within.*

"Sparks Before Sunlight"

The morning rose with a honeyed light that crept across William's windowsill, pulling golden fingers across the grain of the floor. His eyes blinked open with a fire already dancing beneath them—today, he would leave the Denvers Estate. For the first time. For the village. For his first sword.

Excitement nipped at his limbs as he wrapped his training robes swiftly, braiding his belt with a tug that mirrored his heartbeat. Every motion held the eager rhythm of departure.

He paused at the mirror, adjusting the folds near his shoulders. "You've waited for this," he whispered to his reflection. "Make it count."

Outside, the courtyard stretched beneath a sky of quiet gold. The dew shimmered along the stones, and at the center stood Lamile, her posture regal, wooden sword held gently like a brush before a canvas.

"Shall we begin, Young Lord?" she asked, eyes narrowed with a smile.

"Anytime, Lamile," he replied, mirroring her bow. And then, like the breaking of still glass, the swords began to sing.

Wood cracked against wood, breath met breath. William shifted into Flowing Petal, redirecting her thrust with a sweep, then twisted into Cross Gust, hoping to link Mindra and Lumora. But the moment he tried to cycle between Nexuses, the aura snapped like taut thread.

His movement staggered. Lamile caught him on the shoulder with a light tap.

"Again," she said simply, expression neutral.

They reset. He took a breath, and tried again—this time switching from Genesis to Pyron mid-parry. The heat flared too fast, too soon. He recoiled, the burn in his arm fading as quickly as it came. The sting wasn't physical—it was failure biting.

"Focus on one breath at a time," Lamile instructed. "You're trying to leap before the wind has carried your first step."

He nodded, pressing his lips together until they thinned. Sweat kissed his brow though the session had barely begun.

Their blades met again. This time, he held to Genesis—pure control, steady movement. His strikes were less flashy, more contained. Lamile danced around his edge, but didn't press too hard.

She advanced with a low sweep. He countered with Silent Anchor, holding his ground with a firm stance—just as she'd taught.

Her next feint mirrored his mistake from two months ago, but this time he didn't fall for it. A soft click of approval echoed in her throat.

After a final exchange of thrust and counter, she stepped back, raising her blade in salute.

"Better," she said, her voice quiet but clear. "The sword is a partner, not a ladder. You don't climb to mastery—you walk with it."

William lowered his sword, chest heaving slightly. The wood trembled faintly in his grip, not from fatigue—but anticipation.

The courtyard basked in a new light, the sun now firmly risen, casting long shadows behind them. As he walked back inside, his feet pressed softly against stone, echoing the silent promise of all that was to come.

"Whispers in the Steam"

The bathwater was chilled from the northern springs, a silver surface that shimmered like a mirror beneath the morning sky. William eased into it slowly, breath catching in his throat as the cold climbed up his spine. Muscles tensed, then softened.

Steam rose in gentle plumes around him, curling like spirits whispering through the marble chamber. His arms rested along the edge, fingers tracing invisible patterns while droplets formed constellations on his skin.

He had trained. He had stumbled. He had grown. And today, he would step beyond the world he knew.

He closed his eyes.

The voices of the estate faded. Only the soft echo of dripping water remained. He remembered Robert's firm nod that morning, Emil's smile, and Lamile's stern but proud gaze. He wasn't the same boy who'd collapsed four months ago. But was he yet the one they believed in?

His gaze drifted upward. Through the open ceiling slats, the sky appeared endless. His heart pounded in rhythm with the shifting light. Beneath his skin, he felt the subtle stirrings of his four Nexuses—Genesis, Pyron, Lumora, Mindra—quiet, ever-present companions.

He reached inside, not to summon them, but to listen. The harmony felt warm—until something shifted.

A flicker. A pulse. A sudden, silent weight—like a thread pulling through fabric. One of the Nexuses—Mindra, perhaps—glitched for a heartbeat. Not pain, not fear, but… alignment. Not with him, but with something distant.

He blinked.

The sensation vanished.

He exhaled slowly, brushing damp hair from his brow.

"What was that?" he murmured, though no answer came.

Perhaps it was anticipation. Perhaps the excitement of the day. Or maybe the myths of ancient connection—tales of powers beyond the reach of common breath. Mythic ties, Emil once called them. Threads not bound by time or flesh.

He remembered an old line she once read aloud—"The soul remembers what the body forgets."

A soft smile curved his lips.

He wasn't afraid. Not today.

His hands sank beneath the water, cupping warmth between his palms. He held the heat there, like it was something fragile.

"I'm ready."

And in that stillness, the water rippled, reflecting not a child, but someone slowly becoming more.

"Petals in the Wind"

The afternoon sun hung high and golden, casting long shadows across the Denvers Estate as a grand, ebony-lacquered carriage stood ready at the arched gate. Its wheels were lined with gilded brass, its doors etched with the eagle crest of House Denvers—a symbol that shimmered with quiet nobility.

Two black stallions pawed the cobblestone, sleek and alert, their manes braided with silken cords. The coachman, clad in formal livery, tipped his cap as Robert and Emil stepped aboard. William followed, eyes wide.

The velvet interior was rich with embroidered cushions, its scent a blend of old parchment, rosewood, and something faintly spicy—Emil's favorite perfume. As the door shut with a dignified click, the carriage began its descent toward Ariadera.

It rolled down the cobbled path from the estate, wheels humming a steady rhythm that echoed within William's chest. He sat between his parents, sandwiched by warmth and pride, his feet barely brushing the floor. The breeze carried the scent of pine, hearth smoke, and distant market spices.

Emil reached over to adjust the fold in his collar. "You'll charm the whole village if you keep looking that bright."

William laughed, tugging the sleeves of his robe. "I hope I charm the sword first."

Robert chuckled at that, eyes distant as if remembering a younger version of himself.

As they passed the outer stone arch, William leaned out slightly to take in the sights. The estate road narrowed into a gravel path, flanked by rolling green slopes and patches of early bloom. Soon the first rooftops of Ariadera came into view, clay-tiled and wood-beamed, humble and warm.

The village was alive.

Children darted past fruit carts, chasing painted wooden hoops. Merchants shouted greetings as they arranged baskets of fresh produce—squash, apples, purple-root, and sun-pickled herbs. On the eastern stretch, rows of tidy cottages lined the gentle hill, windows open to the sun. A faint chime of bells rang from wind ornaments hanging by the porches.

"The residential quarters," Emil pointed, "Our people. Farmers, healers, scholars. That hill leads to the old farmlands—your great-grandfather tilled the soil there before the Estate was built."

To the west, the tone shifted. The buildings were older, stone-set with moss between the bricks. An old hospital stood near the edge of a tranquil pond, its archways curved like forgotten prayers. White-robed caretakers moved quietly among the shadows.

"That's the clinic," Robert said. "The one spared during the last snow war. Still standing."

William's eyes wandered north, where a ridge of dark mountains rose like ancient sentinels. The forest beyond was dense, evergreen and tall—its branches swallowing the sky. Whispers of fog clung to the treetops.

"That's where my training with Lamile will continue, right?" he asked.

Emil nodded, gently serious. "The wilds test more than your blade."

The carriage turned, and the full splendor of Ariadera's heart opened before them—the Temple of Nirvana.

A grand marble structure with a domed roof that shimmered like pearl, it rose at the center of a circular plaza. Etched murals climbed its outer walls—depictions of goddesses offering light to mortals, feathers descending from the heavens, and a figure robed in radiant light, her arms outstretched as if lifting burdens from the earth. Doves circled the spire as if paying daily tribute.

"The market surrounds the southern ring," Robert said. "Let's take the path around. You'll get to see the soul of Ariadera."

Stalls spilled across the stone ring like wildflowers, each more colorful than the last. One stand overflowed with crystalline wind chimes that rang in soft melodies. Another displayed hand-carved flutes and silver-trimmed masks with exaggerated smiles and tears.

An elderly woman waved at William, her apron smudged with spice powder. "A Denvers boy, are you? The same eyes as your mother! Come, try a honey lotus bun!"

William blinked, unsure, but Emil nodded, and the boy found himself chewing into something warm and sweet that melted like butter.

As they moved further, a group of children passed by carrying scrolls and ink pots. Robert leaned down. "Temple acolytes. They serve, study, and someday choose their path. Many go on to serve Nirvana's word."

They paused at the edge of the southern bridge—a marble stretch connecting the plaza to the smithery quarter. From here, the village layout came alive.

South: market. East: homes and farmlands. West: clinic and history. North: forest and tests to come. Center: light eternal.

But something hung in the air—a tension, perhaps. William noticed an old man at the corner stall muttering about "shadows too close to borders." Another merchant dismissed him with a wave, but the whisper lingered.

Emil noticed his glance.

"Pay no mind," she said softly. "Ariadera has always been near the border. But peace has held… so far."

Robert didn't speak.

As they crossed into the smithery district, the sound of hammers replaced the wind.

A forge was singing.

Apostle Smithery – "Anvil of Intent"

The forge loomed ahead, carved partly into the base of a ridge that jutted like a knuckle from the land. The structure stood broad and low, its blackened stone walls breathing slow curls of smoke. Copper veins ran like molten rivers through the dark stonework, pulsing with soft orange glow where the smithy fires beat strongest. Hanging above the wide double-doors was a great iron emblem—an anvil crowned with wings.

The moment they stepped inside, heat enveloped them. It wasn't oppressive, but alive. The air trembled with the clang of steel against steel, and sparks leapt like fireflies through the semi-dark. Barrels of cooled metal rods stood stacked like soldiers, and walls lined with weapon mounts showcased blades of every shape—none for sale, all retired.

At the far end, hunched over a blazing hearth, stood a man like iron itself.

Martin Morkel. Skin darkened by decades of firelight, beard streaked with gray, arms corded with strength. He wore a soot-stained apron over simple linen, sleeves rolled up, and his gaze when it rose was not one of greeting—but of judgment.

"You're the boy?" he asked, voice gravel dragged across stone.

William stepped forward and bowed. "William Denvers, sir."

Martin grunted. "Don't 'sir' me. Either you're worth forging for, or you're not. Let's see."

He motioned to a corner where a large circular vault sat embedded into the wall. Its metallic sheen was darker than iron, more ancient than steel. A rotating wheel formed the lock, etched with unfamiliar runes.

"Open it," Martin said. "No tricks. Just you."

William approached, puzzled but curious. As his fingers touched the wheel, a strange warmth seeped into his skin. Familiar. His mind flashed back to the bath—when the Nexus had flickered.

It was the same feeling.

He gripped the wheel tighter and twisted. Nothing. He tried again, pushing aura into his palms. Still nothing. His arms strained, jaw clenched. The wheel didn't budge.

After three failed attempts, he stepped back, sweat streaking his temple.

"All though I used my aura nexus," he muttered, frustrated, "this damn thing didn't even budge! Damn it."

Behind him, Martin exchanged a glance with Robert. The older man's brow lifted just slightly; Martin's lip curled in a faint, toothless smile.

"You passed," Martin said.

William turned, blinking. "What?"

Martin smirked. "You passed to impress me."

"I don't understand," William replied.

"That wheel's made of Adamantite—what we call a Catastrophic class metal. Can't be moved by aura. But it reacts to something deeper… something most don't even know exists."

Robert spoke then, hand on William's shoulder. "There are two energies within us. Aura—what we use. And mana—what few can tap. Yours responded."

William's eyes widened. "Mana?"

Martin wiped his hands on a cloth. "If aura is the body's fire, then mana is the soul's breath. Aura is discipline and strength. Mana... is instinct and resonance. Most never awaken it. But if you've stirred it, even just faintly…"

He led them to a wall lined with samples—discs of gleaming metal, each labeled with clean engravings.

"C-class," he said, tapping the first row. "Steel—reliable. Bronze—versatile, though dated. Silver—ceremonial, bonds slightly with mana."

"B-class—Moonessence." He pointed to a pale, pearlescent sample. "Light, strong, and takes on the nature of the user's energy—mana or aura. Perfect for beginners stepping beyond basics."

"A-class—Starforge." A dark silver disc with glowing streaks. "Fallen from the stars. Tough, unpredictable, yet elegant. Reacts to memory and emotion."

"S-class—Orihalcum and Obsidian. Orihalcum flows with aura—channeling it as if alive. Obsidian fractures, but with deadly precision. Beautiful, if unforgiving."

"SS-class," he said, almost reverently, "Mithril and Dragonforged Steel. Rare. Precious. Forged only for those who live by their blade. Dragonforged Steel carries the remnants of scaled power—it burns when held by the unworthy."

He paused. Then gestured to the vault.

"Catastrophic-tier. Adamantite. This vault wasn't made to hold items. It was made to defy intrusion. It only answers to the rarest resonance."

Robert raised an eyebrow. "You're explaining too much."

Martin shrugged. "The boy deserves to know."

William stared at the wall of metals, awe thick in his throat. "You… can forge with all of these?"

Martin stepped forward, eyes burning with a craftsman's pride. "I can forge what's worthy. And today… something stirred. Not in the metal. In me."

"You want to forge my blade?" William asked softly.

Martin didn't answer. He didn't need to. The look in his eyes said enough.

But before another word could be spoken—a scream.

Not a startled cry, but a raw, ripping sound—laced with terror.

It pierced the heartbeat of the forge, halting the hammers, snuffing the rhythm of flame. Silence didn't follow. Tension did.

Robert turned first. His stance changed like a drawn blade—calmness replaced with cold readiness. His hand went to his hilt without thought.

A second scream followed. Louder. Closer. Urgent.

Outside.

Martin's eyes narrowed. Emil tightened her grip on William's hand. The light around them shifted—not just from the fire, but something deeper, colder.

Martin moved to the heavy doors, unlatched the iron bolt, and threw them wide.

The forge's heat spilled into the open air, chasing the shadows that now sprawled unnaturally across the village square.

No words were needed.

The Denver family rushed out of the smithery, boots striking the earth, their silhouettes swallowed by the encroaching dusk.

 "Where Iron Meets Dusk"

Beneath the forge where silence fled,

 The wind stood still, the fire dead.

 A scream cuts deeper than a blade,

 In fading light, a vow is made.

The hammer sleeps, the steel grows cold,

 Yet stories stir in shadows bold.

For hearts that forge through pain and dust,

Shall rise again—in steel, in trust.