The Widow's Forge

The hammer struck the glowing steel with a force that sent sparks dancing across the dimly lit forge. Hana's arms trembled with each swing, her sweat mingling with the soot staining her skin. The blade she shaped was not just metal—it was vengeance.

"You'll ruin the temper if you strike too hard."

The voice came from the shadows, smooth as silk but edged with something colder. Hana didn't stop. She knew who it was.

"I don't need lessons from a ghost," she muttered, driving the hammer down again.

Kalima Chileshe stepped into the flickering light of the forge, his presence like a smoldering ember. The air around him shimmered faintly, the scent of burnt ozone clinging to his ragged robes. His eyes, gold as a predator's, tracked the rhythm of her strikes. "You're forging a killer's weapon," he observed. "But you're no killer."

Hana's grip tightened. "I wasn't. Before they burned my husband alive for hiding you."

The accusation hung between them, thick as the smoke curling toward the rafters. Kalima's jaw clenched, but he didn't deny it. The scars of his past were written in the ashes of villages like hers.

Outside, the wind howled through the ruins of Frost Moon Province, carrying whispers of the Iron Fist Legion's approach. Their banners—black serpents coiled around a clenched fist—had been spotted beyond the southern ridge. Hana had three days, maybe less, before they came for her too.

"You won't stop them with that," Kalima said, nodding at the half-formed blade. "Zhang Wei's men wear qi-infused armor. Regular steel shatters against it."

"Then what do you suggest?" she snapped, finally turning to face him. "Prayer? Surrender?"

A slow, dangerous smile curled his lips. "Fire."

Before she could react, Kalima reached past her, his fingers brushing the red-hot metal. The blade ignited, blue-white flames licking hungrily along its edge. Hana stumbled back, heart pounding. The heat was unbearable, yet the hilt remained cool in her grasp.

"Now it will cut through anything," he said quietly. "Even regret."

A crash echoed from the courtyard. The sound of splintering wood. Heavy boots.

"They're early," Hana breathed.

Kalima's eyes darkened. "Stay behind me."

She scoffed, hefting the flaming sword. "This is my forge. My fight."

The door burst open. Three legionnaires stormed in, their bronze-faced masks reflecting the firelight. The lead soldier's voice was mechanized, distorted by the qi-core embedded in his throat. "By order of Warlord Zhang Wei, this property is forfeit. The woman is to be taken for questioning."

Hana bared her teeth. "Come and try."

The fight was brutal. The first soldier lunged, his glaive humming with energy. Hana parried, the flames of her blade searing through his weapon like paper. He screamed as the fire spread to his armor, melting the metal into his flesh.

Kalima moved like a specter, his fingers barely grazing the second soldier's mask. The man's eyes widened an instant before his entire head erupted in blue fire, collapsing into ash before he hit the ground.

The third soldier hesitated, then reached for a signal flare at his belt. Hana was faster. She drove her sword through his chest, the flames consuming him from within. His dying gasp was a whisper: "The warlord... knows..."

Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of dying embers. Hana's hands shook. She had killed before—game, bandits—but never men. Never like this.

Kalima watched her, his expression unreadable. "First time?"

She wiped her brow, smearing soot and blood. "Does it get easier?"

"No." He turned toward the door. "But it gets necessary."

Outside, the village bell began to toll. Not an alarm—a summons. The deep, resonant notes carried the cadence of an imperial edict.

Hana frowned. "The magistrate never calls a gathering at night."

Kalima's shoulders tensed. "Unless it's a trap."

A figure emerged from the alleyway—a hunched old woman wrapped in tattered white robes. The sigil of the White Lotus Society was embroidered on her sleeve. "You're both wrong," she croaked. "It's a trial."

Hana's blood ran cold. "For who?"

The old woman's milky eyes fixed on Kalima. "The Ghost Tigers. All of them."

A distant roar split the sky—not thunder, but something alive. Something furious. The wind carried the scent of charred flesh and ozone.

John Mwanabeti was coming.

And the legion would be waiting.

Kalima exhaled, his breath curling like smoke. "Then we don't have much time."

Hana tightened her grip on the sword. The flames flickered, reflecting in her hardened gaze. "Then we'd better move."

The Widow's Forge was no longer a place of steel and sorrow.

It was the spark before the wildfire.