The forge was still burning.
Not with wild, angry flames like you'd see in a city smithy during wartime. No, this fire was steady—quiet, even—like it knew exactly what it was being asked to do and wanted to get it right.
Inside the forgehouse, heat stuck to the walls like thick smoke, and the scent of old iron and fresh sweat filled the air. Every surface was dusted in ash. The windows were shut tight against the wind outside, and the only light came from the fire itself—low and golden, casting long shadows over the room.
Einar Veylor stood at the anvil, shoulders hunched, shirt tied around his waist, muscles slick with sweat. His hands were rough and calloused, and one of them was wrapped in a cloth stained dark from an earlier burn. He didn't seem to notice the pain.
The metal he worked wasn't like anything he'd used before.
It didn't ring like steel.
It didn't bend like iron.
It listened.
He didn't speak to it, not out loud, but in his mind, every strike was a word.
Hold strong.
Be pure.
Protect her.
Outside, the night had settled in. The sun had vanished beneath the western cliffs hours ago, but the sky was far from dark. Three moons hung high above Raelthorne—one full, one a sliver, and one barely visible, glowing faintly like a smudge on the sky.
The people of Raelthorne were quiet people. Not poor, but not rich. Not warriors, but not weak. They farmed and traded and worshipped in the old way—simple prayers to quiet gods, said with folded hands and heads bowed.
Tonight, none of them knew what was being made in Einar's forge.
None of them knew what was coming.
And none of them—not even Einar—could imagine what his little ring would one day become.
He paused only once.
Set the tongs down. Wiped his forehead with his arm. Looked toward the back door of the forgehouse, which led into his house behind.
Beyond that door, down a narrow hallway and past a wall of faded family sketches, was a small room. And in that room was a bed. And in that bed was Eliyra.
His daughter.
Ten years old. Soft brown hair, always tangled. Big eyes that never stayed still. Voice like a bell when she laughed.
She hadn't laughed in days.
Eliyra was sick.
Not the kind of sick you could name. Not a fever. Not something a village healer could brew a medicine for.
It was deeper than that. It was slower.
Something old and invisible curling up inside her like smoke inside the lungs.
Einar had watched it take her strength a little at a time.
First, her hands couldn't hold the brush to paint.
Then, her feet stopped running through the orchard.
Then, her smile grew thin.
Then, her voice grew quiet.
Now she mostly slept.
And Einar mostly worked.
Not because he thought it would fix her.
Because it was the only thing left he could do.
He had mined the metal himself—weeks ago, from a ravine near the northern cliffs where the ground shimmered strangely at night. The other miners had refused to go near it.
They said the ore was cursed. That it had fallen from the sky long ago, during the wars of the gods.
That it was a gift no man should try to use.
Einar didn't believe in curses.
He believed in choices.
And he chose to make something for his daughter. Not to sell. Not to give away. Not to wear as some proud token.
Just to give.
Because what else can a father give when everything else has failed?
He turned back to the anvil and lifted the ring with a soft cloth. It was still warm, glowing faintly.
The shape was simple. Round, smooth, unadorned.
But it held something no spell could copy.
It held a father's stubborn hope.
He took it to the water basin. Let it steam and cool.
When he pulled it out again, it didn't shine. It didn't sparkle.
But it felt finished.
Like something had finally found its purpose.
Einar looked at it, eyes tired, and whispered, "Please."
He didn't say the rest.
The gods were always listening.
The night was cold.
Not bitter—not yet—but sharp around the edges, like it had just remembered winter was coming and wanted to warn the world before it arrived. The wind outside had picked up, brushing past the forgehouse like fingers trailing across a drum.
Einar stood in the quiet hallway, the still-warm ring in his hand, wrapped in a bit of soft cloth he'd kept from Ela's old blanket—the one she used to carry everywhere before she grew too tired to hold it.
He hesitated before the door.
The wood was thin, old, patched in one corner with clay and straw. It didn't creak when he opened it. He'd made sure of that.
Inside, the room smelled of dried herbs and ink. Sheets of paper were scattered on the table under the window, most half-finished drawings. Some of birds, some of moons, one of him, clumsily sketched but full of heart. Her small collection of things—rocks she liked, a dull blue marble, a wooden cat missing a tail—sat in a neat line along the window.
And there, on the narrow bed beneath a hand-stitched quilt, lay Eliyra.
She looked smaller than he remembered.
Maybe it was the way her body curled in on itself. Maybe it was the pale light from the moons painting her face with softer shadows.
She was awake, just barely, her eyes fluttering open when she heard the door.
"Papa…"
Her voice was little more than a breath.
He crossed the room and knelt beside her bed, setting the cloth-wrapped bundle on the edge of her pillow. He didn't smile—not fully—but his eyes warmed.
"Brought you something."
She blinked at the bundle.
"What is it?"
"Open it."
Her fingers moved slow—shaky but careful. She pulled the cloth back and stared at the ring.
For a long moment, she didn't say anything.
Then her lips curled, just slightly.
"It's pretty."
Einar let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"You like it?"
"I do."
She turned it over in her hands. It looked too large for her fingers, but she slipped it onto her thumb. It glowed faintly.
"Is it magic?" she asked.
Einar smiled at last. "Not the kind you're thinking of."
"Then what kind?"
"The kind that stays."
She nodded slowly and closed her eyes, hand resting on her chest with the ring still on her finger.
He watched her for a while.
Watched her breathing.
Watched her chest rise and fall.
Too shallow.
Too slow.
*She doesn't have long,* Einar thought to himself.
Just a thought. A cruel one.
But not untrue.
Eliyra spoke again, barely above a whisper.
"Will you stay here tonight?"
Einar swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.
"Of course."
She shifted, just enough to make space beside her on the bed.
He lay down gently, boots still on, head propped on one arm so he could watch her.
"Papa?"
"Mm?"
"I don't want to go."
His heart cracked.
"You're not going anywhere."
She didn't answer. She just held his hand.
The ring glowed.
The three moons moved slowly over the house.
And for one brief moment…
The world stayed still.
It started with the dogs.
A low growl. Then a bark—sharp, panicked—tearing through the quiet like a knife across silk. Then another. Then many.
Einar opened his eyes.
He was still lying beside Eliyra. Her breath was warm against his shoulder. She was asleep again, fingers wrapped loosely around the ring.
Outside, the dogs were howling.
Not angry.
Afraid.
He sat up slowly.
That was when he heard the first scream.
It came from the edge of the village—a man's voice, then silence. Not the kind of silence that comes after someone finishes yelling, but the kind that falls when something has been cut short.
Einar was on his feet before he realized it, boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud. He didn't even stop to tie his belt. He moved straight to the window and pulled back the curtain.
The hills were glowing.
No—burning.
Fires.
Small at first, then growing fast.
Shapes moved against the firelight—not villagers. Too tall. Too wrong.
Einar's mouth went dry.
Another scream—this one closer.
He turned toward Eliyra.
She stirred but didn't wake.
The ring on her hand was glowing now—brighter than before, flickering with soft pulses.
"Stay here," he whispered.
She didn't answer.
He didn't expect her to.
He ran outside.
Smoke met him at the door, thick and bitter. The air tasted like ash and something worse—something metallic. He covered his mouth and ducked low, instinct from an old war kicking in without welcome.
Across the village, houses had begun to burn.
People were running—barefoot, shouting names, carrying children, dragging carts. Some were cut down in the street before they got three steps. Others disappeared into alleys and didn't come back out.
Einar grabbed the nearest man—young, blood on his face.
"What's happening?!"
The boy just pointed.
And Einar saw.
They weren't men.
Or if they were, they had long since forgotten what being one meant.
Armored in black and silver, faces hidden behind helms shaped like beasts. Their weapons were jagged, runed, curved in ways that made his stomach twist.
They moved in formation. Efficient. Not like raiders.
Like soldiers.
He watched one of them raise a hand, and a blast of fire ripped through the front of the baker's home like it was made of paper.
Another one pulled a girl—no older than Ela—from a doorway and drove a blade through her back before her scream could even reach her mouth.
Einar's body moved before his thoughts caught up.
He grabbed the boy and shoved him toward the trees.
"Go! Run!"
The boy ran.
Einar turned back to the forge.
He had no sword.
But he had tools.
The hammer was still hot when he grabbed it.
He bolted through the forgehouse, down the hallway, and into Ela's room.
She was sitting up now, eyes wide, the glow from the ring lighting her whole hand.
"Papa?"
"We have to go."
But it was already too late.
The wall exploded.
Stone and fire tore inward, sending shards across the room. Einar threw himself over Ela, shielding her with his back. His shoulder screamed as a chunk of wood sliced through skin and muscle.
Then came the roar.
And the sound of boots on scorched wood.
He turned—bleeding—and saw one of them.
Standing in the rubble.
Nine feet tall, armored from head to toe, weapon dragging behind him like a butcher dragging an axe through a meat hall.
The figure stepped forward.
Einar stood between him and Eliyra, teeth gritted.
He raised the hammer.
And for one brief, stupid second…
He believed it would be enough.
The armored soldier stepped through the burning wall like nothing mattered.
One hand held a blade too heavy for any man to swing. The other—empty, gloved in black—curled slightly, like it already knew what it would be breaking.
Einar stood between him and the bed.
He didn't speak. Didn't threaten. Just raised his forge hammer and braced his feet.
"Stay away from her," he growled.
The soldier didn't answer.
He took another step forward.
Then another.
Eliyra whimpered behind him, too weak to scream.
The ring on her hand blazed.
And that's when the soldier noticed it.
His helm tilted. Slight. Measured.
His steps changed.
Einar felt it. The way the man shifted—not toward him, but toward her.
And that was when Einar charged.
He didn't shout.
Didn't call for strength.
Didn't pray.
He just swung the hammer with everything he had—every breath, every scar, every broken hope—straight for the soldier's neck.
The hammer met armor.
Sparks flew.
And the hammer shattered.
Like glass.
Einar stared.
Then the soldier backhanded him across the room.
He hit the far wall hard. Something cracked in his ribs.
Blood filled his mouth. His vision blurred.
He tried to stand—couldn't.
His arm wouldn't move.
Through the smoke, he saw the soldier turn.
Walking now.
Steady.
Straight toward the bed.
Toward Eliyra.
She tried to crawl away.
Couldn't.
The soldier reached for her.
Eliyra's voice rose—weak, hoarse, breaking.
"Papa!"
Einar screamed.
But not with words.
Just sound.
Grief. Terror. Rage.
Then, through the haze, he saw the sword lift.
The blade shimmered.
And it came down.
The world stopped.
No scream.
No cry.
Just the sound of something small—and soft—being ended.
Then silence.
Einar couldn't move.
He saw her hand.
Still.
Ring still glowing.
Faintly.
Flickering.
His eyes blurred with tears and blood.
He dragged himself forward.
Crawled.
Bit by bit.
Until he reached her.
Her eyes were open.
But she was gone.
He clutched her body.
Held her against his chest.
And for the first time in twenty years, he prayed.
Not to a god he could name. Not to any shrine or book or doctrine.
He just screamed into the smoke.
"Please!"
He looked up at the burning ceiling, throat raw.
"I beg you… anyone—anything!"
"Send something. Someone. Let this mean something!"
The soldier raised his blade again.
Einar looked up.
Eyes locked with death.
"Please…"
The sword came down.
The world shook.
The blade never reached him.
It froze mid-swing.
No—time froze.
The fire no longer crackled.
The smoke stopped moving.
The scream caught in Einar's throat never finished leaving his lips.
Everything held its breath.
And then…
There was light.
But not bright.
Not blinding.
Just real.
A slow glow that began inside the ring on Eliyra's small, lifeless hand. It spread outward like ink dropped into water—not violently, but without resistance.
The soldier stepped back—or tried to.
He couldn't move.
None of them could.
The world itself had been paused.
And then the sky answered.
Not with thunder. Not with wind.
But with voice.
It came from everywhere—above, below, within.
Not a single voice, but many.
Male and female. Child and elder. Joy and sorrow.
"A prayer not made in power…"
"…but in love."
"…a weapon forged in hope."
"…a soul not yet shaped."
"…a war not yet named."
"…so be it."
The ring blazed.
Its pale light twisted into something deeper—black and silver and gold at once. It pulled the air into it, drank the flame, bent the walls.
The ground split beneath It.
And from that crack, something rose.
A second ring—forged not by hands, but by will—emerged like a memory being rewritten.
It hovered above Eliyra's chest.
Einar's hand reached for it on instinct.
Not to take it.
To hold what remained of her.
But the ring pulsed.
And vanished.
High above the earth, far beyond the moons, in the place where only the gods speak and only silence listens…
A name was spoken.
"The Veyl."
And with that name, a mark was left upon the world.
Not seen.
Not spoken aloud.
But felt.
In the bones of the land.
In the breath of the sky.
In the souls of things still yet to live.
When time returned…
The soldier stood over nothing.
No body.
No ring.
Einar was gone.
Eliyra was gone.
And the flames began to die on their own.
As if the world itself no longer had the heart to burn.
Far away, in the dark, where starlight touches nothing, the Veyl began to dream.
Of war.
Of ruin.
Of grief.
And of a boy…
…who would one day bleed enough to wake it.