Herald of death

"Sylas?!" Edgar’s voice booms as he enters through the smithy’s door. He strides past the forge entrance, shielding his face from the blazing heat. "I told you to go home! Don’t tell me you worked all night."

Sylas remains focused on the steel pommel he’s shaping with a grindstone, not even glancing at Edgar. Once the pommel reaches the desired shape, he places it on his workbench. He turns, covering a cracked Wind Ether crystal that had been fueling a furnace. The flames die down, revealing the tang of a blade being tempered within.

"I said the spears could wait. We don’t owe the guard to deliver on time, especially when they’re bleeding us dry with their mandated prices." Edgar pours water from a large barrel and hands it to Sylas. "You’ve got to be careful. That new ability of yours might keep you standing forever, but look at you—there isn’t a drop of water left in your body."

Sylas takes the cup, realizing that dehydration might be the source of his headache. He pulls the blade from the furnace with his bare hand, dipping it into a barrel of oil. Flames erupt, licking up his forearm. He breathes steadily, drawing in Ether with each breath to fuel his Heat resistance.

Edgar’s gaze shifts to the thirty spears bound together in a wide bundle. He approaches the oil bath, his eyes narrowing as he inspects the blade—a faithful replica of Ethan's Starfell long sword. He closes his eyes, clearly examining the Ether within the steel.

"What do you think?" Sylas asks, a knot forming in his stomach. Watching others judge his work has always made him anxious, even after countless times.

"You’ve shaped it well, but the Ether isn’t aligned properly in the metal," Edgar critiques. "Still, forging a sword like this would’ve taken me days. My heart can only manipulate enough Ether for half an hour before I need to rest. You’ve done well."

"Yeah, I fought with it for hours, but no matter what I do, the Ether won’t stay at the blade’s edges; it keeps reverting," Sylas sighs.

Edgar places the blade back on the workbench. "You can’t force Ether. If you push it, it pushes back. You’ll get it one day; it just takes practice."

"Well, it might be a while before I can practice with that kind of ore again," Sylas says, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He’s been waiting for Edgar to hear this. "My sword forging skill is ready to ascend. I wanted to finish this piece before starting fresh."

Edgar freezes, stunned. "Already?" he stammers, moving to the back of the shop and nearly stumbling over a pile of coal. "That’s incredible news. I’ve got a bottle of wine saved for a day like this. Just give me a minute."

"It’s six in the morning, Sir. Maybe we should celebrate tonight," Sylas suggests. The thought of wine on an empty stomach makes him feel queasy. He grabs the spears and binds them to his back with a rope. "I need to deliver these spears to the guard. I’ll be back after; there are a few orders I need to finish for adventurers."

As Sylas steps outside, he’s met by a slow-moving procession. Priests of Seraphel surround a large stone coffin carried by silver-clad soldiers bearing the Wyvern emblem—a symbol of an ancient, now kingdom-less army dedicated to protecting people from monsters.

The coffin’s lid is adorned with a sculpture of one such soldier, helmetless, his strong, aged face framed by long hair thinning at the temples. Civilians follow, murmuring prayers for his soul.

Sylas places his hand over his heart and looks to the sky. "Radiant Lord of Light, we humbly beseech you to extend your divine protection over the soul of our departed one. In your boundless mercy, shelter them within the warmth of your eternal glow. May they find solace and purpose as an eternal servant of your divine presence."

As he finishes, he hears a woman beside him concluding her own prayer. "—May they rest undisturbed, cradled in the quiet of your boundless night, safe from all harm, and at peace in the stillness of your eternal domain."

She walks away, a basket of herbs in her arm. Her prayer to Kaliathra, the goddess of death, is not uncommon or ill-intended, but it unsettles Sylas to think that someone wouldn’t advocate for a soul to ascend to Seraphel.

"Theology leveled up."

Sylas resumes walking, holding the spears upright as he weaves through the procession. It seems endless. If a soldier of this order is being buried here, it’s likely in the cemetery behind the castle where noble families' crypts are located. This means the procession will pass in front of the garrison—his destination.

He slips into an alleyway to avoid walking through the crowd. A small group of scruffy men loiter there, one of them juggling a curved dagger. Sylas slows, wary of the encounter. He resists the urge to turn back, knowing it might provoke pursuit. They eye him, and one man, who had been lounging against the wall, straightens.

The man juggling the dagger chuckles. "Go on, kid. We’re not robbers. Just waiting to escort a merchant back to his ship," he says, sheathing the dagger.

Sylas walks past, his eyes darting between them. They watch him with amusement until he gets too close. Three of them step back, and Sylas realizes he’s unintentionally let his aura slip. He quickly restrains the Ether in his heart, stopping the waves of energy radiating from him. "Sorry," he mumbles as he passes, leaving them in uneasy silence.

Soon, he reaches the garrison. The guards on duty hail their comrades above, who open the portcullis just in time for Sylas to enter without stopping. The garrison’s expansive yard is filled with young recruits, no older than thirteen, stabbing wooden mannequins with sticks.

"They’re all new," Sylas whispers, amused by their uncoordinated, unbalanced strikes. Their instructor kicks their legs with his own stick, correcting their stances.

Three recruits stand to the side, panting in sweat-soaked linen clothes. The bulkiest of them—bulky for a thirteen-year-old, at least—spots Sylas chuckling at the sight of his comrades. He marches over, taunting, "Blacksmith, what’s so funny?! Think you can do better than us real Warriors?"

"You’re far from being a real Warrior," a woman’s voice cuts in. Captain Cassandra Emberlain, Captain of the guard and this garrison, descends the stairs from her quarters. "Real warriors recognize when they’re in the presence of someone far superior. Take his spears and distribute them among your comrades. Then, do twenty more laps around the garrison before rejoining practice."

The boys stiffen and obey, taking the bundle of spears from Sylas. "You give me too much credit, Captain. I wouldn’t be able to attack another man."

"Not even if your life depended on it?" she asks, handing Sylas a pouch of coins.

Sylas quickly counts the coins aloud, fearing to appear impolite or mistrustful. Cassandra waits in silence until he says, "That’s forty-five silvers. Everything’s here."

"I didn’t know you could count," Cassandra remarks. "Were you taught to read as well?"

"Yes, Captain, my father taught me," Sylas replies. A shiver runs down his spine as he notices Cassandra eyeing him with interest.

"There’s something we need to discuss," Cassandra says, motioning for him to follow her back up the stairs.

Sylas follows, a knot tightening in his gut. He wonders what she could want from him. Is it more work for the forge? Could she need help because she can’t read? Or is her interest in him something more personal? The thought makes him blush, though he quickly dismisses it as ridiculous.

They reach her quarters, a spacious room with wooden tables covered in large, unfurled maps. She gestures to a wooden stool in front of her desk and a large, velvet-covered chair. Sylas hesitates to sit, unsure of what to expect.

She sits in her chair and retrieves a rolled parchment from a locked wooden box. She places her sword on the table with a resounding thud, revealing its intricate details. The guard of the long, yet thin blade takes the shape of a flying falcon. Eldorian sigils garnish the wings of the bird. "Sky Dancer," Sylas reads quietly.

"More interested in my sword than in what I have to say?" Cassandra teases.

Sylas snaps out of his admiration. "Sorry, Captain. I was just admiring the craftsmanship. The detail on the feathers is exquisite—like fine jewelry. It doesn’t add any practical advantage, but it certainly exudes prestige."

"Your master forged it for my father when he was just a bit older than you," she says, unrolling the parchment on her desk. "You’re from Elmswood, right? The village attacked by Orcs?"

"Yes," Sylas replies, finally sitting down, momentarily forgetting his earlier anxiety. He glances at the parchment—a letter reporting an Orc horde attacking cities in Caeloria, their northern neighbor.

"By order of the regent, we’re forming units to reinforce our borders in case of an invasion. Elmswood might have been an advanced raiding party," she explains.

"Why are you telling me this?" Sylas asks. "I haven’t heard anything about Caeloria in the streets, so it must be a secret."

"It won’t stay that way for long. Refugees from Caeloria’s southern cities are crossing into our borders," Cassandra says. "Our last war was forty years ago. Our troops have only fought monsters and bandits since."

"I still don’t see why you’re telling me this," Sylas admits.

Cassandra leans back in her chair, her eyes locking onto his. "You’re right. Normally, I wouldn’t share this with a Blacksmith. But you’re more than that."

Sylas shifts uneasily, the knot in his stomach tightening. "I’m just a Blacksmith, Captain."

Cassandra’s lips curl into a faint smile. "You’re modest, but that’s not true. Your skills are exceptional, thanks to your talent. You’re better with a blade than any soldier under my command, and your mastery of Ether rivals mine. You have potential, and we need every capable hand in the days to come."

"Potential for what?" Sylas asks, his heart pounding. He knows the answer but dreads hearing it.

"Your talent is rare. Most who possess it die young. You have the potential to become a hero, someone who could protect this country from threats the common soldier cannot," she says. "The guard needs officers who can inspire others with their strength. And you need training and experience. You could become a legend."

"I’m not that man," Sylas says, immediately regretting the force in his voice. "I’ve never led men in battle. I’ve never even led men in a mine. I’m a blacksmith, not a Warrior. What good would my abilities be on a battlefield?"

"Abilities can be given, experience can be earned, and leadership can be taught. But talents? True talents like yours are rare. We need you to apply it to a greater cause, for which you will be well compensated. Reach the heights of the system, and you’ll be rewarded with ennoblement, lands, and riches beyond what most men can dream of."

Sylas stares at her, his heart pounding, torn between the urge to refuse and the fear of what refusal might bring. He doesn’t want to go to war, doesn’t want to fight. He’s nearly lost his life both times he’s had to fight.

"I don’t need money or land, and certainly not at the cost of my life. I’m happy with my work and my home," Sylas says, standing up, ready to leave. "I’m sorry. I don’t see why you think I could be anything like you imagine. Good day."

"The regent is the one who saw potential in you," Cassandra says, stopping him, her voice turning cold and authoritative. "And he won’t let you waste it in a forge. Under article eight, paragraph five of the Amberfell constitution, the state can enlist anyone deemed necessary for the kingdom’s safety. Refusing this summons is punishable by death. You’re enlisting, whether you like it or not."

Sylas’ breath catches in his throat as Cassandra’s words hang in the air, inescapable. The room seems to close in on him, the weight of the situation pressing down on his shoulders. It feels like a trap he’s walked into willingly.

"But my work at the forge—" he begins, desperation creeping into his voice.

"—will be taken over by another capable hand," Cassandra interrupts, her tone final. She places another parchment on the desk, a prefilled enlistment form assigning Sylas as a Sergeant. "The regent’s orders are not to be questioned, Sergeant."