From the very morning, just as Ioran had promised, work began in earnest. Kairu wasn't allowed into the Forge’s treasury, but centaurs brought stone slabs up from below, and the weaponsmiths began shaping them into molds. Kairu had learned this fairly well back in the village, but now he wanted to recreate his father’s blade as precisely as possible, to make a sword that would perfectly suit his hand and weight. From that moment on, for several days he had been diligently working with tools, adjusting the dimensions of the future blade.

  They fed him, though without saying a word. They gave him shelter, allowed him to warm himself by the communal hearth, and, at Ioran’s request, provided him with tools. Now he was entirely absorbed in his work. Time passed unnoticed as he labored, calculating the amount of metal, measuring his hilt, and thinking that everything was going as well as he could possibly hope. Everything was turning out the way he had only dreamed.

  "I’m just the king’s guard," Ioran said two days later, watching him work, "and, honestly, I have no idea how you, blacksmiths, work metal. But let me warn you: the Dragon Forge is not a village smithy. It takes a different kind of skill here."

  Kairu wiped the sweat from his brow and lowered his hammer and chisel.

  "What are you trying to say? That I can't handle it and this whole idea is nonsense?"

  "Why would I say that? I meant you’ll need help from a professional. Moralledo, come here!"

  It was another centaur, old, with long gray hair, who had clearly worked in the Forge his entire life and was accustomed to its heat. He wasn’t forging anything himself, but always approached newcomers readily to offer advice. He looked at Kairu with both interest and skepticism.

  "You want to reforge a blade?" he asked, coming closer. "Strange break… Whose work is it?"

  "Orwell Cassander," Kairu replied through clenched teeth. He wasn’t sure if the old man knew the name, but every memory of it made him shudder.

  "Cassander?!" Moralledo said, surprising him. "The pirate king himself? I remember him... He became famous back when I still held a hammer and tongs in my hands… I still can’t believe it, and I remember with shame the years when his blade’s fame spread across all of Laugdeil. That sword was forged here, in this very Forge. Not by me, by another smith, who now lives somewhere in Vaimar. Yes, yes, it's one of the most powerful swords in Aktida. It was forged from celestial silver, the reserves of which are still kept in the Forge's treasury. So you fought him? I bow to your courage, boy. But if you’re planning to face him again, be more cautious, a blade alone won’t be enough. You’ll need strength, agility, and experience."

  "I know. But first, I want this sword to return to its sheath. It’s my father's last gift, I can’t just throw it away. My heart tells me that reforged, it will still be of use."

  "I’ll help you," Moralledo offered. "Naturally, you’ll do the main work yourself on the day the Forge is lit. Don’t worry, I can see in your eyes you’ve got experience. Until then, I’ll teach you what you need to do. Forget all the forges you've worked in before, you’ll have to learn much from scratch…"

  And that turned out to be true.

  When the mold was finished, Moralledo brought out a silver ingot from the treasury, one that seemed to glow from within. Only a few days remained until the Spring Equinox. It was time to recall all the skills Kairu had learned in his village life and to gain new ones, listening to Moralledo’s stories. In the treasury, they also found a work apron and sturdy gloves. Looking at all the preparations, the centaurs’ plans and actions, Kairu suddenly felt like an eighteen-year-old boy again, about to forge something truly important for the first time without his father's help, and knowing that even a small mistake could only be corrected a year later…

  The night before, Ioran advised him to get to bed early. The fire would be lit at midnight and would burn until sunset. Kairu curled up in the cave, shivering from the cold and wrapping himself in his cloak, but he couldn’t sleep from the anxiety. He only managed to doze off a few hours before midnight, forcing himself to calm down.

  It felt like only a minute had passed before Ioran shook him awake. The cave was pitch dark, and lively voices could be heard outside.

  "It’s time," Moralledo whispered as he approached. "Everyone’s already out, ten minutes till the start. I brought the apron and gloves. Change and come out. We’ll wait by your anvil near the tower. The hammer and tongs will be placed there too."

  Both centaurs vanished into the darkness, and Kairu barely managed to force himself to get up and step outside. Sleep fled quickly, giving way to fear. Kairu mentally reviewed the steps for hardening the blade, shaping it, and attaching it to the hilt. For some reason, he muttered the long forgotten words of a prayer to Aktos, surprised by his memory. Then he approached the anvil, facing the tower.

  The night sky was clear, stars shining brightly, illuminating the Dragon Forge. The king and queen stood off to the side, and around the tower a dense ring of weaponsmiths had gathered. Initially, twelve stone tables had stood around the Forge, now there were many more, and nearly a hundred centaurs were preparing to work on their creations.

  "As soon as the fire flares up, take the ingot and follow Master Diallaro," said Moralledo, pointing to a tall centaur nearby. "Once he completes his part, go to the lever, attach the ingot to the hoist, and carry it into the fire. Then go down the second staircase—your mold will already be filled. Take it and pull it by the rope to the water vat. The metal melted in the Forge cools in seconds. After that, scoop some water and douse it... You know the rest."

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Kairu nodded. His throat was dry.

  The centaurs prayed too, folding their hands, gracefully kneeling and closing their eyes. Kairu stood still, staring at the white tower. In the deep silence, he could hear each beat of his heart. Suddenly, a white lightning bolt slashed across the sky above them, the ground trembled dully, and from beneath it burst a flame that shot up from the very center of the tower into the black dome above. The rocks shook, the earth groaned, spewing a terrifying fountain of fire that seemed to connect the sky and mountains, and a supernatural deafening roar came from above. Kairu’s eyes blurred, horrific tongues of flame raged, held in place by the white columns of the tower, which now blazed and sparked with runes. The centaurs rose in unison, as if on command, and in synchronized steps marched up the stone stairs to the block system at the top. Kairu followed Diallaro, carefully carrying the ingot, gleaming in the blinding firelight. The Forge radiated unimaginable heat, but the Rune of Cold in his apron kept his body from overheating, though his face still felt the full force of dragon fire. The line moved slowly, but at last, Kairu stood on the upper step, seeing and hearing nothing around him. There was only the fire, the ingot in his hand, and sweat streaming into his eyes.

  The centaur ahead of him pulled a mechanism resembling stone scales toward himself, placed several small pieces of metal onto the dish, and then turned a lever. The dish descended, the tower groaned and roared, instantly transforming solid metal into gleaming liquid.

  The winch rose, and Kairu reached out and placed the ingot on the pan. For a moment, it seemed to him that even the mere proximity of dragon fire would incinerate him. He ran down the other staircase and saw a centaur at the base of the tower, standing beside the mold where a thin stream of molten silver flowed.

  At last, the mold, mounted on wooden wheels, filled up, and Kairu grabbed the rope, pulling the stone slab toward him. The metal solidified instantly, taking the shape of a black blade with a small hilt. Kairu rolled the mold to the vat of water. A scoop hung on the edge; drawing water, he splashed it over the metal. A jet of steam shot upward, and Kairu took the blade with tongs and lowered it into the vat. The water hissed, splashing over the stones.

  "That’s a good beginning," Kairu thought.

  Now, gripping the cooled blade with the tongs, he returned to the Forge and climbed the steps to the parapet, stepping into the circle of centaurs who had placed their creations on the stones. The familiar music of the forge rang out around him, the sword gleamed in the blood-red light and grew red-hot. Kairu rushed downward, nearly burning himself on the black metal, laid the blank next to his old hilt on the table, aligned them, and began to hammer it into place.

  This was the hardest part of the work. Night passed unnoticed, and the sun began to rise above the cliffs as Kairu descended from the tower for the hundredth time and struck the gleaming blade with his hammer. He measured and fitted the metal for a long time, and in the end, he achieved what he had set out to do: the old and new blades became one, the seam between them nearly invisible. The new blade fused tightly with the old hilt, and the sword gleamed with a matte silver sheen. A fine groove for blood drainage ran down the center, the double-edged sides were no thicker than a hair. All in all, except for the new silver shine and superior tempering, this sword was a near-perfect copy of the one Lester Kenai, the blacksmith who had died by the hand of Orwell Cassander, had given his son nearly two years ago.

  Kairu was drenched in sweat, having already removed every piece of outer clothing beneath his apron. His hands were covered in calluses and blisters, and he felt as though he had been slowly roasted alive this entire time. His muscles ached, his body was damp as if after a hot bath, and he was utterly exhausted. Moralledo helped him as best he could, but the hammer Kairu had grown so accustomed to now felt unbearably heavy. Yet the work was nearly done. Placing his creation away from the others, Kairu wearily retreated from the blazing tower and sat on the stones near the entrance to the cave.

  "You held up amazingly well," said Moralledo, approaching him. "The first time I dared forge something in this Forge, I nearly died from the heat. Few can endure being so long beside that fire."

  "Thanks," Kairu croaked hoarsely. "I feel pretty much the same right now…"

  "You forged a fine sword," the old centaur smiled. "We’ll see how it fares in battle. You have great talent for smithing, you just need practice."

  Moralledo turned and walked back toward Ioran, who was waiting for him. Kairu closed his eyes and relaxed. For a moment, he managed to think that he should rest a bit and then set out on his journey. And then everything began to spin, and once again…

  …his mind left his body and rushed through time and space into unreachable heights…

  Mainor, in the light of the setting sun. A terrifying army stood at its gates, the broken fortress walls and ruined, burned buildings. People dying of hunger in the snow-covered streets, chains lifting the gates, the last squad charging into a final battle against a massive army… The ruins of the White City and vultures circling the ashes.

  This is the future, Kairu Kenai. It will be so, because now you and the power of the Lake of Aktida are on opposite sides of the barricade.

  A black tower amidst the dense forests of the Eastern Province. The Citadel of the Wolf. It is waiting…

  An unbearable, inhuman pain pierced his body like a searing arrow, and he awoke in a cold sweat, even though the fountain of flame still surged into the sky somewhere ahead. Darkness surrounded him, the sun had nearly set, casting its last rays on the Dragon Forge, and the sky was once again covered in clouds. Ioran and Moralledo leaned over him in concern; he jumped to his feet, feeling a wild surge of energy, and said:

  "I have to go. The battle is near. I must reach Mainor as soon as possible."

  He stripped off his apron and gloves, dressed once again in his travel gear, and wrapped himself in his cloak. Then he crossed the square and approached the table where his sword lay. It was a simple sword with a single ornament—a small jasper in the center of the hilt. But within its new blade, new life, and new soul was a power that even he barely understood. Kairu removed his gloves and, unafraid, took the sword in his right hand. The hilt was cold, fitting his palm perfectly. Kairu lifted the sword and felt as though it had become an extension of his arm.

  "The battle for Mainor is near…" he said hoarsely, as if still not fully awake from his dreamlike trance. "Soon you’ll taste the blood of your enemies… Soon we’ll avenge Father."

  "The Flame of Vengeance, the Punishing Fire," said Ioran, his eyes gleaming. "Alaskrit. That’s a word from our language."

  "So be it," Kairu whispered, gazing lovingly at the sword. "From now on, you shall be called Alaskrit."

  The blade flashed blood-red in the final ray of the sun. The crimson disk disappeared beyond the horizon, and the sky darkened.

  In the next instant, the Forge’s fire went out.