The fiery heat of the forge was the first thing that greeted Tunde as he stepped into the Iron Wolf, eyes sweeping the interior until they landed on the little kid who had relieved him of lumens on his first visit, looking everywhere but at him.

  Tunde ignored the boy and followed calmly behind Elder Joran, the crumpled form of Vengeance held in both hands, a silent and cold expression on his face.

  No words were exchanged as the same forgesmith showed them the way to the artificer's personal forge. Elder Joran opened the doors.

  Tunde stepped in behind him as Artificer Borus dropped the Ethereon-infused metal in his hands and turned to face them.

  "Seems like whatever you fought was terrible enough to sate Vengeance's taste for battle," he said, by way of greeting.

  Tunde bowed stiffly as Elder Joran offered a tight-lipped smile.

  "You and I both know that if he had truly fought a tier 3 Corespawn, he would be dead by now," the elder replied.

  "Or rather, if my student had fought a tier 3 Corespawn with those sham tier 2 gauntlets you gave him," Joran continued, as Borus frowned, his metal arm glowing faintly.

  Tunde suppressed the unease rising in his chest as Elder Joran pressed the accusation.

  "And is that what you think, Disciple Tunde?" Borus asked him.

  Tunde straightened, glanced at the destroyed gauntlets, then back to the artificer.

  "I think I should have been given a chance to prove myself with a weapon worthy of an artificer like you," he replied.

  Borus gave no response. His eyes bored into Tunde like a drill, and Tunde gathered his willpower and held the stare. It felt like standing in the path of a boulder rolling down from a mountain, every instinct telling him to turn and run.

  And yet something in his body and mind threw up a defiance that surprised even himself. Borus laughed, a hearty sound that broke the tension entirely.

  Tunde glanced at Elder Joran in confusion. The elder maintained his tight-lipped smile.

  "The cub has gotten his first claws, it seems," Borus said.

  "Then you admit it," Joran said.

  "You gave my student a weak weapon."

  "There is no such thing as a weak weapon, Adept Joran. Only a weak wielder," Borus replied, extending his hand toward Tunde.

  Tunde handed Vengeance over gracefully. The artificer stared at the mangled gauntlets, eyes gleaming close to the light of his forge, and his expression softened into something quieter.

  "It was not my intention to see you dead, young disciple," he murmured, throwing Vengeance into the flames.

  Tunde watched the metal begin to melt with unsettling speed.

  "Rather, it was to test your mettle. Or so I like to tell myself," Borus continued.

  He turned to them with his arms folded.

  "Vengeance was a conduit. A channel for you to wield the rift Ethra that flows through your relic."

  "Then it would be safe to assume you know what that weapon is?" Joran asked, as Tunde's attention sharpened.

  Borus smiled softly, his eyes like hammered steel. His iron-forged hand beckoned Tunde forward.

  "Choose my offer carefully, young cub," he began.

  "Before you lie two options."

  He raised one metal finger.

  "One. I tell you the tale of the true beasts, long forgotten and known only to the higher echelons of clans and cults."

  A second finger joined the first.

  "Or two. I forge a true weapon for you, a soulbound one that will grow stronger as you do. And no, not a pair of gauntlets," he added with a snort.

  "I have always wondered who convinced you melee fighters that the ideal weapon is something bolted to your hands."

  Tunde blinked and moved to turn to Joran when Borus spoke again.

  "No. This is your decision. There is only so far your adept can carry you, young cub."

  "Why do you call me that?" Tunde asked.

  Borus smiled, something glinting in his eyes.

  "That pertains to option one. Is that your choice?" he replied.

  Tunde swallowed and looked squarely at the artificer. The truth about his body, about whatever that bone was, against a true soulbound weapon.

  One offered him a deeper understanding of what he was becoming. The other offered an immediate advantage, something he could use against Thalas in the days he had left.

  "This weapon you would forge," Tunde started.

  "Would it be of any use to me against Thalas?"

  "I should think so. On my word as an artificer," Borus said, with complete seriousness.

  Joran drew in a quiet breath beside him. It was an oath, and if Tunde was reading the situation correctly, one of the most binding things an artificer of Borus's standing could offer.

  He nodded slowly.

  "If I die in that fight, the tale will be of no use to me," he said.

  "And yet the knowledge of it could help you in that fight, to a limited degree," Borus replied.

  Tunde shook his head.

  "Not in the days I have left before the duel."

  Borus gave a fraction of a nod, confirming the fear Tunde had been circling. He exhaled slowly.

  "Then I choose the weapon," he said.

  Borus turned away from him.

  "Then I require the tainted core of the tier 2 shadow panther you killed," he said.

  "How did you—" Tunde started, stopping as he turned to Joran, who nodded at him.

  "Tales of your exploits have reached me here. Your name is now being uttered in the same circles as the high-ranking disciples of the clan," Borus replied.

  Tunde produced the core, black and green, and noticeably larger than the other Corespawn cores he carried. Borus took it from him.

  "This one swallowed a rift core as well," the artificer muttered, turning it over.

  "Foolish, given that it was already tainted with undeath. Filthy bastards," he rumbled.

  "You intend to forge a weapon for my disciple using the taint of undeath?" Joran asked.

  Borus's eyes flicked to the elder.

  "Perhaps you doubt my profession, venerable elder?" he asked.

  "Not your craft. But I would be a fool to take your every word at face value, especially when you promised us the tale of the true beasts and information concerning that relic," Joran replied.

  Borus inclined his head slightly.

  "Indeed. And yet your disciple is about to receive a soulbound weapon that few disciples anywhere within the clan can even claim."

  "That's it," Tunde said, drawing both sets of eyes to him.

  "You gave me options between the truth about whatever bone was used in my tempering and a forged weapon. Nothing about the relic."

  He caught a glint in Artificer Borus's gaze. Whether it was approval or mischief, he couldn't be certain.

  "Indeed, and I beg your forgiveness," Borus said evenly, throwing the core into the flames.

  They immediately burned bright blue with its addition.

  "That relic you carry is one of the eight true mythical weapons of Adamath," Borus said.

  A chill seemed to pass through the room. Tunde shivered faintly. Joran frowned.

  "What exactly are you implying?" the elder asked, his voice terse.

  Borus turned his attention to Joran, eyes alight with something.

  "Interesting," he said, almost to himself, and smiled.

  "Or I could be mistaken. But it is genuinely possible. It is one of the strongest soulbound weapons I have ever encountered," he continued.

  Tunde glanced at the elder, who seemed to go very still. He couldn't fully read what was passing between them.

  "Either way, the relic carries the single affinity, or concept, that has been debated since the earliest records," Borus said.

  "It could be a blessing or a curse in the hands of whoever wields it."

  "Rift Ethra," Tunde said.

  "Precisely. Now, to speak its true name is to awaken it," Borus said, chuckling softly.

  "And believe me, no one within a thousand miles of here could handle what follows if it does wake. Unless of course, you would like half the Bloodfire continent swallowed by an incursion severe enough to require paragons to bring under control," Borus explained.

  Tunde stared at the band across his wrist with a feeling he hadn't expected. Dread.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "In its current state, it does nothing more than gorge itself on rift Ethra and whatever other Ethra crosses its path," Borus continued, pulling his attention back.

  "The fact that you're still alive can only be attributed to the strength of the body you possess. Think of it as a symbiotic arrangement of sorts."

  "Which leads back to the tale of the true beasts," Joran said.

  "Indeed. How about a deal? You win that duel, with my weapon and your strength, and I tell you the tale of the beasts, or in this case, one particular beast," Borus offered.

  "Do I have a choice?" Tunde replied.

  Borus chuckled. "No. I hold all the cards, and I hold them close for the safety of everything on Bloodfire. There are forces that would come for that weapon the moment they learned what it truly is, and you are not yet strong enough to face them," he finished.

  Tunde nodded stiffly and stepped back.

  "Now," Borus said.

  "If only I had a bone from that shadow panther. Even a fragment would—"

  Joran's hand moved and a tainted bone, reeking of shadow Ethra and undeath, sailed through the air toward the artificer.

  Borus caught it. Tunde turned to the elder, who shrugged lightly.

  "Just felt it might be useful at some point," he said.

  Borus nodded and threw the bone into the flames, which burned hotter still.

  "Three days to forge the weapon," he said.

  Tunde bowed to the artificer, who turned back to his work, effectively dismissing them.

  He wasn't certain that sat well with Elder Joran, though judging by the look on the elder's face, he appeared to have decided it wasn't worth the effort. As they made for the door, Borus called out to Tunde. Elder Joran was already walking ahead. Tunde turned.

  The blue flames rose high, shaping themselves.

  Tunde stared at the shapes in the fire, then back at Borus, and then back to the fire before bowing again.

  "I thank you for your services, venerable artificer," he said.

  Borus snorted. The flames settled back to their normal height.

  With a troubled mind, he caught up with Elder Joran as they stepped out into the midday sunlight, Tunde squinting against the brightness.

  "What was that about?" Joran asked.

  "He showed me the core cracking within the flames. Perhaps to remind me to keep working, seeing as he's doing the same," Tunde replied.

  Joran chuckled as the two began walking toward the exit of the smithing district, the words Tunde had read in the shapes of flame turning over in his mind.

  Do not trust him.

  *****

  Borus held the body of his apprentice forgesmith in his metal hand, neck snapped at an unnatural angle, blood dripping from the boy's ears. He whistled softly to himself.

  Behind him stood his assembled smiths in complete silence, the Iron Wolf Forge closed and locked for the day. He tapped his hammer against the forge three times.

  The forge shuddered. Blue runic inscriptions ran across its surface and the flames parted, a circular disc rising from the depths.

  It glowed blue. A second set of inscriptions wrote themselves to life on its surface.

  "Hammer," Borus said.

  The disc pulsed before a face shimmered to life across it, its features indistinguishable, like someone had pressed their face against the permeable surface of semi-liquid and the impression had frozen there.

  "Well, this is an unexpected call," the face said, its voice carrying the same depth as Borus's own.

  "The guild is after me," Borus replied.

  "That was to be expected. Did you believe hiding in plain sight this close to their territory would hold indefinitely?" the voice said with a chuckle.

  "I went halfway across the continent. You would think they'd have the decency to send at least an adept," Borus said, raising the dead apprentice so the face could see.

  "And your first instinct was to kill the spy, knowing full well they'd come to investigate the disappearance?" the face said with a tired sigh.

  "Barring the project about to be initiated, I doubt the Heralds or the Talahan Empire would welcome the guild sniffing around," Borus replied.

  "Besides, I killed him because he overheard my conversation about the true beasts," he added.

  The face went still.

  "Please tell me those lined behind you are all homunculi and not the guild's dead spies," it said.

  "Indeed, though this particular homunculus was made by someone high up in the guild," Borus said, dangling the dead apprentice between two fingers.

  "Why in Mekrandor's name would you be speaking openly about the beasts?" the face said.

  "Swearing on the holy hegemon of machines? How far you've fallen," Borus replied with a chuckle.

  "Answer the question, Borus. You could put everything we've worked for at risk," the face said quietly.

  "Because the rift wolf's claw has been claimed," Borus replied, throwing the dead body into one half of the flames, where the shattered rift core of the tier 2 Corespawn already lay.

  Only the crackling of fire filled the air as the face froze.

  "Are you certain of what you're saying?" it asked, slowly.

  Borus snorted and folded his hands together.

  "Saw it myself. Claw and bone both," he replied.

  "That's impossible. The body of the beast has been lost to humanity since the first age," the face said rapidly.

  "And yet a ranker from Crystalreach, judging by his complexion, stood right before me, his body tempered with a bone of the wolf," Borus replied.

  "The same ranker who holds the weapon? How have there been no signs of this?" the face asked.

  "Because the claw still slumbers. And no, he doesn't belong to the seekers. That I know for certain," Borus said.

  "Then this isn't some surviving faction of the cult from the purge," the face said.

  "No. And apparently, those idiotic weavers weren't as thorough as they reported to the other cults. That should make for interesting reading when it comes to light," Borus said with a quiet laugh.

  "You don't intend on telling the others yet," the face said.

  "No. Keep it close. The last thing I need is some over-eager artificer arriving here to snatch my quarry. Let him grow and mature before plucking," Borus replied.

  "The odds of what you're describing are staggering. A single ranker wielding both the claw and the imbued bone of the wolf. Do you understand what this means, Borus?" the face said.

  "More than anyone," Borus replied, his expression going flat.

  "Things are falling into place. First the surge to rival all known surges. Then the convergence. And now this. It seems I was right."

  "The dusk of the second age," the face said.

  "And the possible return of the first races. I do not like where this is going," it added.

  "None of us do. And yet it beckons all the same," Borus replied.

  "Speak for yourself. I was perfectly content with the age of cultivators and rankers. There is a reason it is called the age of myth. It is a bygone era," the face said.

  "Either way, the revenants are moving nearby, and this ranker has already had his first encounter with them. It is only a matter of time before the Heralds notice something amiss within their own borders," Borus said.

  "I envy your position, I'll admit. But the sooner that claw awakens, the sooner it calls to its brothers and sisters," the face said.

  "We cannot deal with that alongside the surge. Not yet," Borus said firmly.

  "Trust me on this. There is something about that child I cannot yet name. He will be the right vessel for the claw, but only in time."

  "What are you going to do with the guild's homunculi? Scrap them?" the face asked.

  "Be careful they don't signal your location."

  "You speak to me as though I'm some forgehand. Not even the artificer who sits at the right hand of the Verdan high lord knows I'm here," Borus replied.

  "Although," he added, "with the soulbound weapon I'm forging for that ranker, it will be all but obvious before long."

  "You're genuinely willing to take that risk?" the face asked.

  "Iphan was nothing but rough stone compared to my work. He'll think twice before coming at me," Borus replied.

  "Why forge a soulbound weapon at all when he already carries one of the eight ultimate ones?" the face asked.

  Borus reached into the flames with his metal hand and gripped the thigh bone of the homunculus, cracking it as it began dissolving into liquid metal with a slow bubbling sound.

  "Because I can," he said simply.

  "And he cannot be trusted to wield the claw yet. Not yet."

  "Keep me informed. I'll be watching for signs of the other seven," the face said.

  "For the new age."

  It vanished. The disc descended back into the forge, the surface sealing over it without a sound.

  "For the new age," Borus murmured, picking up his hammer and beginning to forge.

  The light of the flames and the silent row of homunculi behind him kept him company.

  ****

  Tunde and Elder Joran stopped first at the Golden Pill Pavilion, where Tunde offloaded every core he was carrying to Baron Dale. The merchant lord handed him a gold-plated card in return.

  "You cannot keep carrying around large sums of lumens," the baron said.

  "Congratulations, student. You have close to a million lumens," Joran said cheerfully.

  Tunde nodded, took the card, and dropped it into his void ring. The baron looked pained. The elder laughed.

  The card would be safer on his person than anywhere else, and with the ring running light save for his elixirs and the books he had retrieved from the first rift, they made their way back out into the street.

  "Come. There is somewhere I want to show you," Elder Joran said.

  Tunde fell into step beside him as they moved toward the inner districts. The air carried the smell of fresh flowers. He had heard that the season was turning, spring arriving to displace the dry, cracked cold of winter.

  It was usually a time of celebration across the empire, but the approaching surge had cast a shadow over the festivities, the tension of something enormous drawing near dimming even the season's usual brightness.

  "Why aren't you troubled?" Tunde asked, the question coming out before he'd properly assembled it.

  They were passing through the residential streets of the lower districts. He could see the tall wooden and brick forms of the houses on Petal Street, and if he strained his eyes, the banners flapping next to the buildings.

  "By what?" Joran asked lightly, catching a drifting leaf as it passed him.

  "By the relic. By what the artificer said. By me," Tunde replied softly.

  The elder nodded at the pair of men who bowed as they passed, then sighed and folded his hands behind his back.

  "Come along," he said simply.

  They walked in silence for a stretch, Tunde keeping his thoughts to himself. Then Joran spoke.

  "Do you know how destructive a beast surge can be?" he asked abruptly.

  "No, elder," Tunde replied.

  "The last one was more than two decades ago, if I remember correctly. A terrible experience," Joran said as they turned into the shadier edges of the district.

  Lights burned inside red and green paper lanterns strung above them. Hooded figures moved through the corridors between buildings with a deliberate, unhurried ease.

  Tunde wondered what business had brought them here. He had never been in this part of the city, but he doubted it was a place respectable rankers frequented.

  Ethra sight activated, he swept the surrounding rooflines and alleyways, marking the figures that were watching them as they entered.

  "Entire cities wiped from the map across Adamath. The empire itself went under siege. Tier six, seven, and even tier eight creatures rampaged across the landscape. It became so catastrophic that even the cult and the empire had to set aside their conflict and act together. And even then, the death toll was staggering," Joran finished.

  A figure dropped from a rooftop. Tunde had been watching him since they entered.

  He also noticed, glancing upward, that the entire corridor they stood in had gone dark despite the sun still blazing above, a barrier of dark, inky Ethra swirling across the rooflines and swallowing the light.

  A bulky man with what appeared to be semi-liquid Ethra hovering around his frame stood before them.

  "And so, my student, no matter how dangerous the artificer made it sound, life will go on, and so must we. Do you understand?" Elder Joran said, entirely unperturbed by what was gathering around them.

  "Yes, Elder Joran," Tunde replied.

  He kept the other figures in his Ethra sight as they appeared one by one from the shadows of the surrounding buildings.

  "Oh, and welcome to Tyrant's Haven, Tunde. The one corner of Jade Peak City where the city's lowlifes are permitted to call home," Joran said, a quiet smile on his face.

  As one, the figures dropped to their knees. Disciple and initiate rank, early tiers across the board.

  "We greet the elder," the large man at the front said.

  "I see the Ink Lady has finally brought this place fully under her control," Joran remarked with a chuckle.

  The man shifted uncomfortably.

  "What are we doing here, elder?" Tunde asked.

  "We? I was never here. Was I?" Joran asked, turning to the man.

  "We see only Disciple Tunde of House Dark Fist, student of the venerable elder," the man replied.

  "Good. Now, Tunde," Joran said, turning his attention back.

  "Now that we've established that I am and was not here, you are here to work on your aura. You remember that?" he asked.

  "My aura?" Tunde said, not quite following.

  "Yes. That persistent thing that showed itself in the wastelands. Gives me shivers just thinking about it," Joran said with an exaggerated shudder.

  Tunde was fairly certain the elder hadn't been present when he faced Kurl, so whatever he had sensed from a distance had apparently been enough to warrant this.

  The thought sat uneasily alongside the artificer's warning, still turning over in his mind.

  "Either way, you are here on my recommendation to meet the Ink Lady. Peak disciple, and tenth among the high-ranking disciples of the entire clan," Joran said.

  Tunde exhaled. The elder had just handed him another fight, and it was the elder who was usually accused of looking for trouble.

  "Now, these men wouldn't simply let you walk into her home, would they?" Joran asked.

  "No, venerable stranger. He must prove himself to us first," the man replied.

  "Well, I tried my best. Give her my regards. Oh, and be back before sunset. Lady Ryka intends to host a celebratory feast for you, and you don't want to miss that," Elder Joran said, patting Tunde on the shoulder.

  He whistled cheerfully as the circle parted to let him pass and closed up again behind him.

  "You told me not to use my Ethra," Tunde called after him.

  "That was in the districts," Elder Joran replied without turning.

  "This isn't the districts."

  Tunde exhaled slowly and turned back to the assembled figures as they began producing weapons. Blades, hatchets, knives, spiked chain balls. All of it.

  "Are those necessary?" he asked calmly.

  The man at the front straightened, his features shadowed beneath the wide brim of a reed hat. The others were hooded.

  "You must prove your strength to the Lady of Tyrant's Haven," he rumbled, a large butcher's cleaver in each hand.

  Tunde nodded, settled into a stance, and let his Ethra flow through his body, feeling it empower him steadily.

  "Are you r—" the man started.

  Tunde was already in front of the first of five, his fist connecting with the disciple's face before the man could finish the sentence.

  The body twisted through the air and crashed through the wall of a nearby building. Tunde cracked his neck. His Ethra sight blazed a starry midnight color.

  "I ask again," he said.

  "Are you sure you want to do this?"

  The large man chuckled. Tunde watched the Ethra flowing from him, reading its movement, realizing it was mud Ethra as it began taking humanoid shape beside its master.

  "Very well," the man said.

  They came at him all at once.