Dawn bled into the sky like a bruise, the gray light seeping through the cracked windowpanes of the forge.
Kaden's muscles ached from the night's tension—from the masked figures, the burning barrier, the weight of the map in his satchel.
He'd barely slept, his mind churning over the words "blood key" and the hollow promise of their retreat.
Now, as he pumped the bellows, the coals flared, casting restless shadows across the anvil.
Then came the knock: sharp, unyielding, like a blade rapping against stone.
"Open up, smith!" The voice was rough, familiar—Captain Aric, whose presence in the forge had always felt like a storm cloud squeezing the air thin.
"By order of the town guard!"
Kaden's hand stilled on the bellows.
His pulse quickened, a drumbeat against his wrist.
Why now?
He thought, his throat tightening.
The guard rarely ventured into the forge unless there was trouble, and trouble in Grey Mane usually meant bodies—or disappearances.
Serena, silent as a shadow, stood by the door, her fingers twisting the hem of her apron.
Her eyes met his, wide and alert.
He wiped his hands on his leather apron, the motion deliberate, a bid to steady himself, before crossing to the door.
The hinges creaked as he pulled it open, and there stood Aric: broad-shouldered, chainmail glinting with morning dew, the wolf's head crest on his pauldron a snarling silhouette.
Behind him loomed three guards, spears propped lazily against their shoulders, eyes sharp as daggers.
"Aric," Kaden said, keeping his tone neutral, though his jaw tightened.
"What brings the guard to my forge at dawn?"
"Answers." Aric's voice was a grindstone, rough and unyielding.
He pushed past Kaden without waiting, his boots clattering on the stone floor.
The guards followed, fanning out to inspect the racks of tools, the piles of scrap metal, the half-finished blades leaning against the wall.
"You've been keeping company with the wrong sort, smith. Blacksmiths have been vanishing up and down the coast—Gareth in Ironhold, Lira in Storm's End, old Barlow Greybeard himself. All of them last seen in Grey Mane. And you," he turned, his gaze like a branding iron, "were the last to strike a blade for each of them."
Kaden's stomach dropped.
Barlow?
The old master from the northern mines—he'd traded Kaden a bag of mithril shavings just three weeks ago, clapping him on the back and muttering about "storms coming." He'd seemed… fine.
Alive.
"I served them," Kaden said, his voice even, though his hands curled into fists at his sides.
"That's my trade. I don't ask where they go after."
"Convenient." Aric stepped closer, his breath smelling of ale and iron.
"Convenient, too, that you inherited Hawke's shop—the one in the heart of the fog. Convenient that you're the only smith left who can still work metal without it cracking to dust. You think I'm blind? The town's afraid. And where there's fear, there's blame."
Serena made a small sound, a sharp inhale.
Kaden glanced at her; her face was pale, her fingers pressed to her lips.
He held up a hand, a silent signal to stay back.
"What do you want?"
"Proof." Aric's eyes flicked to the satchel slung over Kaden's shoulder.
"Proof you're not part of whatever's taking our smiths. Let's see what's in that bag, smith."
Kaden's chest tightened.
The map—Hawke's map, the one with the scribbled coordinates and the phrase "Key to the Forge of Souls"—was in there.
He'd meant to study it, to see if it led to answers about the masked figures, about the "blood key" they'd demanded.
But Aric didn't need to know that.
Slowly, he unslung the satchel and handed it over.
Aric rifled through it—tools, a half-eaten loaf of bread, a vial of flux—before his fingers closed around the rolled parchment.
He pulled it free, his brow furrowing as he unrolled it.
"Where'd you get this?" Aric demanded, his voice rising.
"From a traveler," Kaden lied.
"Claimed it led to a vein of starsteel. Why?"
Aric's jaw worked.
Without warning, he tore the map in half, the parchment crackling like a dying fire.
Kaden's breath hitched; he fought the urge to lunge, to snatch the pieces back.
Calm, he told himself.
He's goading you.
"Lies," Aric spat, tossing the fragments to the floor.
"Travelers don't give starsteel maps to apprentices. Not unless they're paid. Or threatened." He nodded to the guards.
"Search the shop. Every crate, every barrel. If there's a clue to these disappearances, I'll find it."
The guards moved.
One kicked open a crate of nails; another swept a hand over a shelf of hammers, sending them clattering to the floor.
Serena flinched at the noise, her hands flying to cover her ears.
Kaden's knuckles whitened as he watched—until a sudden thud echoed through the forge.
One of the guards, a stocky man with a scar across his cheek, stumbled back, clutching his chest.
His eyes were wide, his face ashen.
"By the gods—something hit me!"
Aric spun. "What are you—"
Another guard, reaching for a locked cabinet, jolted as if stru