The Crone stopped.

  A dark spike of metal erupted through her mouth in the chest and out her back. It gleamed like obsidian, pulsing with raw fury. She gurgled, choking on black, foul-smelling blood that poured from her mouth in thick streams.

  Then came the inferno.

  A deafening explosion of blue-white spectral flame erupted from the platform—an eruption of wrath made manifest. The blast consumed the room, hurling the Crone like a ragdoll into the far stone wall. Bones shattered. Stone cracked.

  Smoke and ghostly embers swirled in the air.

  The Crone rose slowly, her blue eyes flickering with disbelief. Her body already began to knit itself back together—twisting bones, stretching flesh.

  But then she saw him.

  The boy stood—not the foolish child she had led here, but something other.

  The soul inside him burned—not like a flame, but like a star gone nova. It roared with boundless fury, with memory, with the weight of a thousand lifetimes.

  Her breath hitched.

  This was no mortal soul.

  Not even ancient dragons possessed such a presence.

  No.

  This... this was something far greater.

  The dark metal twisted around the boy's body like living armor, forged by will, not by hand. Plates clicked into place with fluid motion, trailing wisps of ethereal flame. Blue fire licked the surface of his armor—cold and furious. Every flame whispered the names of battles long forgotten, of gods cast down, of a world reforged in vengeance.

  The boy’s eyes opened—twin furnaces of pure soulfire.

  And when he spoke, his voice carried across lifetimes.

  It was not Cale’s voice. It was deeper. Older. Forged in fury and tempered by agony.

  “You dare feast on my soul.”

  The Crone, for the first time in centuries, recoiled.

  “Veyrath.” The word rolled off his tongue like molten steel.

  “Parasite. Leech. You gorge yourself on scraps of sorrow, feeding on rot, dreaming that one day you’ll be more than carrion.”

  She hissed, baring her jagged teeth. Her hands began to twitch with eldritch sigils, but they faltered—because the very air trembled.

  “You chose wrong,” he continued, stepping forward, the stone beneath his feet cracking with every movement. “Of all the souls to prey upon... you reached for mine.”

  His armor pulsed, flames coiling like serpents at his back.

  The Crone opened her mouth to scream.

  But the fire answered first.

  The Unyielding Forge, had awakened.

  And he was furious.

  The Crone snarled, her voice warping, becoming deeper, ancient and wretched. She thrust out both hands.

  The shadows answered.

  Dozens of them burst from the walls, the ceiling, the cracks in the stone. Hollow spirits with empty eyes, howling in silence, surged toward him like a black tide.

  But he didn’t flinch.

  He raised a single hand.

  The shadows froze in place, shuddering mid-strike.

  Then—

  They were dragged toward him, pulled as if by an invisible force. The room groaned with pressure as they funneled into his open palm, their ethereal forms twisting in agony.

  He closed his fist.

  The shadows fizzled out like smoke into the wind.

  Silence followed.

  Then came the answer.

  Around them, the skulls lining the walls began to rattle.

  His right arm shifted—lengthening, reshaping.

  Metal rippled across it like liquid steel until it formed a massive, curved blade. Spectral fire flared along its edge.

  And he advanced.

  The Crone backed away.

  For the first time in her miserable existence, she felt something she had long forgotten.

  Fear.

  “No...” she hissed.

  Her body began to twist, convulsing.

  Flesh tore and bones snapped as she transformed—

  The form she had worn for centuries peeled away. erupting in to a towering mass of rotted flesh, slick with ooze and crawling with movement. Dozens of twisted arms sprouted from her sides, each ending in claws or grasping tongues. Mouths gnashed along her body, whispering curses in a thousand voices. Her torso split, revealing a gaping maw lined with rows of serrated teeth. Her eyes—dozens of them—opened and blinked independently across her form.

  The shack above them exploded into ruin as her massive form erupted through the earth, dragging stone and soil with her. The forest above trembled. The very air soured, thick with miasma and death.

  From her many mouths, she chanted—spells layered on spells. Hexes twisted the wind, curses sank into the ground. Bolts of necrotic energy surged from her clawed hands.

  But he stood unshaken.

  He raised his blade-arm to the sky.

  The spirits answered.

  They came to him—not as screams, but as flames. Souls swirled through the air, drawn into his blade. The weapon pulsed with their fury, their longing, their resolve.

  The Forge of Souls awakened.

  The wind howled.

  The battle between death’s parasite and the soul of steel had begun.

  And he marched forward—flame, steel, and will made flesh.

  The battlefield was chaos incarnate—burning earth, collapsing stone, and air choked with death.

  The Crone, now revealed in her abominable true form, loomed like a grotesque cathedral of flesh and rot. Dozens of arms cast endless curses while her serpentine body coiled through shattered ruins. Necrotic energy pulsed from her, melting stone and poisoning the land. Her mouths chanted spells in the languages of the damned.

  Spells erupted around her—fireballs, clouds of vile green gas, and swarms of biting locusts. The ground buckled beneath earthquakes, walls of fire barred escape, and illusions shimmered between arcs of lightning and blasts of frost.

  But he stood amidst the inferno, unmoved.

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  When frost crept across the ground, his soulfire burned hotter. When curses and hexes clawed at his mind, his spirit flared in defiance. No spell could truly reach him. Magic Resistance, born of his ancient soul, surged with every breath.

  Then he moved.

  He dashed forward with impossible speed—

  SLASH.

  A sweeping arc of soul-infused steel cleaved through her limbs. Black ichor sprayed and hissed as it met the fire. The Crone shrieked, her mouths howling in discord.

  Dozens of shadow tendrils struck at him.

  He raised his other arm, folding it into a glowing spectral shield. The shadows struck—and vanished. The spirits roared in unison. He absorbed the blow and retaliated.

  His fist expanded, transforming into hammerfists, jagged and burning. He brought it down with the force of a falling star, the soulfire impact blasting a crater into the battlefield.

  He followed with claws, metal talons wreathed in flame, each slash tearing through cursed flesh and leaving behind trails of destruction.

  The Crone lunged, slamming him with her bulk.

  His left arm shifted into a great shield, which he drove into the ground. The impact erupted in a shockwave of soulfire that shook the forest to its roots.

  Still, he stood.

  Spirits—warriors, villagers, children—circled him in a blazing halo. They poured into his blade. He raised his arms.

  Tendrils of burning metal surged from his back, tipped with spectral flame. They lanced through the Crone’s limbs and anchored her in place.

  She tried to flee, dragging herself across the ground. The tendrils tore through her flesh like hooks of judgment.

  He raised his hand.

  The land obeyed.

  A forest of burning spikes erupted beneath her. Each was a conduit of spirit and steel. They impaled her form, detonating with bursts of soulfire. She screamed.

  Reality warped. She chanted a curse that cracked the very sky.

  He answered instead.

  From his core, a whirlwind of spectral metal shards exploded outward. Each fragment carried the rage of the fallen. They sliced through her magic, through her limbs, through her defenses.

  Still, she clung to life.

  The spirits gathered once more—funneling into his blade arm.

  He launched skyward, a comet of burning light.

  He descended like judgment.

  An infernal explosion of soul-scorching fire erupted on impact.

  The Crone’s body was cleaved in two.

  Silence fell.

  Smoke hissed from a smoldering crater.

  He stood at its center, armored in fire and soulsteel. His blade glowed like a divine torch. Slowly, he lowered it.

  But it was not yet over.

  A flicker of darkness crawled from the ruin.

  Her grotesque soul—writhing like a maggot—tore itself free and tried to flee.

  He reached out.

  His soul opened.

  The Crone’s essence was caught—dragged inward like molten ore to the forge.

  She clawed. She shrieked. She begged.

  It did not matter.

  Inside him, the Unyielding Forge roared to life.

  Her soul burned like rotted wood inside an eternal furnace. No escape. No rebirth. No return.

  Only obliteration.

  The Veyrathi was no more.

  And he stood—unshaken, flame-wreathed, the fire of a thousand spirits burning ever brighter within.

  His gaze snapped to one of the tallest trees still standing in the distance. Amid the scorched ruins and broken roots, it remained like a lone sentinel. Dozens of meters away, perched high on a blackened branch, was a white owl.

  No... not just any owl.

  A Nath’Kael.

  He recognized the creature instantly—its silhouette etched into his memory like fire into steel.

  He had called him Archimedes.

  The owl stared down at him in silence, eyes like polished sapphires. Then, without a sound, it spread its wings and vanished into the mist.

  The flames around him began to dim. The spectral wind grew still.

  He could feel it—the pull.

  It was time to sleep.

  He ran, leaving the shattered battlefield behind, the scent of ash and soulfire still clinging to his breath. The cries of the tormented spirits had finally quieted. Their chains were broken. Their pain—ended.

  And with that, the forge within him dimmed.

  Cale's eyes opened.

  He was lying beside a crackling fire, wrapped in a blanket.

  Then, realization struck.

  He gasped and sat upright. The blanket slid from his shoulders. His eyes darted across the clearing, wide with alarm.

  He was outside, beneath the stars. The moon cast a soft silver glow across the grass.

  “Good,” Tiana said gently. “You woke up.”

  She stood by the fire, arms crossed, watching him carefully. Fatigue pulled at her features, but there was relief in her gaze.

  A gentle touch on his back made him turn.

  Silvery eyes met his.

  Moon sat beside him, her small hand resting on his shoulder. Her expression was calm, but her eyes shimmered with unspoken emotion.

  “What... what happened?” Cale asked, his voice hoarse.

  Tiana approached and knelt beside him. She tilted his chin up.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  Cale furrowed his brow and closed his eyes.

  “Stepping into the cellar. It was damp... the smell of rot. Bones. Skulls.” His voice trembled. “The spirits—they were trapped in them. Pleading to be freed. Some were children... I could hear them crying.”

  His fists clenched.

  “She made me lie on a platform. Said she would eat my soul.”

  He pressed a hand to his chest. “I remember the pain. It was... unbearable. Like I was being ripped apart from the inside. Then... nothing.”

  Tiana gently placed her hand over his.

  “The Crone is dead,” she said softly. “A powerful mage came. He fought her and destroyed her. Then he vanished.”

  She turned toward the fire. “I didn’t see his face. He cloaked himself in magic.”

  Cale blinked, uncertain.

  “Archimedes showed me,” she added.

  Cale went quiet, staring into the flames.

  “What about the villagers?” he asked at last.

  Moon looked away. Her hand slipped from his shoulder.

  Tiana exhaled slowly.

  “Elden is dead.”

  Cale turned to her, stunned. “What? How? Why? The Crone is gone—nothing should’ve happened to him.”

  Tiana’s voice was quiet, but resolute. “No one breaks a bargain with a Crone and survives. That’s the price. Her death didn’t undo the deal.”

  Cale looked down, guilt settling in his chest like lead. He remembered her warning.

  No one breaks a bargain and remains untouched.

  “Then why wasn’t I affected?” Cale asked.

  “I don’t know,” Tiana said, frowning. “Maybe that mage managed to protect you.”

  She didn’t like not having an answer.

  His jaw tightened.

  “And the others?”

  Tiana gave a bitter scoff.

  “They’re alive. The sickness is gone. The children recovered. But instead of gratitude...”

  She met his gaze. “They blamed us. Blamed you. That Elden died because of us.”

  Moon looked down, her hands twisting in her tunic.

  “I tried to explain,” Tiana continued. “Tried to reason with them. But grief makes people blind. And fear... even blinder. They didn’t want truth. Just someone to blame.”

  She turned back to the fire.

  “So we left.”

  Cale closed his eyes.

  So many had been saved.

  And yet again, he bore the blame.

  Once more, they had walked through fire.

  And once more, he was left wondering...

  If any victory was ever truly free of cost.

  “Please don’t do something so stupid again,” Tiana said, her voice tight with emotion. “What if that mage hadn’t saved you? You would be dead by now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cale murmured, head bowed.

  “Your sorry isn’t enough.” Her tone hardened. “Promise me—from now on, you will not try to sacrifice yourself like a fool. If you do... you’re not my apprentice anymore.”

  “I promise,” he said softly.

  She nodded, satisfied but still tense. From her satchel, she handed him some dried meat and cheese.

  They sat in silence.

  “Are we still heading toward the battlefield?” Cale asked after finishing his small meal.

  Tiana gave a nod. “You’re still my apprentice, and you still have much to learn about spirit bending.”

  Cale nodded back, then laid down. Exhaustion weighed heavy on him. He closed his eyes. Tiana and Moon fell asleep shortly after.

  Cale awoke to a gentle nudge.

  Tiana stood over him. She raised a finger to her lips.

  “Follow me,” she whispered.

  Still groggy, Cale stood and followed her. They moved through the thick brush until Tiana pushed aside a veil of leaves, revealing an intricate circle drawn with white powder.

  “Step inside,” she instructed. “I want to examine your soul—to see if the Crone left anything behind.”

  Cale nodded and stepped into the circle, sitting cross-legged in its center. He closed his eyes.

  Tiana knelt at the edge and began chanting in a low, rhythmic voice.

  Cale’s eyelids grew heavy.

  And then he fell asleep.

  His eyes opened.

  But it wasn’t him.

  Tiana’s breath caught as she looked at the figure before her. Something was wrong—deeply wrong.

  Cale rose to his feet.

  His eyes glowed—not just with light, but with soulfire, brilliant and terrifying. The air around him shimmered, the very fabric of spirit and will warping in his presence.

  Tiana stood. Alarm pulsed through her chest.

  “Cale?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  He did not answer.

  He took a step forward.

  The circle, intended to restrain him, ignited in blue-white spectral fire and parted like mist.

  He walked through it as if it were nothing.

  Tiana’s heart pounded. She turned to flee, but a wall of soulfire burst into being in front of her. The heat wasn’t physical—it was spiritual, and it clawed at her essence.

  She stumbled backward and turned to face him again.

  Her lips moved to cast a spell, but he was faster.

  He moved like a phantom.

  His hand closed around her neck—iron strong, unshakable. She gasped, struggling against the grip as her boots scraped against the earth.

  Above them, Archimedes streaked through the air, wings spread wide.

  He dove.

  But Cale turned his gaze to him.

  “Step back, Nath’Kael,” he said, his voice deep and resonant, vibrating with ancient power. “Or she dies.”

  Archimedes halted mid-air and dropped to the ground, tense but still.

  Cale looked back at Tiana.

  Then she felt it.

  Tendrils of soul essence wormed their way into her very being.

  He saw her.

  All of her.

  The lies she’d told. The manipulations. The secrets she kept hidden, even from herself. Nothing was shielded. Not from him.

  Then, suddenly, he let go.

  Tiana collapsed to her knees, coughing and gasping, the breath she’d taken for granted now a painful gift.

  Cale stood over her, like judgment itself. His eyes blazed, twin pyres of soulfire.

  “I am no one’s tool,” he said. His voice carried the weight of centuries. “Leave. Before I obliterate your soul.”

  The fire around them extinguished with a rush of air.

  Archimedes, now in his monstrous, four-legged form, stepped between them. His fur bristled, wings curled forward like a shield.

  Tiana rose slowly, trembling.

  She mounted the great beast.

  She didn’t look back.

  Archimedes spread his wings and carried her into the night sky.

  He watched her disappear into the darkness.

  Then he turned.

  He walked quietly to where Moon slept.

  He knelt before her, the fire in his eyes softening.

  His hand reached out gently, brushing her dark hair from her face. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

  He sat beside her and closed his eyes.

  Then silence.

  Cale’s eyes fluttered open.

  He was lying on his back.

  Above him, Moon stood in silence, looking down. Her silver eyes trembled, her face pale beneath the moonlight.

  His gaze was distant at first—dull, dreamlike. Then he raised a hand, slowly, as though weighed down by ages.

  His fingers brushed her cheek.

  “Naeloria...”

  The name fell from his lips like a forgotten melody. His expression softened.

  A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth.

  “My love.”

  Then his eyes closed again.

  A droplet of warmth touched his face.

  Then another.

  He opened his eyes again, slowly.

  Moon was kneeling beside him now, tears slipping freely down her cheeks, landing on his skin.

  Her silvery eyes were wide with emotion—fear, hope, and something deeper. Her lips trembled as she reached for his hand.

  She clutched it tightly.

  He looked at her—not with the blaze of soulfire, but with quiet awe. His fingers curled around hers.