Prologue:
Legends of Forgotten Steel
The wind howled through the jagged peaks of the Ebonridge Mountains, carrying with it the scent of iron and smoke. Below, the sprawling city of Ironholt clung to the mountainside like a stubborn weed. Its towering stone walls were scarred by time and battle, a testament to the unrelenting trials of life in Zaryth’s most unforgiving terrain. Within the city, cobblestone streets twisted like veins through districts that thrummed with life. Merchants hawked their wares, miners lugged sacks of ore, and mercenaries swapped boasts over tankards of ale.
Ironholt was a city of paradoxes—a place where desperation and opportunity coexisted in uneasy harmony. For the downtrodden, it offered little beyond soot-choked air and meager pay. But for the bold and the foolish, it whispered promises of fortune. These promises grew louder in recent months, carried by rumors of the Skyforge—a hidden ruin believed to house relics from the mythical age.
The Skyforge was the stuff of legend, said to be the birthplace of seven elemental blades of unimaginable power. Wind, fire, water, earth, light, darkness, and lightning—each blade was said to possess mastery over its element, turning its wielder into a force of nature. Most dismissed the tales as drunken ramblings or stories meant to lull children to sleep. But for others, those whispers carried the weight of truth, however fragile.
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Among those drawn by the legends was Cyan Akabane, a wandering swordsman from a once-illustrious lineage. Cyan hailed from the Akabane clan, a bloodline once synonymous with swordsmanship unparalleled in Zaryth. As a child, he had been trained rigorously in their ancestral techniques, learning not only how to wield a blade but to live by it.
His father, the last recognized sword saint, had always told him:
Father: stern "A sword is an extension of the soul. To wield it without purpose is to dishonor it."
But purpose had become elusive in recent years. The Akabane name had fallen into obscurity, tarnished by time and the tragedies that befell the clan. After the death of his father, Cyan found himself adrift, his blade seeking a cause worth cutting for. The whispers of the Skyforge had reached him in one such moment of aimlessness, igniting a spark that had lain dormant for far too long.
Cyan: smirking, determined "Well, Ironholt. Let’s see what secrets you’re hiding."
He passed through the city gates, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his katana. The weapon was unassuming—its black scabbard and leather-wrapped hilt bore no ornamentation. Yet it carried the weight of generations, forged and wielded by masters before him.
As Cyan moved through Ironholt’s winding streets, he took note of the city's undercurrents. Blacksmiths whispered of unusually durable steel, miners spoke of veins of ore that seemed untouched by time, and mercenaries muttered about strange ruins in the mountains.
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For Cyan, it wasn’t just about the power promised by the Skyforge—it was about restoring his family’s honor. The Akabane name had once been a cornerstone of Zaryth’s history. Now, it was a footnote. That was something Cyan couldn’t allow.
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On the opposite side of the city, another figure dismounted her steed. Sylvia Auno brushed strands of silver hair from her face, her emerald eyes scanning the bustling streets with quiet disdain.
Sylvia was a scion of the Auno clan, a family of elven nobility whose influence spanned centuries. Her life had been one of opulence and strict expectation. Lessons in etiquette, politics, and swordplay had been drilled into her from an early age, molding her into the perfect heir. But Sylvia had always been different. Where others saw privilege, she saw a cage.
Mother: icy, reproachful "You were born to lead, Sylvia. Your choices are not your own."
Sylvia had rejected those words every day of her life, and when the whispers of the Skyforge reached her ears, she saw them as an escape. She adjusted the straps of her cutlass—a blade that, while plain, carried an edge honed by years of practice. Unlike the ceremonial swords of her kin, her weapon was one of function, not display.
Sylvia: dryly, to herself "One ruin, seven swords, and hundreds of fools chasing a myth. This should be entertaining."
The rumors of the Skyforge were the perfect opportunity to break free from her family’s grip. If the legends were true, if the ancient forges still held their secrets, she might find a weapon strong enough to sever the chains of expectation once and for all.
She had no illusions about the journey ahead. The Skyforge was likely nothing more than a crumbling relic, a ghost of the past that had no bearing on the present. But the possibility, however slim, was worth chasing.
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As Cyan and Sylvia moved through the sprawling city, their paths unknowingly began to converge. The Skyforge, if it existed, was no ordinary ruin. Ancient texts described it as a place where steel and elements merged, where swords were born not just of fire and hammer but of essence itself. Each blade was said to carry the will of its element, a power so immense it could shape the fate of nations.
A commotion broke out near the town square. A weathered miner, reeking of sweat and desperation, stood on an overturned crate, waving a scrap of parchment in the air.
Miner: hoarse, frantic "I’ve seen it! The Skyforge! The entrance is real, hidden in the mountains! I barely escaped with my life!"
The crowd erupted in chaos—some jeering, others pressing forward with questions. Cyan, standing at the edge of the square, narrowed his eyes. The man’s words might have been nonsense, but the parchment he held looked authentic—old and worn, with faded markings that resembled a map.
Sylvia, too, caught sight of the scene, her interest piqued despite herself.
Sylvia: murmuring "Ruins, elemental swords, and a city full of liars. Where does one even begin?"
The answer, as it turned out, would find her.
In that moment, as the crowd surged and the miner’s voice grew more desperate, the fates of Cyan Akabane and Sylvia Auno began to intertwine. The Skyforge was no longer a distant dream—it was a puzzle, a challenge, and a promise of power.
Yet the ruins held more than just swords. Buried beneath their stone was a truth older than Zaryth itself, a truth that would demand more of its seekers than they could ever imagine.
As the wind swept through Ironholt’s streets, Cyan and Sylvia both felt it—a call to arms, a whisper of destiny. It was the same wind that had carried the tales of the Skyforge for generations, a wind that now carried with it a warning:
Some truths are better left buried.