Chapter 1: Echoes of Steel

Cyan's Arrival

The wind bit at Cyan’s face as he stood at the gates of Ironholt, his katana resting at his hip like an old companion. The sprawling city carved into the mountain loomed ahead, a fortress of stone and steel. Its towering walls were etched with scars from battles long past, their weathered surface a testament to the countless lives fought and lost in the pursuit of power, wealth, and survival. Cyan’s dark hair, tousled by the breeze, fell into his sharp eyes, which carried a quiet intensity that matched the blade he wielded.

This wasn’t the first time Cyan Akabane had wandered into a city steeped in both opportunity and danger. As a wandering swordsman of noble lineage—albeit a lineage now tarnished by time—he had seen his fair share of places like this. Yet Ironholt was different. The city throbbed with a life of its own, its veins coursing with miners, blacksmiths, mercenaries, and merchants. Overhead, smoke billowed from countless forges, staining the already grey skies.

Cyan shifted his weight and adjusted the strap of his travel pack, his boots crunching against the gravel path as he stepped through the gates. The guards stationed there gave him only a cursory glance, their expressions bored and unimpressed. Perhaps they saw too many wanderers like him—travellers with swords, dreams, and no shortage of scars.

Cyan: murmured to himself, smirking "Another city, another chance to chase shadows. Let’s see if the Skyforge is more than just a bedtime story."

The katana at his side, its black scabbard worn but meticulously maintained, felt heavier than usual today. It was more than just a weapon—it was a symbol of the Akabane clan’s legacy, a legacy that had once meant something in Zaryth. His father’s teachings echoed in his mind:

Father: stern "A sword is more than steel. It carries your soul. Treat it with purpose, or it will become nothing more than a burden."

Purpose. That was what Cyan sought. The whispers of the Skyforge had reached him during a particularly bleak moment in his travels, igniting something deep within him—a spark of hope, or perhaps desperation. He wasn’t entirely sure which.

The streets of Ironholt sprawled before him in chaotic beauty. Cobblestone paths twisted through districts that seemed to blur the lines between industrious and lawless. To his left, a blacksmith hammered away at a glowing blade, his sweat-slicked face illuminated by the orange glow of his forge. To his right, a vendor loudly peddled trinkets to an uninterested crowd, his wares glittering like false promises.

Cyan moved through the city with practised ease, his sharp eyes scanning his surroundings. Every city had its patterns, its rhythms. Ironholt was no different, though its rhythm was a bit more frantic than most. People here were on edge—miners dragging carts of ore seemed to cast wary glances over their shoulders, and even the mercenaries lounging outside a tavern looked unusually tense.

He stopped at a bustling marketplace, where the scent of roasted meats and freshly baked bread mingled with the acrid tang of molten metal. His stomach growled a reminder that it had been far too long since his last proper meal. He fished a few coins from his pouch and handed them to a vendor in exchange for a skewer of spiced meat.

Cyan: thoughtfully, chewing "Not bad. Could use a bit more seasoning, though."

As he ate, he listened. The marketplace was a hub of chatter, and where there was chatter, there were whispers. Whispers of the Skyforge.

Merchant 1: gruff, hushed "Did you hear? Old Daron claims he found something in the mountains—something ancient."

Merchant 2: snorting "Bah, the fool’s just drunk. The Skyforge is nothing more than a myth."

Merchant 1: serious "Myth or not, people are disappearing up there. If you ask me, it’s cursed."

Cyan’s interest was piqued at the mention of disappearances. Cursed or not, people didn’t vanish without reason. He finished his skewer and made his way toward the outskirts of the marketplace, where the voices grew quieter, more conspiratorial.

As he rounded a corner, he found himself in a dimly lit alleyway. Two men were huddled together, their voices barely above a whisper. Cyan didn’t need to strain to hear them—years of survival had taught him how to listen without attention.

Man 1: anxious "I’m telling you, I saw it. A door carved into the rock, just like the stories say."

Man 2: skeptical "And yet, here you are. If it’s so real, why didn’t you go inside?"

Man 1: nervously "Because it’s guarded. Not by men, but… something else. I barely made it out alive."

Cyan frowned. A door in the mountains, guarded by something other than men? It was the kind of detail that lent credibility to a story. Or at least, it made it interesting enough to investigate.

Cyan: muttering to himself "Looks like I’ll be heading into the mountains sooner than expected."

He stepped out of the alleyway and into the bustling streets once more. The city’s noise enveloped him, but his mind was elsewhere. If the Skyforge was real—and if it held even a fraction of the power the legends claimed—it could change everything. Not just for him, but for Zaryth.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t the only one drawn to the rumours. A city like Ironholt was a magnet for treasure seekers, opportunists, and the occasional fool chasing glory. Cyan doubted he’d be the only one venturing into the mountains.

His thoughts drifted to Sylvia. Her silver hair, her piercing emerald eyes, the way she could disarm him with a single raised eyebrow. She wasn’t here, but he could imagine what she’d say if she were.

Sylvia: mockingly, amused "Chasing myths again, Cyan? At least try not to get yourself killed this time."

He chuckled softly to himself. Sylvia always had a way of keeping him grounded, even when she wasn’t around. Their paths had diverged over the years, but she was never far from his thoughts. If the Skyforge was real, he knew she’d be just as interested as he was. Maybe even more so.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Cyan moved through the crowd, his katana brushing against his side with every step. Somewhere, hidden in the mountains, lay the truth. But Cyan wasn’t the only one seeking it.

Sylvia’s Perspective

Sylvia Auno adjusted the reins of her horse as the creature trotted along the forest trail, its hooves muffled by the dense carpet of moss and fallen leaves. The half-elf’s silver hair shimmered under the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above, contrasting with her dark leather armour. Her piercing emerald eyes scanned the path ahead, her senses attuned to the faint rustling of the woods—a predator, a stray breeze, or perhaps the wind-carrying whispers of the unknown.

Her journey to Ironholt had been quieter than expected. Usually, the forests surrounding such a city teemed with dangers, from bandits seeking an easy target to wild beasts prowling for a meal. Yet, her trek had been uneventful, leaving her both relieved and unnerved. Calm moments in Zaryth often came before storms.

The mountains loomed closer now, their jagged peaks piercing the sky like sentinels. Somewhere within those stone giants lay the Skyforge—or so the rumours said. Sylvia couldn’t help but scoff at the notion. She’d heard tales of the forge since she was a child, stories of a mythical place where blades were imbued with the essence of the elements, their power rivalling that of the gods.

Sylvia: muttering to herself, amused "Elemental swords, mystical forges… and people still think fairy tales are for children."

Despite her skepticism, she couldn’t ignore the stories entirely. Too many whispers had reached her ears in recent weeks, and too many people had vanished trying to uncover the forge’s secrets. She was no stranger to chasing myths—after all, it wasn’t the first time her curiosity had led her to places best left undisturbed.

She thought of Cyan. He would have loved this—another excuse to dive headfirst into danger, his katana flashing with reckless determination. Sylvia smiled at the thought, though her chest tightened with worry. She hadn’t seen him in months, but their bond had remained unbroken. They were childhood sweethearts, a pair drawn together by shared dreams and a knack for finding trouble.

Her horse whinnied softly, pulling her from her thoughts. Sylvia glanced up, her sharp gaze catching movement in the distance. A caravan lay ahead, its wagons halted in the middle of the road. Figures moved about, their frantic gestures and raised voices hinting at some kind of trouble.

Sylvia urged her horse forward, her hand drifting to the hilt of her cutlass—a sleek blade of polished steel, unadorned yet deadly. As she approached, the scene became clearer. One of the wagons had tipped onto its side; its contents spilt across the dirt road. A group of travellers stood around it, their faces etched with frustration and fear.

One man spotted her and waved her over, his expression a mix of relief and desperation.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Traveler: pleading "You there! Please, can you help us? We were attacked—our driver’s injured, and we can’t move the wagon on our own!"

Sylvia dismounted gracefully, her boots landing softly on the forest floor. She approached cautiously, her gaze sweeping the area for signs of danger.

Sylvia: calm, measured "Attacked by what?"

The traveller hesitated, his eyes darting toward the trees.

Traveller: nervously "Bandits, at first. But then… something else. Something not human."

Sylvia’s grip on her cutlass tightened. Bandits she could handle, but the mention of “something else” set her on edge. She had encountered her share of the unnatural in Zaryth, and it rarely boded well.

Sylvia: nodding "Show me where the driver is. I’ll see what I can do."

The man led her to the injured driver, an older woman clutching her leg, which was twisted at an unnatural angle. Sylvia knelt beside her, assessing the wound. It was bad, but not fatal. She pulled a length of cloth from her pack and began binding the injury.

Driver: grimacing "You’re kind to stop, miss. Most wouldn’t."

Sylvia: softly, focused "Kindness is free. Hold still."

As she worked, her ears picked up faint sounds—branches snapping, leaves rustling in unnatural patterns. She glanced toward the trees, her instincts screaming that they were being watched.

Sylvia: quietly to the traveller "Get everyone behind the wagons. Now."

The man hesitated for a moment before nodding and ushering the others into cover. Sylvia stood, her cutlass gleaming as she drew it from its sheath. The forest had gone eerily silent, the kind of silence that preceded violence.

A low growl broke the stillness, followed by the emergence of a hulking figure from the shadows. It was a beast unlike any she had seen before—part wolf, part shadow, its eyes glowing with an unnatural red light.

Sylvia: muttering "Of course it’s something unnatural."

The creature lunged without warning, its claws tearing through the air as it charged. Sylvia sidestepped with practised grace, her cutlass slicing across its flank in a fluid motion. The beast howled, black ichor dripping from its wound, but it showed no sign of slowing.

The fight was brutal and swift. Sylvia danced around the creature, her movements a blend of precision and agility. Each strike of her blade was deliberate, aimed to cripple and weaken. The creature fought savagely, its claws and teeth a blur of deadly intent, but it was no match for her skill.

With a final thrust, Sylvia drove her cutlass through the beast’s chest, its glowing eyes dimming as it collapsed to the ground. She stood over the fallen creature, her breath steady despite the exertion.

The travellers emerged from their hiding place, their expressions a mix of awe and gratitude.

Traveler: awed "You… you saved us. What was that thing?"

Sylvia: coolly "Trouble. You should move quickly—this area isn’t safe."

She helped them right the overturned wagon and ensured they were ready to continue their journey. As they thanked her and departed, Sylvia mounted her horse once more, her mind racing.

The creature wasn’t natural—it bore the taint of something ancient, something wrong. And it had come from the direction of the mountains.

Sylvia: determined, to herself "If the Skyforge is real, it might be attracting more than just treasure hunters."

She urged her horse into a canter, her destination clear. Ironholt awaited, and with it, answers—or at least the next step in a journey she hadn’t even fully committed to yet.

The trail wound closer to the city, the forest thinning as the mountain’s shadow grew over her. Sylvia felt a familiar tug in her chest, a blend of anticipation and unease. She thought again of Cyan. If he were here, he’d probably be grinning, his katana ready to face whatever dangers lay ahead.

The thought made her smile, though it quickly faded. Whatever waited in the mountains was no laughing matter.

Sylvia: resolute "If only you were here, Cyan. We could've faced this challenge together."

The gates of Ironholt came into view, their imposing height dwarfing her and her horse. The city loomed ahead, its walls scarred by time and conflict. Sylvia dismounted, her boots crunching against the gravel as she approached. She wished to find Cyan here—she had to. Together, they would uncover the truth of the Skyforge, whatever it might cost.

A Fateful Crossing

Ironholt's gates loomed overhead, their weathered stone and iron towering against the fading light. Sylvia’s horse snorted, its hooves clicking against the cobblestones as she led it into the bustling city. The air smelled of coal smoke and forge fires, mingled with the tang of sweat and iron. Merchants hawked their wares, miners trailed dust into taverns, and guards patrolled with wary eyes.

Sylvia guided her horse through the maze of streets, her gaze flicking over the crowd. She wasn’t searching for anyone—or so she told herself. It was instinct now, her eyes always scanning for a flash of dark hair and that familiar, almost reckless smirk.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud clatter ahead. A miner stumbled out of a shop, arms full of tools, nearly colliding with a swordsman walking in the opposite direction.

Swordsman: gruffly, “Watch it.”

The miner muttered an apology and hurried off, but Sylvia’s attention lingered on the swordsman. Something about his stride—calculated yet unhurried—caught her attention. She tied her horse to a nearby post and drifted closer, curiosity pulling her steps.

The man turned, and Sylvia’s breath hitched.

Cyan.

He hadn’t seen her yet, his focus on the bustling market ahead. He looked the same, yet different. His shoulders carried the same quiet confidence, but there was a weariness in the way he walked, as though the weight of his journey clung to him.

Sylvia hesitated, her mind racing. Months apart, and now, without warning, there he was. She could’ve called out to him, but something held her back. Instead, she waited, letting her presence announce itself naturally.

Cyan stopped by a merchant’s stall, inspecting a rack of blades. His hand brushed a plain steel longsword before settling on a shorter blade with a chipped edge. He turned it over, his expression unreadable.

Sylvia: dryly, from behind, “Planning to trade your katana for that old relic?”

Cyan froze. Slowly, he turned, his sharp grey eyes locking onto hers. For a moment, neither spoke, the noise of the market fading into the background.

Cyan: smirking, “You’d be surprised how often the relics hold up better than the flashy ones.”

Sylvia stepped closer, her arms crossed.

Sylvia: lightly, “And yet you’re still carrying that same sword. What’s it been—five years now?”

Cyan: shrugging, “When something works, why change it?”

The banter came easily, but beneath it was a flood of unspoken relief. He was here, alive, and seemingly unharmed. Sylvia’s lips quirked into a smile before she caught herself, slipping back into her usual guarded expression.

Sylvia: gesturing to the crowd, “So, what’s the great Cyan Akabane doing in Ironholt? Looking for trouble, or did trouble find you first?”

Cyan: leaning against the stall, “A little of both. Heard some interesting whispers about the mountains. And you? What brings you here?”

Sylvia: after a pause, “Caravans. Something’s been attacking them on the road, something not human. I handled one of those… things on the way here. Black ichor, glowing eyes. Ring any bells?”

Cyan’s smirk faded, replaced by a contemplative frown.

Cyan: quietly, “More than I’d like. There’s been talk of creatures like that tied to the Skyforge. It’s why I came—figured if the legends are true, someone needs to figure out what’s going on.”

Sylvia: skeptical, “And let me guess—you decided to do it alone?”

Cyan: meeting her gaze, “Not anymore.”

The words hung between them, heavy with the implication of old habits and shared burdens. Sylvia sighed, brushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear.

Sylvia: resigned, “Alright. If we’re doing this, we do it my way. No charging ahead without a plan, no reckless stunts.”

Cyan: grinning, “When have I ever been reckless?”

Sylvia: deadpan, “Do you really want me to answer that?”

He chuckled, and for a moment, it was as though no time had passed. The city buzzed around them, but they stood still, grounded in the familiarity of each other’s presence.

Sylvia: softly, “I meant to find you, you know. After everything… but the timing never worked.”

Cyan: just as soft, “You found me now. That’s what matters.”

The unspoken weight of the months apart settled lightly between them. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together—just as they always had.

Sylvia nods toward the tavern, “Come on. Let’s figure out what we’re dealing with before we end up as another campfire story.”

Cyan: smirking, “Lead the way.”

They moved together, their steps naturally falling into rhythm. As they reached the inn, Cyan’s hand brushed against Sylvia’s, a small but deliberate gesture. Before she could react, he leaned in and pressed a light kiss to her lips, the moment brief but heartfelt.

Cyan: quietly, with a smirk, “I am upset it took so long for you to find me, though.”

Sylvia blinked, a faint flush rising to her cheeks.

Sylvia: recovering quickly, “Next time, try staying in one place longer than a week.”

Cyan: teasing, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Sylvia shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. Together, they stepped into the inn, the warmth of the room contrasting with the cold weight of the journey ahead. Whatever awaited them, they would face it—together.

The Journey Begins

Morning broke over Ironholt, the pale light filtering through the grime-streaked window of the inn. The sounds of the city awakening filled the air—boots on cobblestones, the ring of hammers striking anvils, and the chatter of merchants setting up their stalls.

Sylvia tightened the straps of her pack, her gaze lingering on the faint outline of the Ebonridge Mountains visible beyond the city walls. They were jagged and foreboding, their peaks wreathed in a veil of mist that clung stubbornly even as the sun climbed higher.

Cyan: casually, leaning against the doorframe “Staring at mountains won’t make them any smaller.”

Sylvia turned, her expression wry.

Sylvia: coolly “And charging in headfirst won’t make them any less dangerous.”

Cyan chuckled, adjusting the strap of his katana across his back. His easy demeanour hadn’t changed, but Sylvia could see the sharp focus in his eyes, the subtle tension in his stance. They both knew the journey ahead wouldn’t be easy.

As they descended the inn’s creaking stairs, the innkeeper gave them a curt nod, sliding two small loaves of bread across the counter.

Innkeeper: gruffly “Not much, but it’ll hold you till you reach the foothills.”

Sylvia: nodding in gratitude “Thank you.”

Outside, the city had fully come alive, but the two of them moved against the current, weaving through the crowd toward the gates. The weight of their supplies and weapons was a constant reminder of what awaited them.

As they passed the threshold of Ironholt, the bustling noise of the city faded, replaced by the steady crunch of their boots on the dirt road. The mountains loomed larger now, their dark silhouettes cutting into the brightening sky.

Sylvia: softly, glancing at Cyan “You think the Skyforge is really out there?”

Cyan: grinning faintly “Only one way to find out.”

The path stretched ahead, winding into the shadow of the Ebonridge. The road was uncertain, fraught with danger and doubt, but they pressed forward, side by side.

Sylvia tightened her grip on the reins of her horse as they walked, a quiet determination settling over her.

Sylvia: to herself, resolute “Together, we’ll find it. And we’ll survive whatever comes next.”

Their journey had only just begun, but the first steps felt right, each one forging their path into the unknown. Together, they disappeared into the wilderness, leaving the safety of Ironholt behind.