“Man... It's really storming out there.” Mikhail peaked through the window of the villa. “Is the weather always like this in the republic? Dreary, man, the interior of Haran can get pretty wet but this humidity is killing me.”

“It is not.” Goroshi replied. His legs were resting on the table he sat at, reading from an old dusty tome about lost places and exciting adventures. He'd seen how happy Rose had been about his improvements in common grammar and was adamantly possessed with learning new words to show her during their reunion at the games. “The season of storms shouldn't begin until the bridge between fall and summer. This is not normal.”

“That's pretty wicked...” Fennic observed, staring out of a window shaking violently with the force of the storm. Lighting flashes lit the sky intermittently – throwing the city below into stark relief. Citizens and shopkeepers alike were hastily withdrawing their awnings and running about to get beneath an eve and dry themselves. Only the early evening, and one might easily say that night had fallen early with how dark it was. “Isn't Tyr out there? Do you think he'll be alright?”

“Our Tyr?” Tiber chuckled. He was a hard old man but when it came to Tyr, he was all roses and kittens. Most of the time, unless a challenge was made or the boy needed correcting. Fennic understood it. The old man felt himself responsible for all of the boys deeds, trying to be a better man and mentor. Caught up in his own selfish desire for revenge, something he didn't need any longer, leaving him hanging his head in shame. “Hardly at risk from a little rain. If I couldn't kill him, I doubt the weather can.”

“Never tempt nature.” Goroshi said, never looking up from those books of his. “It is a force beyond even your primus', honorable elder.”

“I guess you're right, I gave him an umbrella.” Fennic smiled, feeling satisfied with himself. Jura, on her part, was happy that Tyr wasn't the loaner he originally appeared. All along he'd had these men, these brothers, constantly looking out for his well being – even when she could not. Thunder boomed in the distance and Okami started howling, startling them all before returning to their respective games and distractions. The great wolf, too.

It was good to have him around, but sometimes he said some very bizarre things.

“And so my soul brightens with the coming of the sun. Long reigned the storm, but soon, all shall be light.”

“Uh... Get us another pitcher, Fenn?”

"Yeah..." Fennic coughed. "Guess we should just ignore that and get back to drinking."

–

“Thanks for coming.” The morning sun was bright and the skies were perfectly clear, giving Tyr some confidence to proceed. “Perfect weather for it, but why here?”

“From a lateral plane, distance wise, it's probably the safest. Far enough away.” Daito said. “Are you sure about this? I've never heard of anyone using the song for this purpose, nor could I be certain of the consequences. The choir is ancient, it is the way by which all mana and spira are measured, you know very well how dangerous it can be.”

Tyr nodded. “I'd like to try. At least once.”

“Well, it's not like you can sustain any major wounds.” Daito smirked. “A good experiment, I think, just try not to kill me this time...”

He said this, but a layer of no less than 28 wards surrounded him. An archmage tier defense, maybe even better, Daito was full of surprises.

There was a draconic rune. It meant 'beginning', but it had been interpreted by Abaddon as an 'all' rune once upon a time. Something that could hold power regardless of it's source, the keystone rune that served as the first of their language but was rarely ever used for forging because it didn't have any visceral purpose. Tyr opted for that, considering the last rune in the common lexicon was near identical to this rune in particular, a horseshoe shape facing downward. There were storage arrays that could 'keep' spells for later uses, this was just stronger. More versatile, but it wouldn't properly catch on anything unless it was filled with the right amount of power, something he couldn't do just yet with his hands alone, and the rune for 'beginning' was seemingly identical to 'growth', and for end.

While on paper it sounded incredible, an all purpose storage rune for mana and spira, having energy in an artifact didn't mean one could make real use of it. Tyr and his shaper magic could use it to sustain himself but he wasn't sure how to convert that energy into one big spell. Whatever the case, a battery certainly couldn't hurt. Now that his sword was bereft of any useful enchantments filling it up, it was worth a shot.

“What's it's name?” Daito asked. “Names are of great significance in this world, and they mean more than a simple word, especially on a sword. Not that I'd call that a sword, but... I'd assume?”

“Aska.” Tyr said, laying the auronite cleaver on the anvil and brushing his hand along its blade. It was incredibly ugly in this form, twisted and uneven, but it was his. “It means thunder in--”

“It means ash.” Daito corrected. “I'm not uneducated, I've been here almost as long as your father. Your inflection is off, the way you say it. Oh-skya versus Ah-ska. Well... I'm sure you aren't here to hear me prattle on. Just know that, before you begin. And this sword has already been named by the feel of it, so it'll be ash. Until you die, at least, knowing its true name is more important than you might think, as I've said.”

“Ash...?” Tyr said, frowning. Thunder had seemed such an interesting name for a weapon, but ash was a little... Short? Dull? “I suppose there are worse names.”

“Indeed. Blood and ash and so our blossoms beckon for the come of winter, when the chill sets and our clans labor for the morrow. Huddled around the fire that becomes us, we are warmed by bonds and oaths forevermore. For summer brings the tide and raids. Dust to dust, ash to ash. Hammers fall, thunder's clash.”

“...What?”

“For one who sought to name his sword in the northern old tongue, you are oddly out of touch with your Oresundian heritage.” Daito chuckled in amusement, shaking his head at the boys whimsy. “Daylight is burning, no time for a history lesson. But if you must know, that is a war song of your maternal clan. The Ebonfist battle dirge, once upon a time.”

Tyr nodded. No need for the games and the dialogue, only action. He'd try it once, and he'd fail, and then move along satisfied, if only to say that he tried in the first place. There was no heat, he infused Aska with his energy, and that alone. No forge necessary, such were the properties of auronite. It started to warp and soften under the pressure, but it refused to mold itself under his force as it once would. He'd tried a hundred times and failed, but now he had a weapon. The first rune, and the last. First and last. Everything and nothing. Beginning and end. He'd begun to understand some of the dramatic significance behind the inner workings of the universe. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't, that shit was confusing, but hitting something with a hammer was considerably less so.

It was time to move away from his vain appreciation of the bladed sword and towards something more useful to him. As loathe as he was to do it, it was necessary if he wanted to step forward and improve.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

He beat it at a steady pace, watching as the almost amorphous solid of the metal yearned for more and more of his energy. Instead of flooding it, he kept the influx stable, just enough to make it soft and pliable. Just enough to allow him to devour the magic of the runes inside as he had devoured the sicknesses and ills of the people. Eating away at them until the auronite below him was bereft of any enchantment.

Slowly, the weapon was made a blank slate – a long block of white steel ready to be put to purpose. Rhythmically beating with one hand while the other chiseled – keeping it all in place with magic. It was incredibly difficult, and he failed a dozen times in half as many minutes trying to make it work. But eventually, it did, because it always would, one way or another he'd make it work. The origin rune appeared on the surface before sinking into the metal to become part of its composition. Something it wouldn't simply fill in as a hole in its structure. All of the mana began to rush into this rune – the rest of the weapon appearing more like a flat frying pan than a sword. A thick wad of quicksilver running all over the anvil before it pulled the leaking bits back again through an almost magnetic phenomena.

The song. He'd felt it so many times now. The song was the voice and will of the world. Tyr didn't want to use the will of the world itself, that was too much. Enough to erase things from existence if he was in the right mindset, not something he could use when he wanted to. He could leverage it at will, and it would decide whether to take someone near him, himself, or the target. All were equal in the eyes of spira, and it was a dangerous power. Tyr was simply lucky enough to have gotten his way with it so far. It could not be controlled, nor tamed. No, this time – he went for a true song of reflection. The world could remain out of it, this was of his blood and bones, whispering secrets of himself to it in a soft voice.

His soul kissed the metal and he blasted it with a violent swath of energy that shook the high peak they stood on.

It started as a low humming, matching the tune of the clashing of Abaddon's hammer. A bass line of sorts that punctuated the loud ringing clashes. After that... He didn't know. Even Daito was shocked at it, Tyr had begun to sing in fluent old tongue. The language they used only on the northern continent, and it was rare in its usage even there. A dead language, brought to life once more at the lips of this boy who'd never visited that land nor spoken these words before.

Not even Tyr knew what he was saying, he understood the words, for he had the allspeak, a gift that he'd never understood. Given to him before he'd developed enough to appreciate it for what it was. But it was coming from another place, a part of himself that hadn't been of his self for a great deal of time. Singing to the weapon beneath him.

A song of blossoms and petals and ash. The heat at the core of the earth and the beating of drums, the eyes of gods and the skeletal remains of leviathans. Speaking of the serpent and the wolf that hunted it. Black boughs and grasping hands, crows and moons and the deepest mourning. Something about the torch that held back eternal darkness and the twin wolves who carried the dying flame in their maws. And then, they were swallowed by sadness. One wolf had left of its own accord, leaving the other lonely. Two had become one, a balance broken and all the heavens would weep – the hammer ringing throughout it all and the skies growing darker.

Like Tyr himself, he'd been whole once before a piece had been taken, and he'd been laboring to fill that void ever since. Significance lay in this song, if only he knew the answer to all the questions it positioned in him.

Why am I alone? Who am I? What is my purpose?

Daito stared up at those skies, aghast, it was a beautiful tale, albeit a bit romantic, but what came of it was out of expectation. There was so much spira in the air that he could hardly believe it. The primus' beloved beyond all beings by the spira save one, if not the gods themselves. It coiled around them, dancing to the thrumming chords of hope and doom in eternal duality. Tyr had a beautiful, haunting voice, one that evoked images of death – but also rebirth. An endless cycle of black and white, the yin and yang. The wolves and the serpent. Around and around the tree they went until all that was left was the lonely wolf of white. Lost and adrift in a land it was not familiar with, lone and abandoned by its kin and brother.

Made to prowl in a pack, a partnership, and now he was lost.

The serpent who wanted to swallow it all, and the lone wolf who stood against it. Trying and failing, trying and failing. What was will be, and what will be already was. What will be already has been, and everything was nothing. Fate and destiny separated into dual threads and the gift of life come from another, cursing the lone wolf into and eternity of suffering. All these threads on him, Tyr sang, wishing for none more to bind him, a breaking of chains, an end to a suffering no mortal being could possibly comprehend. An almost... Need to die. A crying out to the world to end him, and the world answered – but it could not. For this was just one world of many, and that which will be always has been and always will. Eternal. Speaking of mountains that shook and roiled with the fury of the cosmos, left as clouds of dust while the wolf moved on. There was always more to do, it never ended, this duty of his.

The endless maw, the silver hand, the destroyer.

Storm clouds gave way to peals of thunder, followed by the flash of lightning in the distance. Like the hurricane season come early, and on the complete wrong side of the country. Tyr didn't stop throughout, ignoring all the noise and wind whipping his hair aloft. Howling through the clefts of the mountains and threatening to tear him free from the earth. It was strongest here, in this place, the spira was celebrating, yearning him to push forward, shaping and molding itself to his will.

One might think a storm was the wrath of some angry god, that the raging and churning of the sea a punishment. It wasn't always. Mountains would shift and come alive in magma floes simply because the world became more active. Man was so small that it could care less about they existence. Only in their arrogance did they claim to be under the eye of a great power, excusing the destruction for punishment, their microcosm defined by selfishness and arrogance. Unable to comprehend that the world loved all but a special few no more than the smallest microbe in the mud of a pond. All were equal under that singular, tyrannical rule.

That magma would pour, great destruction would come, but from it would breathe new life. Islands in a barren sea, all manner of creatures to live upon it in eras to come.

Daito felt his beliefs come into question. The spira loved him, and all of his people. So their spiritual beliefs went, at least, but it did not obey them. Now, Tyr was consciously shaping it, using it in a way that a man should not be able to. Existing in perfect harmony with it, and creating this massive storm around him in the process. The fearsome ecstasy of a planet, dragging its face towards him until it agreed to say his name.

He was subjugating it, something no primus should be able to do. All though the choir that had so naturally become part of his skillset.

Tyr was struck by bolt after bolt of lightning, enough to scour the peak of the mountain bare of any vegetation, leaving the man unscathed. Twelve bolts, and it was silent. The storm dissipating as quickly as it had come, leaving only clouds – with an almost artificial looking beam of sunlight illuminating the sword on the shattered anvil. Daito thought he saw wolves in its reflection, but they were gone as soon as he blinked.

“Bit dramatic, don't you think?” The craftsmanship was something out of the legends, it was a beautiful sword... But that was all. It's magic was so dim as to be barely there... Wait...

“I did it.” Tyr groaned tiredly, feeling an explainable drowsiness wash over him and thumping to the ground. Daito frowned even harder, standing over the collapsed boy. This wasn't a sword at all, it was alive.

Daito might've had doubts before, but no longer. Tyr had awakened. A long, long time ago.