Night came and went.

In the early morning, Heror mustered enough bravery to leave his tent.

He journeyed to the mess tent and did not see Adjaash. He ate a quick breakfast, then visited the horses. Ashanji was still moored at her post. Perhaps Adjaash was still asleep.

The jet black horse recognized Heror, and so Heror gave her a light pat. Then he walked to his horse Shaadur. He lifted the rope and set it aside in the light grass, and then he mounted Shaadur and started toward the river. He followed the river until he was away from camp, then turned into the forest and made his way to the steppe.

Under the rising sun, Heror rode through the plains. He rode south for miles, following the treeline. He and Shaadur raced the wild horses through the olive grass. A hawk soared above. He felt the wind and warmth against his face.

Around midday, he and Shaadur stopped to rest. They took refuge from the sun in the shade of the forest’s edge. Shaadur sat with his legs tucked. Heror gave him food and water. And then Heror sat down with his back against Shaadur, feeling the horse’s steady breathing beneath him. He stretched his legs and rested his elbows on his knees, and then he reached inside his shirt pouch and retrieved the kinship cloth. As he’d done so many times before, he unrolled it in front of his face and studied it in the shaded sunlight, as the breeze blew in from the plains.

It was an intricately-woven cloth. Stitched along all four edges, as if lining a portrait, blue waves rolled. A jagged cliff lay to the left, with a lone wolf perched atop it. At the center of the cloth, the name ‘Heran’ was stitched in dark gray…

Heror let out a gruff, frustrated sigh and lowered the cloth into his lap. He rolled it up again and slid it back under his shirt. Then he tilted his head back and rested against his horse. Shaadur had since drifted asleep, but at the nudge of Heror’s head, the horse’s ears perked up and flapped in the wind.

“What should I do, Shaadur?” Heror asked softly, his eyes scaling the canopy.

Heror went silent for a moment, listening to the hum of the leaves above.

“Should I try and talk to her?” he wondered; he wanted to see her again.

Shaadur huffed through his nose and rustled his head. Heror glanced back.

“Bad idea, you think?”

Behind him, Heror heard a short, energetic trill of a whinny. Heror sighed again and shook his head with a half-smile.

“Alright, well if you’re so smart, tell me what you would do.”

Heror’s smile soon faded. He let out another heavy sigh and contemplated, when Shaadur tilted his head back and nuzzled Heror’s ear through curls of brown hair. Heror smiled again and rubbed his horse’s mane, then turned his gaze back to the fields ahead.

Now he glanced down at his belt, where – nestled next to his sword Kerit – the Sword of Sparhh sat fixed beneath his belt loop. He slowly reached for the weapon’s hilt and grabbed it, fingers wrapping around the dark obsidian handle. The pads of his fingers snaked through grooves in the metal. He clamped down. Again, he felt nothing.

He let out another exhale and closed his eyes, feeling the wind.

“After the ceremony… I’ll try and talk to her,” he resolved.

The leaves shone green. A clear and rich blue sky sat above, wisps of cirrus casting across it on the backs of the breeze. The long olive grass rolled and rippled and fluttered in the wind. Buffalo roamed to the south. The world hummed.

Midday turned to afternoon. Afternoon turned to early evening. And then Heror mounted Shaadur again and made his way back to camp.

He rode through the forest and back to the river, and when he emerged from the trees, he came across a convoy of Midan chariots and riders. They traveled from the south along the riverbank, toward the camp. By now, word had spread, and more Midans had come to witness the ceremony, djauul and elinji and others alike. There were soldiers and archers on horseback and armored chariots with bull-people, and there were also smaller chariots, filled with family members of soldiers – wives and spouses and parents and children.

Heror glanced south. The parade of Midans stretched onward for what seemed like miles, underneath the reddening sky. All across it, there was chatter and conversation and quiet laughter, echoing in the open forest air, as the heavy wooden chariot wheels turned and turned.

Heror now turned left – to the north – and he rode off to camp with a hushed “yagh”, tightening his grip on the reins again. He galloped alongside the convoy, catching a few suspicious glances as he passed.

When Heror reached the camp, preparations were well underway. Lanterns with golden keatuu flame hung on tent poles. By the mess tent, soldiers and wives and family members stood in crowds, talking amongst themselves, while children ran around playing with keatuu sparklers. Closer to the forge, on the camp’s south end, a number of robed figures stood, speaking in hushed tones. The blacksmith was using the bellows to heat the fire. It looked nearly ready.

At a trot, Heror rode Shaadur to the post line, and then he dismounted. As he went to rope his horse again, he saw that Ashanji was still at her post, resting quietly – which meant Adjaash was still in camp.

A breath of nervousness left Heror, and then he brushed his thoughts aside and looped the rope over Shaadur’s mane. He gave Shaadur one last pat, then went back to his tent. He idled there for a time. And then, when the sun’s light faded, and he heard the hum of the crowds grow louder, he reluctantly returned to the air of dusk.

When he made his way back toward the forge, the crowds had gathered, and conversation and laughter pooled in the early night air. Heror passed chatting children and wives, drunken soldiers, and stoic elinji who towered over all, until he came to the densest part of the crowd, outlining the forge area in a half-circle. Just as he arrived here, he saw someone parting the crowd. It was Raldu, his eyes darting and peering above the masses until he saw Heror. There was a smile of recognition.

“Ah, Heror!” he exclaimed as he approached. “Good, I was looking for you. Here, come along to the front.”

Raldu placed a hand on Heror’s shoulder and guided him through the crowd, and within seconds, he was at the front of the mass. And as he emerged by the forge, a wave of heat swept across his face. The forge – a protruded rock and stone crevice shaped like a beehive – was unfathomably hot. There was a gap atop the crevice, where the Sword would be lowered. The blacksmith stood beside the bellows, his face and pale skin caked in sweat. Next to the forge – far enough away to be safe from the heat – a makeshift podium stood, made of wooden boards.

Once he adjusted to the heat, Heror took in his surroundings. The fire and light of the forge cast the area in a scarlet hue. At the front of the crowd, Midan soldiers jostled and conversed. Across from him, he saw one soldier – Baalu, the djauul who’d joined their search party on the second expedition – wearing nothing more than a ceremonial robe around his waist and red war paint on his face, chest, and arms. Heror’s eyes traced the line farther down. He saw Shaail alongside Raldu. Next to them, Heror saw another familiar face, though it took him a moment to remember…

It was the tall, robed djauul from Kraana’s Pass, adorned in a gilded purple cloak, as the bright blue and orange of his eyes clashed against the reddened fire of the forge. He thanks you… for your sacrifice…

Heror’s breath jumped again, and he traced the line a bit farther. He saw Brocus. There was a gap. And then… on her own, at the edge of the crowd, Heror saw Adjaash in her patterned poncho, bow slung over her shoulder.

Just as he looked at her, Adjaash glanced at him. Their eyes met, and then they both looked away in a rush. Heror buried his gaze in the ground, and then he started to look up toward her again… when there was a call from the wooden podium ahead.

Somewhere along the edges of the crowd, there were drums. And as Heror looked up, he saw Raldu on the wooden platform with Shaail at his side – golden hair blurred orange in the light of the forge and the sinking sunset. At the drums’ insistence, the crowd quieted and quieted, until it was silent. Raldu spoke, as they watched him with reverence. Shaail translated in Midan.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“I thank all of you – friends, family, children – for joining us before we make our next advance to the south,” Raldu began. “We hold the line south of the Ardysan border, but the work has only just begun. We will reclaim our lands. We will gain recompense. And we will cleanse the land of the tyranny that has plagued it for so long, freeing others who have suffered as we have.”

There was a roused eruption in the crowd. Midan soldiers belted cries of war.

“There are many victories to come, but our latest…” Raldu went on “… is a symbolic one. We have recovered the Sword of Sparhh – the Divinium Diaphanae. An ancient instrument of our depletion and desecration. And tonight, we will cast it into the bloodforge and destroy it forever.”

The crowd swelled again in a cheer. Heror felt the heat. Sweat rolled down his face. Raldu’s eyes swam across the mass of people, and then he continued.

“Before we begin the ritual,” he said. “Let us offer a prayer for those Gods who have not abandoned us. The Forgotten One, Parun. Who has offered us shelter since we first set foot on Kivveneth, and shelters us on The Island when we leave this place…”

Now Raldu turned to Shaail. Shaail stepped forward on the wooden platform. There was a low and solemn drumbeat, that sounded out once and then stopped. The crowd went quiet, and many bowed their heads. Some held up keatuu torch-sticks that glowed red and blue and orange. Shaail whispered silently to himself, eyes closed and head bowed underneath his hood. And then he clasped his hands and spoke loudly, firmly – in a tongue.

“Parun ach aalu…”

And he said his prayer. The crowd made no noise as he spoke. And once he was finished, around a minute later, their heads rose. In respect, they remained silent. Then Raldu spoke again.

“And now a prayer for the primordial,” Raldu said. “The one who gives us power.”

The crowd remained silent. Shaail’s head still bowed. There was a frozen moment, and then Shaail spoke once more in prayer.

“Sim ach aalu…”

This prayer was longer. When it was over, heads bowed no more. And then the low sound of a drumbeat rang out again, shaking the ground. Slow. Steady.

Shaail stepped down from the platform and picked up something from the ground. It was a strange, stout metal bucket – adorned gold with painted blue and red designs across it. Raldu spoke from above.

“The forge is almost prepared,” Raldu announced. “But only a flame of true devotion can melt God-forged steel. The liquid of life and soul is needed to attune it. The brave Baalu… has offered his.”

Now the Midan soldier Baalu stepped forward from the crowd, his black hair in a single braid. Red paint cast across his skin and face, and he turned and raised his fists into the air, his expression triumphant. The crowd, once silent, now cheered again. There were cries of admiration, and shouts of glory.

“You carry honor with you to The Island, Baalu!” Raldu affirmed above the furor. “Parun waits to welcome you.”

The crowd cheered for a moment longer. Heror’s brow lowered. And now Baalu approached Shaail, while two Midan soldiers stepped out behind him.

Baalu stopped in front of Shaail and stood up straight. One Midan grabbed Baalu’s arms, as if to hold him steady. Shaail approached with the golden bucket, and as he did so, the second Midan pulled a ceremonial dagger from his belt, made of a similar jeweled golden metal.

Heror’s expression darkened as he realized what was about to happen. In the crowd, some of the soldiers’ wives covered their childrens’ eyes. And then, without a moment’s hesitation, the second Midan soldier wrapped around and slit Baalu’s throat.

Even from the Midan crowd, there were a few gasps. Heror looked on in shock, and as he glanced at Adjaash from across the gap, she shared his expression. The first Midan held Baalu steady as blood poured from his neck, and Shaail held the bucket to collect. When it was nearly full, he pulled the bucket away, and the Midans laid Baalu onto the ground. As Shaail took the bucket, another Midan stepped forward with an ornate blanket, and spread it over Baalu’s body.

“Another soul transmutes the fox-spider,” Shaail declared. “And He grows ever closer.”

And now he turned to the forge.

With the bucket in hand, Shaail stepped toward the bellows. His gaunt face fell under the red light of the flames, shadows dancing around him. As he reached the forge – heat spewing from its maw in pulsing waves – he shouted an incantation in an unknown language, and then he thrust the blood into the fire. A pyre rose from the chasmous cauldron with a rumbling roar, and red became deeper red. Piercing red.

Heror’s pulse started to race.

Now Shaail turned away from the fire and rose onto the platform.

Heror heard his heartbeat inside his ears.

Raldu took a step forward, to the edge of the podium.

“The forge is ready!!”

The crowd rumbled. Heror’s chest started to heave.

He took a half-step back.

“Presenting the Sword… is Heror Heran!”

He stopped. Raldu’s eyes were on him now.

“Heror defected from the land of the Kings, on his own volition,” Raldu told the crowd. “He helped us find the Sword, and he brought it back to us. And now… he will bring it to its end!”

The crowd wailed again. Raldu’s voice grew louder.

“Approach the forge, Heror!” he commanded. “And cast this instrument of death and destruction into the flames!!”

Heror swallowed. He let out a nervous breath. He glanced at Adjaash, who was trying to speak to him with her eyes. He looked away. His eyes sank. Then they lifted again. To the fires.

He took a step forward, toward the bloodforge.

The crowd cried and bellowed.

He took another step.

Howls flooded his head.

Another step. He felt the fire’s tendrils reaching toward him.

His fingers flowed around the Sword’s hilt. He tightened his grip. He unsheathed it…

And then, halfway to the forge, he stopped. The deafening noise of the crowd faded in his ears, until it was muffled and gone, and he heard not a sound. His eyes lashed around, his surroundings mute. Suddenly, he felt dizzy. He glanced at Adjaash again, and then – in a panic – his eyes went forward. There was a hum inside his head. And then…

He heard a voice, against the silence. As clear and as strong and as real as if he was standing next to him, speaking in his ear. As if they were standing at the edge of a camp, looking at the sunset. A voice he had not heard in a long time. A voice he had expected to never hear again.

Nihlukei.

“… Heror, stop!”

Heror’s eyes widened. He whipped from left to right. Nihlukei was not there. Heror saw only the sprawling masses and the red light and the smoke. He looked at the body on the ground, beneath the blanket. He looked at the Sword. He heard the voice again. It echoed from nowhere.

“Stop.”

He stood, frozen in place.

“Don’t.”

And then in a wave, all the noise returned. The crowd shouted and jeered behind him, urging him to proceed. But soon, they all saw that Heror would not move, and their calls began to fade. The camp fell under an uneasy silence, as murmurs and whispers echoed.

Heror glanced at Adjaash again, his eyes wide with fear. She saw this, and her jaw clenched. She started to step toward him, when Raldu and Shaail descended from the platform.

Heror’s eyes shot ahead. He watched them, staring him down. Raldu’s eyes were wide, as a realization came to him. Shaail’s shock turned to anger.

“I knew it…” Shaail hissed.

Shaail took a step forward, reaching underneath his cloak. Raldu tried to stop him, but Shaail wrenched his hand away and ripped a shortsword from his sheath. He hurried toward Heror and wound his sword back, shards of flamelight shining off the metal. The volume of the crowd rose again, as shocked and startled and confused cries blended together. Above it all, Shaail shouted in fury:

“I knew it!!!”

And as Shaail swung toward Heror, time began to slow. And the sound faded again. In a rush of instinct and an act of defense, Heror raised the Sword of Sparhh. And then he heard Nihlukei’s voice again.

“Close your eyes…”

Heror closed his eyes. He set his back foot. Time sped up again. And just as Shaail’s sword hit the winged blade, there was a spark – and then there was an explosion.

Shaail was knocked back – his sword splintering into fragments. From the impact of the two swords, a simmering pillar of amber and gold erupted and swirled and rose into the sky, climbing over the forge fires, cutting through the dark evening air. It crested and billowed – upward and outward – until it formed the emblem of a giant phoenix, towering over the land with a cindered crown and sprawling wings of flame.

They all stared, paralyzed by fear and awe, their eyes craning upward. And as the phoenix hovered in the air – plumes of red and orange and gold billowing and churning as if in a furnace – the legendary bird flapped its mammoth wings. A wave of wind sped to the ground in a downburst and surged through the camp. The phoenix lifted its beak and let out a loud, resolute, trilling call that droned on and rattled the eardrums and echoed in the canyons and creeks beyond. And then it brightened… brightened… brightened… as if the Sun itself hovering above the Aelyum… until there was a violent, blinding flash, and it was gone. A thunderous boom shook the grounds.

Now Heror opened his eyes. Chaos swept over the crowd. Soldiers fell over one another, covering their eyes with their hands, temporarily blinded. Children screamed and cried farther back, and parents shouted names. Wives and elders prayed fervently and hysterically to themselves. Shaail lay on the ground, wounded from the broken metal. Raldu had stumbled and dropped to one knee. He too had his face in his hands.

Heror tried to look for Adjaash – to call to her, to make sure she was alright – but before he could, several sightless Midan soldiers clamored toward the forge, in a blind rush to seize him. He turned away from the forge and shoved past one, then pushed another to the ground. And as he went, the crowd engulfed him. He saw Nubu and Omru, as they charged past. He glanced back over his shoulder again, but Adjaash was lost in the commotion. He turned and kept moving, hugging the Sword close to his torso. He started to run.

He dashed through the blind mob, and soon he came to the horses. In a frantic rush, he sheathed the Sword beneath his belt, then untied a spooked Shaadur and mounted, vaulting onto the saddle from the stirrup. He grabbed the reins with haste. Then he kicked his heels.

“C’mon Shaadur,” he hurried. “We need to go…”

Shaadur let out a whinny and reared up, and then the horse came to the ground and started east. He quickened his pace to a gallop, and from a gallop to a sprint. As the chaos of the crowd and the glow of the redlight echoed, Heror reached the riverbank. He lurched the reins to the right and followed the stream. And then, when he rode down far enough, he swerved into the forest, through the trees and thickets, and out into the darkened steppes – beneath the open night sky.

He kept riding.