Bran stood alone in the forge, though it was not the familiar one in Ravenholt. This forge stretched endlessly into darkness, with iron pillars rising like ancient trees around a glowing river of molten metal. The heat pressed down on his skin, but he did not sweat or falter. The rhythmic clang of unseen hammers echoed in the void, a pulse that seemed to match his heartbeat.
In his hand, he gripped a sword unlike any he had ever seen. Its blade shimmered like starlight, shifting between silver and crimson with each flicker of the forge's flame. It was impossibly light yet indestructible—a weapon forged by hands far more skilled than his own.
But it wasn't finished.
He sensed this truth as surely as he felt the heat surrounding him. The sword was incomplete, fragile despite its beauty. He needed to shape it, to hammer it into something real.
Bran moved to the anvil that materialized before him, its surface black and smooth as obsidian. His hammer was already waiting, resting in his free hand as though it had always belonged there. He raised it high, ready to strike.
Clang!
The first blow sent ripples through the blade, sparks exploding outward like fireworks. The metal resisted, bending slightly but refusing to yield. Bran gritted his teeth and struck again, harder this time.
Clang!
The sword screamed in defiance, and the shadows around him twisted into shapes—writhing figures with glowing eyes. They circled him like wolves, their whispers crawling over his skin.
"You're not ready."
"A boy can't wield fire."
"This forge isn't yours."
Bran's chest tightened, but he shook off the voices. He had heard doubts before, from Harwin, from other apprentices, even from himself during long, grueling nights by the forge. But doubt had never stopped him before.
He raised the hammer again, sweatless yet determined. The figures closed in, their forms flickering like smoke.
Chapter
"Leave it."
"Let it break."
Bran roared against the whispers, bringing the hammer down with all his might.
Clang!
The force of the strike shattered the shadows into embers. They scattered like leaves caught in a storm, dissolving into nothingness. The sword glowed brighter now, its surface smooth and gleaming. The imperfections were gone, replaced by something pure—something strong.
Breathing hard, Bran lowered the hammer. The sword hummed in his hand, warm and alive. He knew, without question, that this was a blade capable of changing fate.
But as he stared at it, the forge began to fade. The heat cooled, the glow dimmed, and the endless darkness shrank away into nothingness.
Bran's eyes flew open, his body jolting upright in bed. His heart pounded in his chest, and his skin was slick with sweat. The faint light of dawn crept through the shuttered window of his small room above the forge.
For a moment, he sat there in silence, his breath uneven. The dream lingered like smoke, its details vivid and raw—the shimmering sword, the defiant shadows, the relentless clang of the hammer.
He swung his legs off the cot, planting his feet firmly on the cool wooden floor. Outside, the village of Ravenholt was beginning to stir. The familiar scent of burning coal drifted through the air, mingling with the sounds of blacksmiths preparing for the day's work.
Bran rubbed his hands together, feeling the rough calluses beneath his fingers. Dreams were just dreams, he reminded himself. But this one felt different—like a challenge, a warning, and a promise all at once.
He stood, his jaw set with quiet resolve. Whatever the dream meant, he would meet it head-on, just as he met every challenge in the forge.
Because one day, he would craft a blade worthy of that dream. And when he did, nothing—neither doubt nor shadow—would stand in his way