Rest day arrived with damp fog curling under the iron grates. For most, it meant sparring, studying trench schematics, or polishing their Echo-forged gear. For me, it meant disappearing. I found my usual haunt – a derelict corner of the lower barracks, far from the training halls and the clamor of ambitious trainees. A grimy, discarded bench in the shadow of a rattling ventilation shaft. The perfect place to cultivate apathy. I was almost achieving a perfect zen state of doing absolutely nothing, a personal best, when the shadow fell over me.
“Reko?”
Jalo. Of course. His voice, bright and earnest, cut through the quiet like a freshly sharpened blade. I opened one eye, seeing his gangly frame, already too tall for his years, silhouetted against the weak light from a distant grated window. He held a long, curved implement in his hand, its metal dulled by rust and wear. His farm reaper. It looked out of place here, in a citadel built of stone and ambition, smelling of soil and honest labor.
“Can I… borrow you for a moment?” he asked, shifting his stance. “I heard the forges are open for personal maintenance today, but… well, I’ve never really done this properly before.” He gestured vaguely at the curved tool. “Back home, my father just used a rock.”
I sighed, the carefully constructed edifice of my peace crumbling. “A rock is fine, Jalo. It’s what sickles were made for.”
“But you used those salt crystals on the golems,” he said, his stare earnest. “And you always seem to know things. I thought… maybe you knew a better way for this too.”
His innocent faith dug straight into the scar tissue of my apathy. “Fine,” I grunted, pushing myself up. “But if you expect me to sing folk songs about bountiful harvests, you’ll be disappointed.”
The forges were a symphony of clang and hiss, a vibrant, brutal heart of the foundry. Apprentices, their faces grimy with soot, hauled glowing ingots. Seasoned veterans hammered dents out of their armor, the air thick with the smell of scorched metal and sweat. Jalo looked around with wide-eyed wonder, like a child in a toy shop. I led him to a quieter section, a series of individual whetstone stations, each with a rotating wheel and a trough of water.
“First, you clean it,” I said, picking up a wire brush. “Rust is the enemy of sharpness. It eats the edge from the inside out.” I demonstrated, scrubbing at a patch of orange-brown on his hooked blade. The metal beneath, though scarred, still held a faint gleam.
Jalo nodded, mimicking my movements with surprising care. “My father always said a clean edge was like an honest trade. Keep it bright, keep it sharp, and it’ll cut true.” He paused, looking at his reflection in the dull blade. “I want to be a hero, Reko. Like the old Pathfinders from the legends. The ones who ventured deep into the maze and brought back Echoes of light.” His voice was soft, laced with a hopeful ache. “I want to make a difference.”
A bitter taste filled my mouth. Difference. Right. I knew where his path led. I knew the ‘difference’ he was destined to make. The world-ending kind.
“Dreams are cheap,” I muttered, taking the tool from him. “Edges are earned.” I poured water into the trough, the wheel beginning its slow rotation with a low hum. “The trick isn’t just to grind, but to find the angle. Too steep, and it chips. Too shallow, and it won’t hold.” I pressed the blade against the spinning stone, a shower of silver sparks erupting, the high-pitched whine of metal on grit filling the air. The smell of burning steel was sharp, acrid.
My hands moved with an ancient, unconscious precision. The heft of the steel, the specific vibration against the stone, the faint scent of charcoal and iron—it was all too known. Too real. The forge faded, replaced by another. A smaller, older one, filled with the scent of pine smoke and the quiet thrum of a hand-cranked wheel. The calloused hand of my own master, Old Pako, guiding mine. *“Find the balance, boy. The blade is an extension of your will. Feel the metal sing.”* His voice, raspy with age and wisdom, echoed in my mind, as clear as if he stood beside me. The warmth of his hand on my knuckles. The careful tilt of the blade. The steady, rhythmic *shhk-shhk* of the whetstone. The mass of the axe in my grip, not a curved blade, but the principle was the same. The same focused intensity, the same quiet trust.
I blinked, and the old forge wavered, overlaid by the Kivi Institute’s grimy walls. The sparks from Jalo’s edge still flew. Old Pako’s ghost, a sudden, brutal clarity, stood beside me. A dull stitch pulled tight beneath my ribs. *Balance, Pako. I lost it all.* My grip on the handle tightened, knuckles blanching. The name, *Pako*, was on the tip of my tongue, almost escaping, a desperate plea for guidance.
Jalo flinched, pulling back slightly. “Reko? Are you… are you alright?” His voice was hesitant, the innocent awe replaced by a flicker of concern. My throat seized, teeth grinding together. The raw emotion that had surfaced, unbidden, felt like a public stripping. I was supposed to be a blank slate, a lazy porter, not a man haunted by ghosts.
“Just… focused,” I managed, my voice rougher than intended. I snatched my hand back from the iron. “Here. Your turn. Watch the sparks. Don’t push too hard.” I stepped away, putting distance between us, between myself and the ghost of Old Pako. The memory, a jagged shard, had lodged itself deeper than I liked.
I watched Jalo clumsily attempt the technique, his earlier confidence shaken. My mind, however, was still trapped in the past, in the warmth of a master’s hand, in the bitter taste of a prophecy fulfilled. I needed to be alone. I needed to rebuild my walls.
“You really think you’re subtle, Vaara?”
Senja. Her voice, sharp as a honed dagger, cut through the forge’s din. She stood a few paces away, arms crossed, her eyes, the color of flint, narrowed on me. Jalo, still engrossed in his sharpening, didn’t seem to notice her approach. She wore her officer tunic, freshly pressed, a stark contrast to my stained linen.
“Subtlety is for those who care to be noticed, Senja,” I said, turning to face her, my voice deliberately flat. “I merely exist.”
“Existing is a luxury you can’t afford when you’re manipulating the Sunken Star,” she retorted, her gaze flicking to Jalo, then back to me. “What’s your game, washout? First, you ‘accidentally’ save him in the simulation, now you’re playing mentor?” Her lip curled. “Trying to ingratiate yourself with the new hero, hoping some of his shine rubs off?”
Her accusation stung, even though it was exactly what I was doing, albeit for far more desperate reasons. “Or perhaps,” I said, meeting her stare, “I’m merely showing a new recruit how to keep his tools in working order. Something your esteemed team seemed to struggle with.” The jab landed, her eyes flashing with renewed anger. She still hadn’t forgotten the golems.
“Don’t play coy, Reko. I saw your face just now. You looked… lost. Like you were seeing something else.” Her voice was low, almost a hiss, but beneath the anger, there was a flicker, a brief, unsettling ripple of… what? Concern? Curiosity? It vanished before I could properly decipher it.
“Perhaps I just prefer the company of rust to your constant lectures,” I countered, a weary cynicism my only defense.
“You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Always on the sidelines, whispering, pulling strings. You’re a parasite, Vaara, clinging to those with actual potential.” Her voice rose, drawing the attention of a nearby apprentice who quickly looked away. “But you’re not fooling me. I’m going to find out what you’re really planning with Jalo.”
Before I could deliver a suitably cutting retort, a high-pitched, piercing shriek ripped through the Kivi Institute. It wasn’t a practice alarm. This was the full-scale, emergency klaxon, designed to freeze the blood and demand immediate attention. Every head in the forge snapped up.
Then, a distorted voice, tinny and urgent, blared over the loudspeakers. “Attention, all personnel! High-priority alert! Zone Seven breach! Vanguard Team Solas– no contact. Repeat, Team Solas missing in Zone Seven. All non-essential personnel to designated assembly points. Strikers to their defensive assignments immediately!”
Zone Seven. The name rang against the sudden, cold silence of the forge. Jalo’s chin jerked up, pupils pinpricked, the blade forgotten on the trough. His next descent. Our next descent. The Valta depths always claimed their due, but Team Solas? They were one of the highest-ranked units, veterans of countless delves. Missing. In Zone Seven. The very perimeter Jalo was slated to enter tomorrow.