The cave gaped open like something had clawed through the mountain and never looked back. Jagged edges framed the entrance, rough and blackened, as if the rock itself had tried to cauterize the wound. Heat bled from within—dense, wet, the kind that didn't just touch skin but grabbed it. It rolled out in thick waves, heavy with the smell of scorched minerals and something older.
Jasper hovered near the edge, sweat already creeping down his spine. His collar clung to his neck like it was trying to strangle him before the cave could. He didn't move.
James did.
The older god walked ahead without hesitation—coat grazing the volcanic stone, shoulders squared, not a flicker of doubt in his step. Like he wasn't heading straight into a subterranean furnace. Like the temperature didn't even register.
Jasper jogged to catch up, boots scraping against the cracked slope. "So, just to be clear—this isn't some divine hazing ritual, right? Because if you're planning to toss me in a lava pit to 'build character,' I'd like at least five minutes to cry about it first."
James didn't look back. "You'll be fine."
"That's not reassuring, that's a lawsuit."
No response. Of course.
Jasper exhaled sharply and glanced behind them. The ridgeline was distant now—scarred rock and ash-colored trees, sky bruised with smoke and a dying orange hue. He could still turn back. Claim he got lost. Say he slipped and broke something.
But then—
"Keep moving."
No raise in volume. No glance over the shoulder. Just a command. Heavy. Final.
Jasper's mouth snapped shut. He stepped forward.
The cave swallowed him whole.
Inside, the heat hit different. It wasn't the sharp burn of open flame—it was deep. Internal. Like it knew where your bones were. The air didn't just warm; it pressed down, thick and damp, like being smothered with a blanket fresh from the dryer and soaked in god-blood.
Each breath came too slow. Too full. Like his lungs didn't want it.
The walls glowed faintly with veins of orange-red light, flickering like dying heartbeats beneath the rock. Jasper brushed his fingers against one—didn't burn, but it hummed. Alive. Watching.
They moved deeper.
The passage tightened around them, sloping into the earth with the kind of curve that didn't feel natural—too smooth. Too deliberate. Jasper's shirt was already soaked through, collar dragging against his neck like wet wool. He wiped his face and kept walking.
"This really the training spot?" he muttered. "Because it feels more like a tomb. With central heating."
James said nothing. Still ahead. Still walking.
Jasper followed.
Not because he wanted to.
Not because he had to.
Because somewhere beneath the sarcasm, beneath the sweat and second-guessing—
He knew this wasn't a lesson.
This was a threshold.
And James wasn't just walking through it.
He was dragging Jasper with him.
They kept walking.
The tunnel narrowed as it spiraled downward, tight enough that Jasper had to duck once or twice. The slope felt wrong—too smooth, too consistent. Carved, not natural.
He had no idea how long they'd been descending. Minutes? Hours? Time stretched in the heat, warped by sweat and breath and effort. His legs ached. His lungs felt thick, like each inhale was dragging fire down his throat.
He didn't remember the floor changing.
But it had.
Dry dirt became packed stone.
Then came cracked obsidian, fractured in strange patterns.
Then smooth slate that shimmered faintly like metal.
And now—volcanic glass.
Deep black, sharp in places, warm underfoot. He swore it pulsed faintly beneath his boots, like it had a heartbeat.
Jasper wiped his face with a sleeve soaked through with sweat. "This place feels like a damn furnace."
James didn't reply. Still ahead, still steady, still treating this descent like a light jog on a cloudy afternoon.
Jasper muttered something half-swear, half-prayer under his breath and kept going. He stumbled on a jagged edge, caught himself with a sharp inhale, and kept moving. Instinct screamed at him to turn around. Every survival instinct in his skull was lighting flares.
He didn't even know what this place was—not really. Just whispers. Something about forging a weapon.
But why here?
Why this deep?
The tunnel widened. Then opened.
The chamber swallowed them whole.
The heat slammed into him like a blow to the chest—heavy, not scalding. His breath hitched. Sweat poured freely, eyes stinging. Even his teeth ached with the sudden shift in pressure.
The ceiling curved up into a natural dome, huge and jagged. Magma ran in lazy rivers along trenches at the edges, the glow filling the space in gold and blood-orange. The walls weren't just rock—they shimmered faintly with embedded metals, veins glowing in places where divine pressure had twisted the stone.
On the far side, strange structures stood in grim, perfect silence.
Anvils shaped like altars.
Tool racks humming with magic that tasted like copper and ozone.
Everything radiated heat, but not all of it came from the magma.
At the center—elevated on a circular platform of scorched black stone—stood the Solaris Forge.
Jasper blinked slowly, light-headed. The air shimmered around him. He could feel every drop of sweat, every beat of his heart, every fiber of his body screaming that he shouldn't be here.
He swayed. Maybe was about to fall. But before he could drop, a hand landed on his shoulder.
Firm. Calm. Grounding.
James.
The older god gave him a single pat—solid, brief, the kind of gesture that said, you're not dying yet.
"You made it," James said, voice unreadable. "Still standing. That's good."
Jasper blinked up at him, disoriented.
James nodded toward the forge's center. "Welcome to the Forge."
Jasper wiped the sweat from his forehead again, trying to stay upright. Each breath dragged through his chest like it was filtered through dry ash and flame. His shirt clung to him—half from sweat, half from the heat trying to stitch it to his skin.
James moved ahead a few steps, boots clicking faintly against the black stone. The sound echoed, sharp in the silence. He stopped at the edge of a magma trench, the glow bathing his coat in gold.
He looked back.
"You know where we are?"
Jasper squinted through the heat haze. "Some kind of underground grill for gods?"
James didn't smile. "We're standing beneath what used to be the Yellowstone supervolcano. Back when the surface still had names like that."
Jasper blinked, slow and uneven. His head felt light.
James kept speaking, tone flat. "I forged my weapon here. After that, the land changed. Stabilized. Became fertile. The soil soaked up the excess power, and spirit veins formed—geothermal energy, divine metals, all of it. That's why they built the new capital above this place."
He raised a hand.
The hammer didn't fall from the sky—it simply appeared beside him, hanging in the air for half a second before dropping into his grip with a low thrum. Towering. Volcanic. Its surface pulsed with a heat that didn't burn skin—it burned memory. Like the forge had never left it.
Jasper stepped back, instinct taking over. The hammer felt alive.
James either didn't notice or didn't care. He turned toward the magma and lowered the weapon into it.
The effect was instant. Bubbles formed, thick and sluggish, popping like slow-motion thunderclaps. The molten surface around the hammer's head began to glow brighter, turning from orange to gold-white.
Jasper shielded his eyes.
Then, slowly, James pulled the hammer free.
The obsidian casing had shifted. Melted. Re-formed. Now it gleamed with a deep yellow-orange luster—like forged sunlight. A sun-shaped mark pulsed at its center, burned into the stone, not carved.
Jasper stared.
James set the hammer down beside him. The floor shook when it hit, a low vibration that ran up Jasper's legs and rattled something behind his ribs.
"This is resistance training," James said, finally turning to face him.
His expression hadn't changed.
"If you pass out, we're done. If you don't—"
He gestured toward the forge's center.
"—you make your weapon."
Jasper looked at James like he'd just been told to dive headfirst into the magma and look for holy water. Mouth slightly open. Eyes wide. Silent.
James didn't flinch. Didn't smirk. Didn't clarify.
Just stood there with that same unreadable expression, the warhammer cooling beside him like a monument.
Jasper waited for the punchline. A laugh. A shrug. Anything.
Nothing came.
Eventually, he looked James up and down—trying to find even a flicker of sarcasm in that granite-still posture—but it hit him:
There wasn't one.
He was serious.
Dead serious.
This wasn't metaphor. This wasn't symbolic.
He expected Jasper to work.
Here.
Now.
Jasper swallowed hard. His whole body was already slick with sweat, legs aching from the hike, throat raw from the heat. His breath came shallow, but it came. Barely.
His eyes drifted toward the wall near the entrance. Something caught the glow of the forge—half-hidden in the red light, shadowed under a metal rack.
A pickaxe.
Long-handled. Rough. Blackened from the heat but still intact.
He walked toward it without a word, boots dragging slightly over the stone. His muscles protested, but they held. He grabbed the handle—hands shaking, skin flushed—and lifted it. Heavier than it looked. Not just in weight. In expectation.
The wood was warm. The metal, even warmer. He adjusted his grip.
For a second, he just stood there. Breathing.
Not steady. But not collapsing either.
He could take more. Somehow.
Because he had to.
James hadn't moved. Hadn't offered help. Hadn't even blinked.
Jasper stared at the chamber. Then at the floor. Then back to the endless stone that waited beneath.
Would James give him the material? Hand him something divine and glowing, ready to mold?
He already knew the answer.
He tightened his grip on the pickaxe.
And started digging.
Jasper kept digging.
At first, it was just ash. Coarse. Clinging to his hands and mouth. Then came volcanic rock—dense, stubborn. Every strike rattled his arms. The pickaxe handle grew slick with sweat, his breath turning short and uneven.
He moved from spot to spot, scraping against the stone. Hoping for something. Praying the next swing would hit something other than unyielding black.
Nothing.
Just more rock. More heat. More silence.
He didn't ask for help. Didn't complain.
But the jacket had to go.
His Civil Control coat—once crisp, once something that made him feel official—now stuck to him like it had fused with his skin. He pulled it off, slow and reluctant, and dropped it over a stone slab nearby. Steam hissed faintly off the cloth.
That left him in just his pants. Arms flushed. Skin red. Chest rising and falling like a dying bellows.
Still, he kept going.
One strike. Then another. Over and over.
Chipped stone. Scattered ash. Scrapes blooming across his palms.
Nothing divine. Nothing useful.
But he didn't stop.
James remained behind him. Silent. Arms crossed. Watching like a statue.
No instructions.
No encouragement.
No correction.
Just presence.
Jasper's strikes grew slower. His grip faltered more often now. The muscles in his shoulders spasmed between each swing. His whole body felt like it was being boiled from the inside.
And still, the stone gave him nothing.
But then—
On a wild guess, or instinct, or just desperation—he shifted farther left. Swung wide. The wall there cracked slightly more than expected, and with a second strike, it gave. Not a vein of ore. Not treasure.
A pocket.
Cooler air spilled out—cooler being relative. It hit his face like a sigh from a dying furnace, but it was better than nothing. A hidden pocket between the stone. A vent chamber. Maybe once a pressure valve. Maybe just a lucky fracture.
He stepped inside slowly.
It was just tall enough to crouch. Jagged walls, smoothed by ancient heat. The air was still thick, but bearable. Almost.
Jasper collapsed onto one knee, catching his breath. His arms dangled. The pickaxe rested on the stone beside him. Everything ached.
The silence in the vent chamber was deeper. Like even sound had stopped trying to survive here.
He didn't stay down long.
The moment he could breathe without choking, he forced himself upright. He turned toward the far wall—solid, dark, untouched.
And he started digging again.
The rock here wasn't cooler. If anything, it was worse—thinner, closer to magma. Every hit sparked faint orange glints. The wall was warm to the touch. Not burning. Not yet.
But behind it—something deeper pulsed.
Heat. Pressure. Potential.
Jasper swallowed, gripped the pickaxe, and kept swinging.
But he'd found nothing.
Of course he hadn't.
He wasn't a god. Wasn't powerful. Wasn't chosen. He was just some street rat James had picked up after pizza, shoved into a uniform, and dropped into a furnace.
And James?
Still watching.
Jasper raised the pickaxe one more time. His arms trembled. The swing barely had weight behind it—but the sound it made was different. Not a clean clang. A crack. Subtle. But real.
He paused, breath wheezing through grit-dry teeth. His hands were raw. His head spun. He leaned forward, pressing his palm to the rock where the blow had landed.
There.
A shimmer. Just a faint flicker beneath the surface. A crack in the blackened stone. And behind it, something else—something dull, matte, but not ordinary. The glow was muted, like whatever was inside hadn't seen light in centuries.
His throat tightened, not from exhaustion, but disbelief. He'd actually found something.
He crouched beside the wall. Rested the pickaxe against his leg. He wasn't out cold, not yet—but he had nothing left in him to swing again. Even raising his arms felt like hauling steel cables. He slumped down and let his back hit the stone with a slow exhale.
It wasn't failure.
He'd made it here. He found it.
He just couldn't go further.
A few seconds passed—quiet, thick with heat—and then he heard footsteps. Solid. Measured. Coming from the tunnel.
James entered the chamber Jasper had carved open.
He looked around, not surprised, not impressed. Just taking it in. His eyes fell on Jasper, then on the shimmer in the wall.
He stepped closer.
Jasper didn't speak. Didn't need to.
James followed the faint glow with his gaze. Then, slowly, he set his hammer down and rolled up his sleeves.
"I'll finish the wall," he said. "You did the rest."
James stood up and walked back toward the entrance of the tunnel. His hammer was still there, resting against the wall like it hadn't just been in a river of magma minutes ago. He picked it up with one hand and returned to where Jasper sat slumped against the stone.
He looked at the shimmer in the wall. Still no words.
Then he raised the hammer and brought it down in a single, clean arc. The impact rang through the chamber like a fault line splitting. He struck again. Then a third time.
The stone cracked—edges softening from the lingering heat of the forgebound weapon. With a hiss, something came loose. A chunk of mineral—small, heavy, rough-edged—rolled forward and settled near Jasper with a dull clink.
It didn't shine like treasure. It didn't glow like prophecy. But it was real. A strange hybrid of iron, soapstone, and diamond—dull on the surface, glinting faintly where the cracks ran through it.
Jasper stared at it, chest still rising and falling like a broken bellows. Then he glanced at James, who now stood back—arms crossed, hammer resting on his shoulder, expression unreadable.
Neither of them said anything for a long moment.
Then Jasper let out a dry, weak exhale. "You're not gonna carry me, are you."
James didn't blink. "No."
Jasper nodded, barely. "Didn't think so."
He leaned forward, slow and shaky, and picked up the ore with both hands. It was warm. Solid. Felt heavier than it looked, or maybe that was just his arms. He held it like it might vanish if he loosened his grip.
James waited. Silent.
Eventually, Jasper pushed himself to his feet—wobbling, but standing. He didn't look triumphant. Just done.
They walked in silence back through the tunnel. The heat returned as they left the fractured vent chamber, but it no longer pressed like a punishment. It felt… earned.
At the center of the forge room stood the anvil. Raised on a platform of blackened stone, covered in ancient etchings that could've been runes or just the erosion of centuries. Jasper couldn't tell. It looked old enough to predate words.
He stopped a few feet from it, holding the ore tight in both hands.
"I'm gonna sit for a second," he muttered.
James didn't object.
Jasper lowered himself to one of the nearby slabs, cradling the mineral in his lap like something fragile. For the first time since stepping into the cave, he let himself breathe.
James offered a hand.
Jasper took it, barely steady, still clutching the ore in his other arm. It was warm against his chest—less like metal, more like something alive trying to sleep. He didn't speak. Didn't joke.
James led him out of the tunnel and back into the forge chamber. The heat greeted them again, but it no longer felt hostile. It was still there—hot enough to peel skin, thick enough to chew—but it had shifted. It felt watchful.
At the center of the room, the anvil waited—blackened, ancient, etched with lines too precise for erosion. Jasper stopped a step short, staring at it. Then at the ore in his hands.
"So… what now?"
James walked past him, grabbing a pair of heavy blacksmithing tongs from a rack near the flame trenches. He handed them over with a nod.
"Set it here," he said, motioning to the flat center of the anvil. "Flat. Centered."
Jasper nodded, adjusting his grip with both hands before lowering the mineral into the tongs. His hands trembled a bit, but he set it down carefully—like it might bite.
The lump didn't shimmer. Didn't glow. Just sat there. Dull. Solid.
James didn't seem surprised.
"Now we heat it. Just enough to soften it—too far, and the core fractures. It won't hold shape after that."
He raised a hand. His palm faced one of the nearby magma channels.
The air shimmered.
A controlled arc of flame—thin, gold-tinted, almost surgical—rose from the trench and snaked forward. It coiled around the ore like a leash. Not touching, but circling. Guiding the heat.
Jasper stepped back. "How are you controlling that?"
James didn't look at him. "The forge responds to precision. Not power."
The mineral began to glow.
First red. Then orange. Then a deep molten hue with faint white veins threading through its body like lightning caught in stone.
James continued, calm but deliberate. "You're not shaping it with skill. You're shaping it with intent. This isn't about hammer technique—it's about resonance. If the weapon doesn't register you, it'll reject the form. Shatter. Or worse."
Jasper blinked at the glowing lump. "Recognize me?"
James nodded. "It's part of you now. You dug it out. Bled for it. The forge remembers that."
He stepped back, crossing his arms again, watching the ore pulse under the fire's grip.
"You won't shape it alone. I'll guide you. But the direction—that's yours. Start thinking. What weapon do you want?"
Jasper hesitated.
He wasn't ready. Not really. But he knew better than to stall.
The ore pulsed again—slow, rhythmic. Like it was breathing.
Jasper didn't touch it yet. He just watched. Let the heat bleed into the air around it. Let the moment settle.
Then, quietly, he spoke:
"Alright. Let's make something sharp."
A scythe?
No. Too dramatic. Too… OC main character from a dark fanfic who quotes poetry unironically.
He could already hear Evodil's voice in his head—mocking him before he even stepped through the manor doors. Something about how "the edge isn't the only thing that's tryhard."
A sword?
Too basic. He'd look like some budget knight with delusions of relevance. Not his style. Not even close.
He needed something else. Something that fit. Something fast. Sharp. Loud when it had to be—clean when it didn't.
The idea came together like dry twine catching a spark.
"A katana," he muttered.
James glanced at him, no reaction at first.
Jasper cleared his throat and added, "One that can be lit on fire. Like… not just heat. Actual flames when I want."
That earned a subtle nod. James turned his eyes toward the ore, then back to Jasper. "Good choice," he said. "Harder to balance than you think. But manageable."
Jasper allowed himself the faintest grin. "Cool as hell though."
The ore pulsed once under the heat, just faintly. Jasper blinked but didn't say anything.
James stepped to one side, reached over to the rack, and handed him a forge hammer—shorter than the one James used, but still solid. The handle was smooth, dark, marked with old grip lines. Worn, but well-maintained.
Jasper took it with both hands, almost lost it on the first lift. His arms were still half-dead from the digging. But he adjusted his grip and steadied himself.
James stood beside him now, not hovering, but close enough to step in if he made a fool of himself.
"The shaping starts now," James said, calm as ever. "Flatten the core. Let it stretch on its own."
Jasper nodded, clenched his jaw, and raised the hammer.
The first strike hit solid. Not satisfying. Not cinematic. Just solid.
The ore pushed back—not wildly, not with magic—but with the kind of resistance that reminded him: this wasn't normal metal. This was something deeper. Denser.
He hit it again.
Then again.
Sparks jumped at the edges. The heated lump started to stretch. Bit by bit, the mass lost its rough shape and began to thin.
It was exhausting.
Jasper wasn't a blacksmith. Every movement felt clumsy. He wasn't swinging with power—just with focus. Letting gravity do half the work. He kept his stance as balanced as he could. James didn't say anything yet, which probably meant he wasn't doing it wrong. Yet.
Minutes passed.
The ore stretched under each blow. A crude bar began to form—longer, thinner, with enough curve that the shape was starting to make sense. The katana wasn't there, not even close, but Jasper could feel where it wanted to go.
James finally spoke.
"Strike the sides. Keep it even."
Jasper adjusted. Corrected his angle. Hit lower.
"Let the edge taper. Don't force it."
The next few strikes were lighter. The edge started to take a crude angle—nothing clean, nothing sharp, but something with potential.
Jasper's shoulders were screaming. His grip was slipping. He stopped, wiped his palm on his pants, and kept going.
James kept watching.
"Rhythm," he said. "Not just strength."
Jasper slowed down. Not because he wanted to—but because he had to. The heat blurred the edge of his vision, but he kept swinging. He wasn't about to stop now.
The metal was no longer just glowing. It was flaring. The outer edges shimmered slightly, and once, when he struck too close to the tip, a small burst of fire rippled along the half-formed edge. Just a flicker. Gone before he could comment.
He stepped back. Breathed in. Almost gagged on the heat.
James didn't speak for a while.
Then, simply: "Not yet. But soon. Let it tell you."
Jasper nodded, still catching his breath. The hammer felt heavier now. Everything did.
But the shape was real.
Crude. Uneven.
But unmistakably—
A blade.
"It survived."
Jasper blinked. "Did you think it wouldn't?"
"No," James said. "But I had to make sure you did."
The blade still pulsed faintly, heat radiating off the steel like it had a heartbeat. James motioned toward a nearby pool—low, circular, pitch black, set apart from the magma flows. It didn't steam. Didn't bubble. Just sat there, still as glass.
"That's the quench," James said. "Volcanic memory. Stable at the top, cold as the void at the bottom."
Jasper frowned. "Sounds fake."
James shrugged. "Most divine things are."
Jasper took the blade with the tongs, stepping toward the pool. As he got closer, the edge flickered—just a shimmer, like the fire inside it knew what was coming.
He lowered the blade in slowly.
The moment it touched the surface, the liquid hissed. Not loud—but deep. Like it had been holding its breath. A ripple passed across the pool. Then another.
The fire along the steel vanished.
The glow faded. But the shape held.
Jasper pulled the blade out after a few seconds. Steam curled off it like incense, the metal still faintly warm to the touch.
James gave a nod. "We'll need to wrap the hilt."
He walked over to a workbench, pulled a few materials from a crate—charcoal-treated wood, leather straps, steel pins—and returned. "Hold it steady."
Jasper did. James handled the wrapping with clean, practiced movements. He bound the hilt tight, fitting the leather to Jasper's grip, anchoring it to the tang with small hammer taps.
The result wasn't decorative. Wasn't ceremonial. But it was clean. Practical. Solid.
Only then did James step back.
"Now," he said, "sharpen it."
Jasper set the blade against the stone, sliding it forward with slow, even strokes. James stood nearby, watching the angle, adjusting his posture with slight nudges but saying little.
The metal hissed quietly with each pass. The edge grew cleaner. Thinner. Sharper.
"You plan on naming it?" James asked, arms crossed.
Jasper raised an eyebrow. "Name it?"
James nodded. "Some do. Helps them focus. Claim it as part of them."
Jasper snorted. "It's a sword. Not a puppy."
James sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Good. Last thing I need is you pulling an Evodil and talking to it like it's going to answer."
Jasper chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll pass."
They worked in silence after that. Just the sound of stone and metal, the occasional flick of a spark. The katana's edge sharpened into a clean, razor-thin line—lethal even before enchantment.
Eventually, Jasper set the blade down, wiped his forehead again, and picked it up with both hands. It felt solid now. Balanced.
He held it a few seconds longer than necessary. Then turned and offered it to James.
"So," Jasper asked, "how do I make it, y'know… flame up? Fire mode. Whatever you want to call it."
James took the katana carefully, turning it over in his hands. The heat inside was still there—low, resting, like coals waiting for the right breath of air.
"That," James said, "depends on you."
He examined the blade—balance, curve, edge. The surface pulsed faintly, a dull warmth just beneath the metal.
"It won't ignite by itself," James said. "This isn't about command. It's about connection."
Jasper raised an eyebrow. "So... what, I yell 'ignite' like some anime idiot?"
"No," James said flatly. "You need a tether. Something specific. A vow."
Jasper stared at him. "You're serious."
James nodded once. "A weapon like this won't activate without intent bound to it. Not a thought. Not a desire. A trigger. Something it answers to."
Jasper looked at him like he'd just been told he needed to write a poem to unlock fire damage.
"A vow," he repeated. "You mean like… magic words?"
"No. No theatrics. Just something real."
James paused. "It's called the Oath Strider system. Divine power through oaths. Structured. Layered. Risky."
Jasper tilted his head. "So you're telling me this sword runs on loyalty programs."
James ignored that. "One vow is common. Two isn't rare. Three pushes your limits. Four? That's either desperation or stupidity."
"What happens if I screw it up?"
"You suffer. The blade fails. The bond breaks. Or you die."
"Awesome," Jasper muttered. "Very healthy learning curve."
James smirked slightly. "Some of us host Oaths ourselves. I hold the Solaris Imperial. Fire-based. Strength scales with proximity to death."
"Of course it does," Jasper muttered. "And let me guess—it likes dramatic entries and flashy finishes?"
James nodded. "Naturally."
Jasper looked down at the katana in his hands. It was quiet. Warm. Waiting.
He hesitated. "So... what's the vow?"
James held his gaze. Then offered the sword back.
"You tell me."
Jasper held the blade, heat pulsing faintly beneath the surface, and thought.
He wasn't a philosopher. Didn't have some blood-soaked past or noble cause etched into his spine. He wasn't here to avenge anything.
But the forge—this place, this moment—wasn't about theatrics. It was about intent.
He tightened his grip on the hilt.
"I vow," he said quietly, "this blade will never catch dust. I won't use it just because I feel like it, or to show off. I'll swing when I have to. Not when I want to."
No shouting. No raised arms. Just words spoken like they were fact.
James nodded once.
Then tossed the katana back to him—no warning.
Jasper caught it.
The instant his hands closed around the hilt, the metal responded. A spark danced at the edge of the blade—then another. Then five.
Tiny bursts of orange-gold fire raced across the steel like flint against oil.
Then the blade ignited.
Flames surged upward, wrapping along the katana in perfect arcs—controlled, clean, alive. They didn't lash. They didn't consume. They burned. Bright, steady, and sharp, licking toward the ceiling of the forge without touching it.
The air around them shimmered.
The katana wasn't just forged now. It was awake.
James stood back, arms still crossed, watching in silence. His face barely shifted—but there was something in it now.
A smile. Subtle. Quiet. Measured.
But proud.The flames began to die down, shrinking along the blade until they vanished entirely. Only faint trails of heat lingered in the air. The katana stayed warm in Jasper's hands, like it remembered what it had become.
He exhaled slowly and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. His whole body felt like it had been dipped in steam and left to dry under pressure. Muscles ached. Vision pulsed faintly at the edges.
James stepped forward and rested a hand on his shoulder. A solid pat. Firm. Approving.
"We'll need to get you a sheath," he said. "You walking around with that thing unsheathed makes you look reckless. And if you slice your own leg open, I'm not fixing it."
Jasper smirked, dead on his feet but still cocky enough to fake confidence. With zero hesitation, he tucked the katana into his waistband.
"See? Professional."
James raised an eyebrow. "Idiotic."
"I'm not cutting myself," Jasper said, starting to limp after him. "Yet."
James gave a short nod, turned, and started walking toward the tunnel's exit without another word.
Jasper followed. Or tried to.
Every step felt heavier than the last. The heat still clung to his lungs. His arms were jelly. His shirt was soaked through and half-burned at the collar. He didn't even bother trying to look composed anymore—just kept moving, one foot after the other, like surviving counted as style.
James didn't look back, but as they reached the tunnel mouth, he reached out again—another pat, this time between the shoulder blades. A quiet gesture.
Then he walked on.
Jasper blinked slowly and followed, barely upright, katana against his hip, every nerve screaming—but still walking.
Forge behind them. Weapon in hand.
And maybe—just maybe—a little bit of pride beneath the pain.
He stood up straighter, blade at his side, sweat still drying on his skin. The forge behind them still glowed, casting long shadows across the chamber floor—but the heat didn't feel as hostile now. It felt… familiar. Like it had acknowledged him.
Maybe even accepted him.
"So," Jasper said, glancing over at James, "am I a man now?"
James stared at him a second too long.
"Almost."
Jasper nodded once. Then grinned, dry and crooked.
"Can I have a beer?"
"No."
The answer came flat, immediate, final.
Jasper chuckled under his breath and didn't argue.
They walked in silence, the last embers of the forge flickering behind them. Each step echoed against obsidian and stone as they made their way out of the chamber—Jasper trailing just behind, sword warm at his side, breath steadier now.
The light ahead wasn't cooler, but it was cleaner.
And they didn't look back.