heir of the cursed blood

The fires of the forge never slept in Steelspire.

For seven days, Kael remained in the royal forge, assisting King Brogar Stoneveil and Eorun in crafting his first true weapon. The process tested his patience and endurance — learning to shape aura-infused metals, burning his palms, and enduring sleepless nights. But he never backed down.

And finally, the weapon was complete.

Laid atop a velvet cloth within the royal forge, the blade glowed gently under the torchlight. It was not just a sword — it was a masterpiece.

The weapon had a long hilt, forged for both balance and versatility, wrapped in dark leather with golden inlay. Its most striking feature was the elegantly curved blade, polished to a mirrored sheen, and etched with ancient glowing runes. Just above the hilt, a circular metallic ring was embedded into the guard, interlocked with twin golden wings, giving the weapon a sacred, almost celestial presence.

The inscriptions pulsed faintly, not from magic… but from aura.

Kael stepped forward, breath caught in his chest. His hand wrapped around the grip.

The moment he held it, a magenta glow surged from his palm into the blade. The runes responded, flickering to life as if awakening from centuries of slumber. The edge hummed — not loudly, but with a calm, deadly clarity. It was a blade meant for precision and judgment, not chaos.

He swung the sword once. Smooth. No resistance. The weight was perfect.

Practice Begins

Outside the forge, Kael began practicing his movements in the training court near the mountain's edge.

His footwork was rough, but disciplined. His grip had improved. Every swing of the white blade carved through the air with intent. There were no wasted movements, no flamboyant gestures — just purpose.

King Brogar watched from the stone balcony, arms crossed and beard twitching with interest.

"What the hell has this brat been going through under that old rat?"

Eorun leaned beside him, chuckling as Kael finished a powerful spinning slash.

"Would you believe me if I said… hardship, betrayal, heartbreak, exile, and monster hunting — all in a few months?"

Brogar snorted. "Sounds like a typical dwarf childhood."

"Well, he's human. No powers. No natural gifts. And yet… he keeps going," Eorun said, eyes never leaving Kael. "I've trained many. Few burn like he does."

The king gave a low grunt of approval.

"He's got potential. Not raw power. Not yet. But grit."

Kael took a deep breath in the courtyard, aura glowing lightly around his arms. His strikes now flowed like water — sharp, focused, and patient.

Brogar shook his head.

"Fine. Let him train here. He can stay until you two return to that damn RagDon Clan."

Eorun smirked. "So the legendary King Brogar grew soft in his old age?"

"Shut it," the king grumbled. "I just don't want my damn forge to have produced a weakling."

They both laughed — old warriors, watching a new one rise.