They smelled it before they saw it.
Burned metal had a distinct weight to it—not smoke, not ash, but something heavier, sharper. You recognized it instantly.
A forge.
Not the kind that created.
The kind that ended.
Lyra slowed as the city came into view, its walls rising from the plain like a scar cut into the land. Tall chimneys pierced the sky, exhaling dark plumes that never fully dispersed. Bells rang at fixed intervals—not to mark time, but obedience.
"This is Sanctum territory," Lyra whispered.
Yes.
You felt it everywhere now. The hum beneath the stone. The pressure in the air. Relics—dozens of them—trapped, suppressed, screaming quietly in frequencies only you could hear.
You wanted to recoil.
You didn't.
The gates stood open.
No guards challenged them. No inspections were made. The city did not fear outsiders—it assumed ownership.
Inside, streets were wide and clean, almost sterile. People walked in neat lines, eyes downcast. Above them hung banners bearing the symbol of the Sanctum: a broken blade encircled by flame.
Lyra's grip tightened.
"They're proud of it."
They believe it is mercy, you replied.
A procession passed them—priests in pale robes escorting a cart draped in white cloth. Something beneath the cloth struggled.
Your awareness flared.
A sword.
Awakened.
Terrified.
Lyra stepped forward instinctively.
You stopped her.
Not yet.
The cart rolled onward toward the center of the city, where a massive structure dominated the skyline—a tower of stone and iron wrapped in glowing channels of molten metal.
The Crucible.
They followed at a distance.
Every step closer was agony—not physical, but existential. You felt fragments of yourself in that place, echoes of blades that had once chosen, once hoped.
Inside the Crucible's courtyard, the cloth was pulled away.
The sword was bound upright in clamps etched with suppression runes. Its blade was chipped, dulled—not from battle, but from resisting.
A crowd gathered.
High Sanctifier Caelum stepped forward, calm as ever.
"Relics are tools," he proclaimed. "When they forget that truth, they must be corrected."
The sword screamed.
Not in sound.
In memory.
You felt it—its first wielder, a child protecting siblings. Its last act, refusing to strike an unarmed man.
Lyra's breath hitched.
"They're killing it," she whispered.
No, you said, voice tight. They're erasing it.
The forge ignited.
Molten channels glowed brighter. The clamps tightened.
You felt yourself fracture—not physically, but morally. Every instinct screamed to act, to cut, to destroy.
But if you revealed yourself now—
You would doom Lyra.
She shook. "You told me not to become like that dagger."
Yes.
And this is the test.
The blade in the Crucible shattered under heat designed not to break steel, but to extract echo. Light poured from it—memories, choices, lives—captured in crystal vessels held by acolytes.
The crowd applauded.
Something inside Lyra broke.
"No," she said aloud.
Heads turned.
Silence fell.
Caelum's gaze locked onto her.
"And who," he asked pleasantly, "might you be?"
You made a decision.
Not to strike.
Not to hide.
To remember.
Your presence surged—not violently, but undeniably. The air bent. The banners stilled. Every relic in the city responded.
For the first time in generations—
The Crucible hesitated.
Caelum's calm finally cracked.
"A mythic," he whispered.
Lyra stood trembling, sword in hand.
"I won't let you erase anyone else."
The city that melted steel had just noticed something worse.
A blade that refused to break.